At first, they attempted a swing dance to “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive,” but the woman’s tight dress encumbered her movement. As a slow version of “Sentimental Journey” followed, she went to her purse, which was lying on a nearby table, and took out two cigarettes. The man pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit them both. They each took a puff and then wrapped their arms around each other—cigarettes still glowing. The dancing couple looked like two people who had been thrown overboard, each holding on to the other for dear life. Peyton marveled at the way they both instinctively stopped at the exact same spots in the music and released each other long enough to take a long drag off their cigarettes and flick the ashes onto the floor before embracing again and continuing their sad dance.

“Now that’s something I’ve never seen before,” he said.

Gina laughed and put her arm around his shoulders. “Peyton, I am willing to bet there are many things you have never seen before.”

“You’re prob’ly right. Still, I’m pretty sure this is gonna stay at the top o’ the list for a while.”

Gina started wiping the bar with a wet cloth. “Where you come from anyway?”

“Savannah, Georgia—by way o’ my aunt’s house up in St. Augustine. I’ve been stayin’ with her some.”

“You said your mother is still with us, thank God,” Gina said, crossing herself. “But your papa is not. And you have been living with an aunt away from them both. He has been sick, your papa?”

“He had an accident and he was in the hospital. We thought he was gettin’ better, but, well . . . he all of a sudden . . . left us.”

“And now you are all the way down here far from all of them, alone. There is a reason. But you do not have to tell me. What you need tonight is family. You will come to my house.”

“Gina, I can’t come to your house—”

“Not my house. My mama’s house. My family’s house. You do not belong here in this fish camp.” She opened the register and took out five dollars. “Here is your pay. Help me clean up and we will go.”

Peyton helped Gina and Leya put the chairs up on the tables and mop the floor while the café manager worked in the kitchen. Gina told Peyton that the waitresses and bartender kept their own tips, so he poured his into a paper bag. His mother would have a fit if she knew where he was and what he was thinking: Bartending would make a great part-time job once he got to UGA.

Peyton walked Gina out and pulled his bike from behind the steps. “You came here on that?” she asked as they crossed the parking lot together.

“Yeah.”

“From where?”

“St. Augustine.”

Gina stopped walking and stared at him. “You got to be kidding me.”

Peyton held up his right hand. “Promise. I’m tryin’ to ride all the way to Key West.”