Some of the more experienced pickers could pull as many as three hundred and fifty oysters in a tide, while Poppy felt good if she could get to two hundred. She’d sell them to Wellfleet Harbor for forty to sixty cents each. In two to three hours, she could make four or five hundred bucks. She was new at this, but after only a few days she felt the money take on weight. With every oyster, her plan for her future came into focus. She’d put Ann off for a few years. She could save up, rent out the rooms to the seasonal workers who couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. But after all those years of “go” money, it was hard to think of her savings as an anchor instead of an airline ticket.

When she wasn’t in search of oysters over three inches, she was on the water with Gary and the rest of the crew. The surf was decent thanks to a series of squalls offshore. At night, they’d hang out at the Bomb Shelter, or the “Bomby,” a bar under the Bookstore Café that reminded her of a typical Milwaukee corner bar, and it made her homesick for her old city, and for Brad. She was actively trying to forget him, but found herself drunk-dialing him when she returned home. He always answered, and the sound of his voice made her hungry for him.

One night, Carol bought Poppy a beer and sat on a stool next to her at the bar. “It’s good to have you back,” she said.

“Actually, I didn’t really feel like I was back until you showed up.”

“Listen,” Carol said, her expression serious. “When someone asks me not to say something, I don’t say it.”

“Did I ask you not to say something?”

“Not you. Someone else. Pops, you’re my friend. I have to tell you something.” Carol tore at the label on her beer bottle with her fingernail. Whatever she wanted to tell Poppy, it wasn’t good. “It’s about your house.”

Poppy had never thought of the house on the Cape as hers. It had always been ours. “Oh no. I hate this house stuff. I keep trying to forget you’re a Realtor.”

“You and me both.”

Carol smiled, revealing the bright white crowns on her front teeth. This was nothing new to Poppy; so many of the surfers she knew had messed-up teeth.

“So,” Carol said. “You know when I came over with some paperwork?”

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t looked through it, have you?”

“No,” Poppy said. “I just put it in a pile for Ann. She’s the one who deals with this stuff. Why?”

“I kept waiting for you to say something. Those papers? They terminated my contract. I can’t sell your house.”

“Why?”

“Because I got a visit from your brother a few weeks ago.”