The guy stops. “Listen. I poured my own coffee. Served my own pie.”

“And who cooked for you? Did you cook it?” She points at us. “Did they cook it? No. So don’t give me any lip and drop at least a couple of Washingtons in there. You can afford a Lincoln. I know how the lobster market is doing.”

The guy takes out his wallet and drops in a few bills.

Once the door closes behind the annoyed fisherman, I turn to Ronan. “So . . . um . . . I know it’s an honor that Henry wants you on the Reel, but can I just suggest you not be a fisherman? You’d throw everything back in the water.”

Ronan smiles. “Yeah. I love animals. Actually, I’ve been studying up on horseshoe crabs. And, hey, I forgot to tell you that yesterday when my dad and I were clamming, I found an enormous one—probably about twenty years old. I took her way out into wicked deep water, just in case. Oh . . . and I didn’t get into any fights over it.” He holds out his fist and we fist bump.

“Positives,” I say. “Positives.”

“They are so amazing,” Ronan continues. “Their blood is blue, and it can detect really small amounts of bacteria, so scientists use it to test vaccines.”

“Do they kill the crabs to do that?” I ask.

“No, they just take some blood and let the animals go. But I’d like to work on figuring out how to make man-made crab blood so we can leave them alone completely.”

“Good idea,” I tell him. “It would be so cool if we both became scientists someday . . .”

Saucepan Lynn approaches. “So, you two going to gab all day or order?”

“Well, we actually came to ask a favor,” I say. “There’s something that needs doing in our neighborhood. Any way we can borrow a fire truck? The big one with the ladder?”

Chapter 48

A GIFT FROM PAPA

It’s late, but I’m wide awake thinking about my plans for tomorrow. The box fan roars, but it’s too hot to sleep without it. Especially with a kitten cuddled up next to me.

There is a soft knock on my bedroom door. Grammy swings it open. She takes a couple of steps in, and stops to look at my wall of pictures. She smiles when she reads the sign I made: MEMORY SHAKER WALL. Her fingertips caress a photo of Papa Joseph.

“I just love your pictures,” she tells me. “I like how you’ve changed them. I noticed at first you just had pictures of things around the Cape. I like the people here much better.” She tips her head a bit. “What was that about, anyway? All those things you took pictures of?” she asks me.

“Well, I got into taking pictures of things left behind. Like me.”

“Oh, baby,” she says, reaching out for my arm. She’s preparing for a Grammy speech, I can tell.