She stopped, chewed on the end of the pen, a horrible habit she’d had since high school. What was she doing? She no more knew how to write a book than fly like the egret roosting in the backyard. But if the book was a series of humorous, insightful essays maybe she could do it. She paused, glanced up from her papers to see the pink light that signaled evening had arrived.

She rose feeling lighter than she had in months. Whether because of the thought of writing the book or her upcoming dinner with Beckett didn’t matter.

THE MEMORY BOOK

Interview with Harry Williams

The photo that Colleen showed Harry Williams, the Donohues’ next-door neighbor, was of Gavin and Elizabeth as they stood together with Harry and his wife, Violet, at the edge of the May River, the flying egret behind them a streak of white against the blue sky. Harry owned the marina and had been close friends with Gavin since he purchased his first little johnboat.

Each of them held a clear plastic cup with a lime slice snagged on the edge. They were smiling. To one side a bonfire blazed with a metal plate above it where oysters were roasting under brown burlap. Other blurred people filled the background, drinking and talking. It was evidently a great party and Gavin’s mouth was open in speech—telling a terrible joke, Colleen was sure.

Mr. Williams, who still lived next door to the Donohue family on riverfront property, squinted at the photo, pushing his glasses down his nose for a better view. Colleen sat with him on his front porch, sweating glasses of sweet tea on the table between their wicker rocking chairs, the scene so picturesque she might have been in a photo op for one of her travel pieces on the South. The low tide sent the thick scent of pluff mud rising not only from the river but also from the boots Mr. Williams wore. His baseball cap, stained with black mud, was pulled low over his forehead.

“Oh, yes,” he said in a thick voice that betrayed his smoking habit, “that was the oyster roast when Mickey fell into the fire pit trying to show off his fire-making skills. Quite the commotion. Good thing he was drunk enough not to feel it much. If you look now, you can still see the burn mark on his forearm. Lucky that’s all that happened.”

“And Mother and Dad?” Colleen asked.

Mr. Williams looked away from the photo with a wistful expression. “Oh, you know, Gavin was his usual fun-loving self. It was the second time I heard him break into Gaelic. Someone mentioned the drowning of a young boy over on Tybee Island during a riptide and he muttered a few lines before noticing he’d done so.”

“In Gaelic?”