Emma and I shook our heads.
“When you see her again, ask her. Maybe I knew her family from when I was a kid. She probably lives up the road in Webster’s Cove.”
“Can we go there and see her?” Emma asked.
“Without knowing her last name, how would you find her house?” I asked Emma, glad to think of a reason for not seeing Sissy.
“We could walk around and look for her. Maybe she’d be playing in her yard or something.”
“Webster’s Cove is a small place, but I doubt you’ll find Sissy that way.” Dulcie gathered up the dishes and carried them to the sink. “I’m going to the studio now. Be sure and take your nap, Emma. Otherwise, you’ll be a crab tonight.”
Emma held up her hands like little claws. “Watch out, I’ll pinch you, Mommy.”
Much to Emma’s disappointment, we didn’t see Sissy the next day or the day after or the day after that. I didn’t mind a bit. The clouds had vanished, and the sun shone. It was perfect weather for swimming, but Emma said the water was too cold. While I practiced my backstroke, she sat on the sand and made castles. Like Sissy, she kicked them down before we left the beach. “No good,” she said in a good imitation of her so-called friend.
At the end of the week, Emma suggested walking to Webster’s Cove. “Mommy said Sissy might live there, remember? Maybe we’ll see her and we can ask her to come home with us and have lunch.”
“It’s a long way,” I said. “If you get tired, I’m not carrying you.”
“I won’t get tired. I’m big now.”
It was about a forty-minute walk, but Emma didn’t complain once. She trotted along beside me, talking about Sissy, Sissy, Sissy. What was her favorite color? Did she like chocolate or vanilla ice cream? Did she have sisters or brothers? What TV show did she like best—Sesame Street or Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood? Was she afraid of the dark? Did she have bad dreams? Did she like pizza with extra cheese? Did she have a pet—a cat, a dog, a guinea pig? What did she eat for breakfast—Rice Krispies, Cheerios, Cap’n Crunch?
Emma had so many questions, I almost felt sorry for Sissy.
Webster’s Cove was bigger than Dulcie remembered. Cars with out-of-state license plates jammed the narrow streets. People mobbed a little boardwalk running along the edge of the sand. Beach umbrellas tipped this way and that, almost hiding the water. The air smelled of popcorn and suntan lotion and French fries. Kids ran in and out of the lake, shouting and splashing, while their parents watched from folding chairs and blankets.
Emma tugged my arm. “I don’t see Sissy.”
“It would be hard to find anybody under seven feet tall in this crowd.”
Taking her hand, I led her down the boardwalk and into Smoochie’s Ice Cream Shop. Maybe the chocolate wouldn’t be as good as Olson’s, but it would be just as cold and sweet.
I pulled a five-dollar bill out of my pocket. “What would you like?” I asked Emma. “A soda? Ice cream? Candy?”
“Can I have a soda and ice cream?”
I checked the price board. I had enough for two small cones and two small sodas. “What flavor do you want?”
Emma pressed her nose against the glass and studied the choices. After several changes of mind, she settled for chocolate and a ginger ale. I picked mint chocolate chip and a root beer.
While we were waiting, Emma peered up at the teenage girl scooping the ice cream. A tag on her polo shirt said her name was Erin.
“Do you know a girl named Sissy?” Emma asked.
Without looking up, Erin said, “Can’t say I do.”
“She’s ten going on eleven and she has long blond hair and she’s pretty,” Emma went on.
Skinny and mean-eyed, I felt like adding. Not very nice and not really pretty.
Erin smiled at Emma. “Sorry, but I don’t know her. Maybe her family’s here on vacation.”
“She lives here,” Emma persisted. “All year round.”
“I live here all year, too, but I don’t know anyone named Sissy. Are you sure she lives in the Cove?”
“No,” I put in. “It was just a guess.”
Erin handed us our cones and drinks. “There are loads of cottages scattered around the lake,” she said. “She could live anywhere.”
“I think it’s near our cottage,” Emma said.
Erin rang up the sale and took my money. While she made change, she asked, “Where do you live?”
“Gull Cottage, down on the Point.”
She stared at me. “You’re kidding! Nobody’s lived there for ages. Not since—” She frowned and handed me my change.
“Since what?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“You said nobody’s lived there ‘since.’ And then you stopped.” I licked my ice cream. “What were you going to say?”
Erin shrugged and brushed a few stray strands of sun-streaked hair behind her ear. Without looking at me, she said, “Since about thirty years ago. The people who owned it came every summer, but then one year they didn’t come back. The cottage has just sat there empty all these years.”
“Do you mean the Thorntons?” I asked her.
Erin nodded. “I think that was their name.”
“Well, they’re back now,” I told her. “At least my aunt Dulcie is.”
“Really?” Erin stared at me as if she didn’t believe me. “Dulcie Thornton’s here?”
“That’s my mommy’s name,” Emma said. “She’s an artist. Do you know her?”
“Of course not. How old do you think I am?” Erin leaned over the counter until she was face to face with Emma. “But my mom knew Dulcie when they were kids. They used to play together all the time. I think she had a little sister, too.”
“Yes,” I said. “Claire. That’s my mother.”
Erin studied Emma and me as if she was memorizing every detail of our appearance—our clothes, our hair, our faces, even how many freckles we had. Her scrutiny made me uncomfortable. Did she think we were strange? Was there something weird about us?
“I’ll tell Mom that Dulcie’s back,” she said at last. “She’ll be really interested.”
Struck by a sudden thought, I took a deep breath. “What’s your mother’s name?” I was hoping she’d say Toni or Terri or some other name that started with a T, but no luck.
“Jeanine,” Erin said. “Jeanine Donaldson, but her maiden name was Reynolds. I know she’ll want to see Dulcie. She still talks about her and Claire and what—”
Just then a man herded a couple of cross, sunburned children into the shop. “Two vanilla ice cream cones, please,” he said. “Small. And one large diet Sprite.”
“I want strawberry,” the boy wailed.
“You said vanilla.”
“No, no! Strawberry, I want strawberry!”
“Make that one vanilla and one strawberry,” the man said. “And an extra-large diet Sprite for me.”
“Can we go now?” Emma tugged at my T-shirt. “Maybe Sissy’s waiting at home for us.”