Esmarelda “Esme” Lasko’s silver spoons are hanging in the tree, tied there with white string. The tinkling sounds are the spoons hitting each other in the breeze.

“I think it’s beautiful,” I say.

Olive holds up her finger and opens her mouth to talk.

Grammy steps forward. “Now, Olive. Quit sputtering. Every pancake has two sides. There’s probably a darn good reason for this.”

First,” Olive begins, “Esme paints the house bright red. For goodness’ sake, it looks like a fire truck. Not to mention her covering the front of their house with all of those ridiculous metal lizards. I know they remind her of home, but here on the Cape it’s silly . . .”

Just then, the screen door swings open and Henry steps onto his porch. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such sweet company?” He winks at me.

“Henry Lasko! What have you done?” Olive demands.

“Mighty nice to see you, too, Olive. Lovely day.” He pretends to lift a hat to greet her.

Ruby comes through the front door and wraps both of her arms around her daddy’s legs and stands on his feet. But it’s the way she looks up at him. I’ve seen this a million times, but this is the first time it’s hit me in the stomach. It would be nice to have a dad like Henry.

He puts his hand on top of Ruby’s head and glances at the spoons. “This was Ruby’s idea, actually. She misses her mom and says the spoons sound like her mom’s laughter.”

I realize that’s true.

“It’s been hard.” He motions toward his daughter with his head. “Esme’s dad is pretty sick, so she won’t be back for a while.”

I think of Esme’s collection of spoons and her wall of teacups and how she lets me choose whatever cup I want when she has me over for tea. In the summer the tea is iced and served in vintage Strong Shoulder mason jars.

Esme always gives me one of those spoons hanging in the tree to stir it, and we drink with our pinkies in the air and laugh. Pretending to be fancier people than we are. My stomach aches thinking about her. And I realize how much I have missed Esme, too.

After staring at Olive for a few moments, Henry looks at me and says, “And speaking of big fish—Delsie! You should have seen the whopper we pulled in today!”

“Henry Lasko!” Olive complains. “Don’t you pull that on me.”

When Henry doesn’t like what Olive is saying, he’ll say “speaking of . . .” and then change the subject completely. Olive hates that. She’d rather fight, I think.

“It was a striper,” Henry continues, “but I’d never seen one like it. It was worth a chunk of change, but to be honest, it’d have broken my heart to keep it. So I let him go.”

“Henry! You didn’t!” Grammy says.

“I know. Don’t tell Esme. But he’d lived such a long time, I didn’t feel like I had the right to put him on someone’s plate.” He rolls back on his heels a bit. “Actually, he would have filled a lot of plates.”