Peyton’s mother took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and turned her face to the sun. A salty breeze blew her blonde hair back, and the warm rays brought roses to her cheeks. Whether she was lifting a silent prayer or saying her final goodbyes, Peyton could only guess. At last, she seemed ready. Cradling the urn like a child, she led Peyton and Aunt Gert through the shallow water and onto a sandbar, which glistened with every salty splash from the Atlantic.

She looked at Peyton. “Do you need to say anything, son?”

He shook his head silently.

She lifted the lid and handed it to Peyton. Then she slowly tilted the urn until the Atlantic winds scattered the ashes across the water. When the urn was empty, she looked down at it, kissed it, and tossed it into the sea. She looked at Peyton, who did the same thing with the lid. Then she took his hand and Aunt Gert’s and led them back through the tide.

Staring down at the water and watching it swirl around their legs, Peyton had a flash of memory. He was about four years old, standing between his parents, holding their hands as he jumped the waves on Tybee. It was a happy time, long forgotten until grief called it back.

Standing atop a tall dune, the sea oats dancing in the wind, Peyton, his mother, and Aunt Gert turned to look at the urn, which did not fill immediately with water but instead floated out to sea. Without thinking or even realizing, really, what he was doing, Peyton lifted his hand in a solemn wave goodbye.

Somehow, he believed, his father would make it to another shore.

eighteen

The night rain was soothing. Peyton’s sleeping porch had become his refuge, a place where he could lie in the still, dark hours and try to tame the torrent raging in his head. If only his mind could be as quiet as St. Augustine late at night, where the silencing of cars and trucks and people amplified the peaceful rustle of palms, the nocturnal call of frogs and owls, and the lap of river water against the dock.

He heard the flap of Aunt Gert’s cat door and felt Pirate jump into bed with him. The cat had paid him no mind until the night after they scattered his father’s ashes. Since then, at the very moment when Peyton thought his head would surely explode with thoughts, Pirate would come onto the porch, climb into bed, and stretch out next to him. Soon after, Peyton would relax and drift off to sleep. In the morning, the cat would be gone.

What was roiling in his head tonight was a phone call. Peyton had called Lisa’s house to see if her parents might give him the number of her relatives in Miami so he could tell her what had happened. Instead of her mother or father, Lisa’s sister, Judy, answered the phone—and she had plenty to say. Her mother was convinced Peyton and Lisa were too serious and instructed the Miami relatives not to relay any messages from him. But Judy could get through. And she promised to give Lisa Aunt Gert’s phone number. Now all Peyton could do was wait.