“Well, I don’t know that I would cuddle a bear. But, yes, I do love elephants because they are very intelligent and empathetic. And”—she falls against the back of her chair—“I’ve heard that, in the wild, they react to humans like humans react to puppies. Like, they think we’re cute.”

“Really? I guess we are. All tiny and everything.”

“And they are uncommonly sensitive. They mourn their dead just like we do. In fact, I read a story about Lawrence Anthony, a man they called ‘the elephant whisperer.’ He was so kind to elephants, saving many of their lives. He had elephants stay at his home.”

“At his home?”

“Well, I don’t think they took up guest rooms or anything.” We laugh. “Anyway, this kind man passed away, and two days after his death, about twenty-five elephants traveled for twelve hours and showed up at his house and stayed for two days and two nights. They stayed as if they were mourning his death.”

“Wait. How did they know he’d died?”

“That’s the thing. No one knows how they knew. They just showed up.”

I sit thinking about that.

Esme rests her elbows on the table. “You know, though. One of the things I love most about elephants is when several elephant families live together, they all become one. The parent elephants look out for and protect all the babies, not just the ones born to them. Those elephants are smart enough to know that blood doesn’t always make a herd. Love is a more powerful thing than that.”

She holds my gaze as I try to figure out if she is telling me that she loves me. It feels like she is.

The waitress delivers some fruit and biscuits and other delicious things.

Staring at the berries, I screw up the courage to tell Esme what’s been on my mind. “I’ve been wondering,” I say. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“If something happened to Grammy, would you—”

Her eyes widen. “Delsie! Of course we would take you! You wouldn’t be alone for even a second.”

“It doesn’t seem like there would be room for me.”

She leans forward and locks eyes with me. “Sugar pop. We always make room for the things that matter.”

The front door slams, and the woman at the desk asks, “Can I help you?”

“No, thanks. Just looking for someone,” he says.

Ronan? Is that Ronan?

He blows right by the lady, who clearly wanted more detail. “Hey,” he says, sliding into a chair.

“Ronan, right?” Esme asks.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Your grammy said you were here.”

“Did she tell you to come?”

He shrugs. “No. I just did.”

“Would you like something to eat?” Esme asks. “It’s on me. That is, if you’re hungry. Are you? Hungry, I mean?”

I’m wondering what’s up with Ronan. I like him, but his timing is the pits.

“Well, a little,” he says.

Esme asks the waitress to bring another setting. “Help yourself to some of the pastries. There’s plenty.”