Other passengers on the deck began trickling down to the lower cabin. She followed, her hand almost slipping on the wet rail. She carried a duffel bag stuffed with clothes over one shoulder.

From the metal gangway, she saw a crowd of people gathered on the pier, waving at the new arrivals. She fell into the line of people disembarking. The sky was a vivid periwinkle blue, the sun was bright but not hot, and a gentle breeze blew off the bay. She checked the address of her aunt’s store and mapped the directions on her phone.

Walking the length of the pier toward the main street, she passed people selling tickets for whale-watching tours, artists painting at easels, and information booths. Once she reached Commercial Street, she was surrounded by colorfully painted two- and three-story buildings packed closely together. A pedicab whirred past, shuttling two buff, shirtless men.

Music emanated from every direction: Eighties pop. Show tunes. A young woman seated in a chair on one street corner playing the cello. The air smelled like salt and honeysuckle. Gemma stopped dragging her suitcase, light-headed with sensory overload. Or maybe she just needed coffee.

A patio with tables filled with people sipping cold beverages alerted her to a possible caffeine source. The sign out front read, Joe Coffee. Inside, she found an oasis of croissants, cookies, and muffins. A young man behind the counter with a platinum buzz cut and wearing black liquid eyeliner took her order. His T-shirt read, Bradford Goes Both Ways.

She tipped him with the last of her singles, making a mental note to look for an ATM later. With coffee in hand, she had a singular focus: her aunt Celeste.

“Excuse me,” she said to the barista. “I’m looking for the store Queen Anne’s Revenge?”

“Oh, I love that place,” the barista said. “Yep, just two blocks down on this side of the street.”

Gemma followed Commercial, the suitcase feeling heavier by the block. By now, the stores were interspersed between pretty clapboard houses. And then, a black-and-white sign hanging from a wooden post with a pirate-skull-and-crossbones flag announced: Queen Anne’s Revenge.

Wide-open French doors welcomed her inside. The store was bright and airy, with a vaulted ceiling and shelves crammed with all sorts of things: lamps, old clocks, china, porcelain teapots, a bronze lobster, a large punch bowl painted with peacocks.

An older man stood behind the counter. He had wild gray hair and deep-set dark eyes, a heavy five o’clock shadow, and a red bandana around his neck.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for Celeste.”

He looked up at her, narrowing his brown eyes.

“You must be Gemma,” he said.

“Um, yes. How did you know that?” She adjusted the bag on her shoulder.

“You look just like your mother.”

The comment took her breath away. This man had known her mother?

“I’m Jack Barros. Nice to meet you. Let me get Celeste.”