Pandora hung the many renditions of American and British flags they’d all painted the day before using the art supplies. Everyone had enjoyed the project, no one more than Hope, who had felt so proud that she was painting with the grown-ups. They covered the tables with white paper tablecloths and set out the cobalt-trimmed white china. With a nod to ease, red-white-and-blue paper napkins and small American flags gave the table a patriotic flair. Isle of Palms had been the first city in the state to forbid plastic utensils, but they’d relinquished the restrictions during the pandemic. Nonetheless, Linnea and Gordon had both insisted they should use and wash tableware.

Anna and Linnea twisted red, white, and blue crepe paper. A short while later, the men returned, curious and offering to help. Emmi happily handed the men strings of twinkling lights and set Gordon and John to work hanging them from the rafters. They worked in tandem, and Linnea noted the odd peace that seemed to have fallen between the men since the fishing trip. She supposed male bonding was a real thing after all.

By six, the sun was still high but the table was set and the guests gathered. Cara and David arrived carrying a bounty of freshly baked fruit pies from the farmers’ market. Pandora ran up to help carry the pies in, sniffing as she walked, declaring that she’d been dying for American pie ever since she’d arrived stateside.

“I love, love, love pie,” Pandora exclaimed in her dramatic fashion, carrying two of the fruit pies to the long side table that was already groaning under the weight of the food. “Who cares about all that meat?” she asked, lovingly laying the pies beside the cookies. “Just leave me with these two beauties.”

Julia and Palmer arrived soon after. Palmer’s arms looked strained under a large wooden dough bowl wrapped in tinfoil. “Let me through!” he called out, struggling under the weight of the large bowl. He pushed past offers to help and made it to the serving table and set his burden down with a gasp.

“Wait till you see,” Julia exclaimed, coming up behind him. With a grand flourish, she took off the foil to reveal the wooden bowl brimming full of shrimp, corn, potatoes, and sausage.

“Frogmore stew!” Cooper shouted with a fist pump.

Hope looked up at Julia in horror. “You cooked Jeremiah?”

It took a moment for the adults to register what the little girl meant. Already her lower lip was beginning to tremble.

Cooper, the first to realize, shook his head. “No, no, little one. Not Jeremiah. Not any frog. There are absolutely no frogs in that stew. Zero.” He made a zero with his fingers. “None.”

Julia finally caught on. “Oh, child, no,” she answered. “Frogmore stew is named after a small fishing village on St. Helena Island. It’s called Frogmore. Some people call this a lowcountry boil, or Beaufort stew. But I swear, not a single frog lost its life in this dish.” She looked at her son. “I made it special for you. Even if there’s no frog in it,” she said, accepting his kiss on the cheek.