And comforting. Late last night, Beau and I sat on the couch in the dark, after Sarah had come to our room complaining that he was crying again. My arm around his shoulder, I told him that when I was young I’d lost my mother, too, but that sometimes I could feel her with me. He’d let his eyes roam the living room, lit by a full moon beaming through the glass veranda doors. ‘I don’t think she’s here now,’ I said. ‘But when she does show up I’ll let you know. She’ll like you a lot.’ He’d nestled into my side. Woof joined us on the couch, sprawled across Beau’s lap for a tummy rub, and made us both laugh. ‘Maybe your mum will visit you,’ I’d said, then held him until he fell asleep, laid him gently on the couch next to Woof and woken Mark to carry him to bed. I wish Maria had told us more.

I ask Mark if we should give up on the campfire idea. He understands why I’m asking, and says he’ll think about it. A few days ago, Mark met with Jim’s brother, a psychologist, to ask how to help Beau adjust to his new life. But I’m not convinced that we need someone with experience in easing adults out of cults. The adoption lawyer will, I think, be a more useful ally.

Once we’re finished setting up, Mark and I sit in our fold-out chairs and face the waves. From here, we can see the kids noodling about on the beach: Petey, Beau and Woof are crouched next to a shallow pool made by the low tide, all three heads down as if staring into a well, Joanne is dragging a long branch behind her and making wavy lines in the sand, and Sarah follows, rubbing them out with her foot.

Mark turns on the transistor, ‘just for the news bulletin, I promise’, because he’s convinced another storm is about to come.

I point up at the clear blue sky.

‘Not that kind of storm,’ he says.

Even as I roll my eyes, I feel the wind blow sharp sand against my legs.

After lunch, we put on our bathers, collect towels, a bat, tennis ball, zinc cream and other items deemed essential, and regroup on the beach. Mark, Petey and Beau play cricket on the wet sand. The girls make a sandcastle.

Mark’s not feeling great about this beach and has suggested we move tomorrow morning. ‘It’s too rough,’ he tells me after he’s had a swim. ‘We’re too close to where the tide comes in.’ I sigh, but I can see he’s right. The stretch of water to the north looks infinitely better. This will do for one day, though.

Sarah calls out to Mark to come watch her do cartwheels, jealous, I suspect, of him being so openly impressed by Beau’s cricketing skills. The other children paddle about in the shallow water. I lie back on my towel, oiled in Coppertone, dozing, reading, listening to the screech of seagulls and the crashing waves.