“Did it work on my only niece? Did my smooth talking finally have an effect on someone?”

“Yeah, right, like it’s never worked before?”

He smiled at me, quiet, and then said, “Let’s go. There’s a party outside.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and walked down the hall toward the bedroom. I grabbed my flip-flops, brushed lip gloss across my mouth, and slipped on a sundress.

We walked out the door and onto the wet grass. The dock shimmered in the distance like a mirage, waving and moving against the dark with the lanterns as pirouetting fireflies. I followed Uncle Cotton to the place where grass met wooden planks, and he stopped, turned to me. “Let’s go.”

I followed him into the party; and that is just how it felt—into the party, as if I were swallowed into something alive and breathing, as if I were Jonah and this were the whale, but a whale with a party inside. The difference between Jonah and me was that I didn’t want to be spit out. Ever.

At the crowd’s feet, the shrimp’s pale pink discarded shells were scattered on the dock. The broken backs and claws of the crab and the bones of flounder were piled in metal trash baskets. I saw Pappy and talked to him about fresh vegetables and tides, about his wife and how she adored a good party. I sat with Leona and talked about her art store and how to make it more attractive. We laughed, and my heart and stomach were so full that I leaned back on the bench and groaned.

Uncle Cotton found me alone at the far end of the dock, watching the party. He settled next to me without words. I wanted to ask him about Mother, how well he knew her, but I never wanted him to know that his brother’s wife had once loved another so deeply. I searched for the right words.

“Uncle Cotton,” I said, “how well did you know Mother?”

“Ellie, that’s a tough question. I knew her well, and then I didn’t know her at all. I knew her when she was young, younger than you. But I rarely saw her in the later years. So did I know her well?” He turned toward me and shook his head. “No, I don’t think I did.”

I sighed. “Yes, that’s the thing. I don’t think anyone did.”

“Why are you asking?”

“I found her journal,” I said, and then looked out into the night, searching for the way to continue, as if the answers were written in the outline of stars. “And there was this group of friends she hung out with—Birdie included—and I just thought …”

“Thought what? That if you knew that girl, you could know the woman who was your mother?”

“Yes, exactly.”