Under a brilliant, shimmery sun, our ship cruises through small breakers in the strait, churning up a white spray of wake as the coastline of Spain recedes into the distance behind us. It’s a glorious day: all blue and white and crisp, the air tangy and sweet, vibrating with the squawk of seagulls above the rumble of the ship’s engines. I offer the man at the refreshment counter my credit card and collect an armful of sparkling waters, threading my way back past the line until I reach my friends. We’ve set up around a small cocktail table as far in the room as it’s possible to be from the spot where the young ship employee died the first time we made this voyage, three years ago; I don’t know if it was an intentional choice on Compton’s part when she put her bag down or a case of snagging the first open table she saw, but I’m glad not to linger on that side of the ship.

Today started early. I woke with the sun, watching as the first reaches of eastern light turned the wall in our hotel room from charcoal to cool blue to a bright, blinding white. Declan, back in our home in Seville, texted me early to say he and Beau are planning to spend the day in the lab, Beau working on the illustrations for the book he’s writing and Declan analyzing data on his latest project: an inhaled nanohybrid that can cross the blood-brain barrier. The two of them spend a lot of time together. When Declan and I married—the service marred by a scowling but magnificently re-mustachioed Wally—he’d promised me two things: first, he’d adopt my children, and second, I wouldn’t be obligated to work in his lab. I’ve gone back to fieldwork, my first love, and I travel a great deal.

Rorie’s having a lazy day: she spent last night with her girlfriends. They’re off work today and will undoubtedly sleep late before heading to their favorite street café for coffee, where they’ll sit and sip and giggle and try to envision the vast changes in their lives when they scatter for college next year. Rorie, who is applying early decision to Vanderbilt—my alma mater—says she’s planning to pursue a premed course of study. I’ve tried not to overreact to this news; of course, she might change her mind. Seventeen is a fickle age.

But still. I believe Rorie will become a doctor.

Whatever Beau will choose to do with his life is an open question. Depending on the day, he vacillates between psychology and professional soccer, or social work and writing bestsellers. Why not? I know enough not to burst his bubble on the issue of professional soccer or writing bestsellers, but he’d be excellent at the other two.