“That was close enough,” Scott says to the kid. “Practically a bull’s-eye.”
“He missed every bottle,” the boy’s mother says.
“He had excellent form. Effort counts.”
I raise my camera. “Can I get a shot of this?”
Scott looks at me he’s been caught doing something soft. “Do you photograph everything?”
“Occupational hazard. Hold still.”
Jessica appears beside the booth with two snow cones and a grin. “He does this every year. Last year he gave away the entire inventory in two hours andthe festival committee had to run to the dollar store for more stuffed animals.”
“It was ninety minutes,” Scott corrects. “And the committee’s budget was fine.”
“The committee’s budget was not fine. You wrote them a personal check.” Jessica hands him a snow cone. “You’re the worst carny in the history of carnival games and everyone loves you for it.”
“I’m not a carny. I’m a volunteer with generous impulses.”
“You’re a marshmallow in a polo shirt.”
I get several shots—Scott handing out prizes, a line of kids waiting with crumpled dollar bills, Jessica leaning against the booth watching her husband.
A small hand tugs my shorts. Aidan.
“Mom. I found the crab races.”
“There are actual crab races?”
“There are twelve crabs and they have numbers painted on their shells and I bet on number seven because seven is the most powerful number and number seven won and I got a ribbon.” He holds up a ribbon. It says PARTICIPANT. “It’s not a winning ribbon but I’m still proud.”
“I’m proud of you too.”
“Also, Mr. Paul is at the marina booth on the boardwalk. He’s teaching kids how to tieknots. He taught a girl how to do a bowline and she couldn’t do it and he was really patient and he showed her like six times and she finally got it and he said ‘good job’ and I think that’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to a stranger.”
My heart does something it has no business doing at a Fourth of July festival in front of my eight-year-old.
“That’s nice,” I say, aiming for casual.
“Are you going to go see him?”
“I’m taking pictures, Aidan.”
“You could take picturesnearhim. The knot thing is very photogenic. I learned that word from you.”
He runs off before I can respond, ribbon fluttering behind him, heading back toward the crab races with the focus of someone who has found his calling.
The book club ladies have claimed their spot.
It’s a stretch of beach near the lifeguard station—the same spot every year, according to Michelle, who explained the territorial system to me when I arrived. Book club gets the prime blanket real estate because Grandma Hensley staked it out in 1987 and nobody has challenged her since. Not because they’re afraid of Grandma Hensley.Because they’re absolutely afraid of Grandma Hensley.
By the time I make my way down from the boardwalk, the spot is fully operational. Michelle has a cooler of drinks. Amber has brought platters from The Salty Pearl because the woman cannot show up anywhere without feeding people—pimento cheese bites, fruit cups, and something wrapped in bacon that smells incredible. Hazel is passing out hot dogs to her kids from a foil-wrapped pile she brought from Bubba’s truck. Jo is arranging a blanket with decorative precision. Jessica is reading a romance novel in a beach chair with her legs crossed, ignoring the chaos around her with practiced ease.
Mads is there too, enormously pregnant, sitting in what appears to be a beach chair specifically designed for someone in her condition—wider, lower, with extra support. Asher is hovering beside her with water and sunscreen, like he would fight the sun itself if it threatened his wife.
“She’s here!” Amber calls out. “The lighthouse kisser has arrived!”
“I regret coming.”
