“Daddy! Fish don’t eat belt buckles.”

He laughs. “They don’t? No wonder I didn’t catch a lot today.”

“So how tough was it?” Esme asks.

“Not the best but we’ve been doing real good lately, so . . .” He turns to me. “Hey there, Delsie. When are you going to come on the boat with me and spread some of that McHill fishing luck around?”

I sit straighter. “I’ll come if you ask me.”

He leans forward. “Well, I’m askin’!” he says. He’s laughing, but I can see the worry swooshing around inside of him. Looking up at the Massachusetts license plates on the mantel—ones from 1928 and 1929—I’m reminded of how superstitious the local fishermen are. When there were no fish in ’28, they blamed it on the new design of the license plate. The next year they demanded it be fixed—and the fish returned. I guess all fishermen worry about one bad day rolling into a whole bunch of them.

“I’m betting, Delsie McHill,” he says, opening the fridge and grabbing a bunch of grapes, “that you have that fish-whispering gift just like Papa Joseph and your mom, Mellie.”

I look up so fast, I nearly spill my tea. “My mom liked to fish?”

“Oh yeah. And she was good at it, too. A lot of people think fishing is about luck. It isn’t. It’s about instincts, and your mom sure had good ones.

“You know, there’s the basics of finding fish. The fish like the rips. Or changes in the tide. If seagulls are circling or dive-bombing an area, there are fish. Head out to sea before the sun is too high in the sky, because once the sun is up, the striper dive; they like the cooler water. But it was like Mellie could just sniff out the fish. Your grandfather used to joke if she’d just sit on the bow of the boat, he’d only have to fish half the time.”

I am shocked. How come I didn’t know this?

He taps my nose. “I thought I’d tell you that, since your grammy told me you’ve been wondering about your mom.”

Henry spins away and scoops up Ruby. “How’s my girl?” he asks. “You want to go outside and play some Whiffle Ball with your old man before supper?” And they are out the door before she can even answer. Of course, it was a yes. Ruby loves to hit things. Although she misses a lot.

I look down at my Strong Shoulder jar, and I don’t feel strong at all. I miss Brandy. And I long for my mother. How can you long for someone you don’t even know?

“Sooo?” Esme asks, drawing out the word. Her voice is soft. I think I must look goofy, like I want to cry.

“Can I ask you a question?” I ask.

She leans forward on her elbow. “Of course. Anything.”

And all of a sudden, the question runs from me. Or the courage to ask it does. I sip some tea, trying to come up with a different question that doesn’t have to do with the reasons a mother would leave. Or wouldn’t stay.