We’re sitting on the beach in Tonga, where the ship has stopped for the day. Most passengers are on cultural tours or shopping tours or have just gone off sightseeing on their own. Grandma asked what I would like to do and I said I just wanted to wander around the old town, sit on the beach, be away from crowds for a while. Away from Alex, I thought, but didn’t say. One thing about a cruise is that you’re always one of a horde. I know our visit is probably good for the economy of Nuku’alofa, but I can also sense the island cringing as the ship disgorges its cargo, white American tourists in leisure wear with fanny packs, comfortable shoes, sun visors and camera bags.

‘We did write some letters,’ Grandma says, running her fingers through the sand. ‘It wasn’t long before she had twins. They lived in San Diego, and we talked about visiting each other again one day, but it didn’t happen, and our letters sort of faded away. We started up again when life became less busy, but not long after she was diagnosed with lung cancer, and she died less than a year after we got back in touch.’

I touch her arm. ‘I’m sorry.’ The poignancy isn’t lost on me. Now Grandma lives in San Diego. She moved to California a few years after Grandpa died, buying a little apartment in a retirement community, saying their big old house and the East Coast winters were too much for her. She’d had enough of shovelling snow and cleaning rooms she no longer needed. I wonder if she thinks about Brynn much, about the missed chance to be close to her friend again.

‘I’m sorry too,’ she says. ‘I wish I’d been better at staying in touch with her. I never told her how glad I was for her friendship.’

‘I bet she knew.’

‘I have met her girls, though. They’re lovely. They come visit now and then. I think I remind them of her. They say we talk the same.’

Grandma’s accent has softened but she’s kept the pronunciations she grew up with. I used to mimic them, not to tease her but wistfully, until Mom would tell me to stop, it was rude. Grandma puts her arms out and I jump up to help her to her feet.

‘I’m thirsty,’ she says. ‘Will we find somewhere to have a drink?’

We make our way slowly back up the beach, brushing sand off our clothes, to the paved street nearby lined with cafes and restaurants. Posted beside the doors are laminated menus printed in English.