“Keep going.”

“You’re totally Hemsworthy.”

Billy frowned. “Is that a good thing?”

“As in the Hemsworth brothers. So, yeah.”

He took a sip of wine. “Cool. Now, how about you today? Getting yourself swept out to sea was quite a feat.”

She shrugged. “It happens.”

“Well, just make sure it doesn’t happen again. Except maybe to the douche bag who was rude to your mom today.”

“You got it.”

“Seriously, Jules, you scared the crap out of everyone.” He indicated the picture of Jace and Julie on the mantel. Taken on the beach about five years before, it depicted the two of them posed with their surfboards, squinting into the sun and laughing. “That guy—I bet he’d ground you for life if he knew you got caught in a riptide and let yourself float out to sea.”

“Maybe then I’d finally get to see him again,” Julie stated.

Camille’s blood turned to ice. “Don’t ever say that, Julie. Oh my God, do you hear yourself?”

Julie’s chin came up. “According to you, he’s the greatest thing that ever walked the earth. But he seems so far away, like I never really knew the guy.”

The comment worried Camille. How could she keep his memory alive for her daughter? Julie had been so young when she’d lost her dad.

“Well, I knew him,” Billy said, going to the bar cart and taking out a bottle of Don Julio, “and even though I begged your mom to wait for me during college, do you think she listened? No. She had to go and meet Dr. Dreamboat, and boom. Nobody else had a chance.”

“That’s because he was the love of her life, and when she lost him, the world came to an end,” Julie recited, all too familiar with the story.

Billy measured out two generous shots. “I was jealous as hell of him, but I never resented the guy, because he gave you to the world, Jules.”

Camille’s heart ached as it always did when the subject of her late husband came up. She’d met him when she’d gone to the ER with a dislocated shoulder from a rock-climbing mishap. A few months later, she was married to the doctor who had helped her that day. She had every expectation of a lifetime of adventure with Jace. No one had counted on the spectacular manner of his demise, or its far-reaching effects. Since the accident, she wanted nothing to do with adventure. She wanted—she needed a safe, predictable existence.

“Lecture over?” Julie asked.

“Sure, why not?” Billy said. “Who’s your mom seeing these days?”

Camille was in the middle of swigging down the tequila, and she nearly choked on it. “Hey,” she objected.

“Mom never talks about the guys she dates,” Julie said.

“That’s because she broke so many hearts,” Billy said. “Mine included.”

“Knock it off.” Camille gave him a friendly slug. “I’ve dated, what—three guys? Four?—since Jace. It’s not like I haven’t tried. But it never works.”

He shot her a wounded look. “So is there another old flame in the picture?”

“All my flames are old. It’s the only kind I have. Is there such a thing as a new flame?”

“She’s not seeing anybody,” Julie chimed in. “She stopped seeing my school principal, thank God.”

“Why thank God?”

“Because it was so awkward. It messed with my head, you know?”

“No. But I’ll take your word for it. What about the dogcatcher?”

“Duane. And he’s not a dogcatcher.” Camille bristled. “He’s an animal control officer. We only went out once. Turned out he was not as loyal as the dogs he rescues.”

“And the one before that? Peter? The super-handsome one.”

Another one-date wonder. “He got all weird and Catholicky on me.”

“Catholicky? Is that even a word?”

“He took some of the doctrines a bit too literally.” Privately, Camille believed he simply didn’t like using a condom. Reason enough to show him the door.

“And what about that guy who Tindered you?”

“Mom. Please tell me you’re not on Tinder,” Julie begged.

“I’m not on Tinder.”

“Your grandmother signed her up,” Billy said.

“Your grandmother is still in trouble for pulling that stunt,” Camille said.

He poured a shot of club soda for Julie, then added a squeeze of lime. “My mom still thinks tinder is something you take camping.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Camille suggested. “Tell us about your week so far. Have you whipped your department into shape at the National Archives?”

“Not even close. The budget gets slashed every time somebody in Congress cuts a fart. When it comes to funding historical treasures, it’s a mummy-eat-mummy world.” He slammed back his tequila shot. “I laid a nasty rumor about Rutherford B. Hayes to rest. And I sent Gerald Ford’s college senior thesis and his football helmet back to Michigan, his home state.”

“What was the ugly rumor about President Hayes?” asked Julie.

“That he took up with a saloon gal named Mary Chestnut. His political enemies made it up.” Billy put the glasses in the sink. “What say we go to the village and grab a bite, then walk around and look at First Thursday.”

“I don’t really feel like it,” Julie said. “But thanks.”

“I should stay home with Julie,” Camille said.

“Wrong answer. You should both come with me.”

“No, thanks,” Julie said. “I’d rather hang out here.”

“You used to love First Thursday. You can see all your friends, let them know you’re okay.”

“Mom,” Julie cut in. “I said no thank you.”

Camille stepped back, stunned by her daughter’s vehemence. “Ah. The queen has spoken.” She turned to Billy. “We’ll just hang out here.”

“No,” he said. “I’m taking charge. You’re coming with me. And Julie can stay home and Snapchat or Instagram with her friends, or whatever it is they’re all doing.”

“Good plan,” Julie said, sending him a grateful look.

Camille felt torn. She really, really wanted to get out for a bit. She really, really wanted a cocktail at the Skipjack Tavern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Positive. I’ll be even more okay once you quit worrying.”

“I’ll never quit worrying.”

“We’re leaving.” Billy handed Camille her bag. Then he ushered her out the door. “Let’s walk to the village,” he said. “The weather is fantastic.”

The promise of summer filled the evening air. The lingering warmth of the day emanated from the brick sidewalks, and sunset colors glinted off the canal and the bay. The air smelled of the coming season—blooming honeysuckle, cut grass, and the rich, lively odor of bounty from the sea. The sky was beautifully clear, and the laughter and conversation that bubbled from the crowd in the village were filled with energy.

Founded by Dutch and English settlers three centuries before, Bethany Bay combined the old-world charm of both cultures. The squared-off, gabled rooflines and old colonial homes blended with the seascape surrounding the town. It was an authentic snapshot of a place that had been treated kindly by time, retaining the character of the past in its very soul.

First Thursday was a bustling event, with locals coming out to socialize, and the come-heres taking in the small-town charm. Visitors from the cities—D.C., Dover, Bethesda, even New York and north Jersey—had escaped early for the weekend. Bethany Bay was not as popular as Rehoboth and Annacock, an unfortunate name for a lovely town, but for those who made the extra effort to reach the remote spot, the rewards were many. Development was held at bay by the fact that the entire region was surrounded by a wildlife preserve, and the inner core of the village consisted of listed and registered structures.

The sound of an ensemble playing under the gazebo on the village green added a festive touch to the evening. Fairy lights surrounding the gazebo and hanging from the cherry and liquidambar trees created an irresistible atmosphere.