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of a strand of tiny shells. He was impressed. He’d expected shell jewelry to be a bit on the tacky side, but this was certainly not.

      He looked up at Shelly. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “Was this a real starfish?”

      “Yes,” she said, taking the choker back from him. “I collect the shells on the beach. It’s hard to find a starfish that size, though.”

      “It’s wonderful, Shelly,” he said. “What do you do with the jewelry after you’ve finished it?”

      “I sell it at the gift shop on…” She looked to Daria for help.

      “Consignment,” Daria said.

      “Pretty cool, huh?” Shelly said, grinning at him.

      “Yeah, it is.” He felt the broad smile on his face. Something about Shelly touched him. Reminders of Polly, perhaps, or maybe it was just the simple joy that emanated from her.

      “Tell us about your son,” Chloe said.

      “Oh.” Rory looked out the window at the darkening sky and wondered if Zack had made any friends on the beach. “He’s a California kid,” he said. “He doesn’t want to be here. But—” he stretched and sighed “—I’m hoping he’ll adjust to it. He’s a good kid, just screwed up a little from the divorce.” He wondered what Chloe thought about divorce—or the phrase “screwed up,” for that matter. Did he have to watch his language around her?

      He leaned forward abruptly. “Well,” he said, getting down to business, “I received Shelly’s letter a few months ago, and I’ve decided to follow up on her request to find out who left her on the beach twenty-two years ago. I plan to make it an episode on True Life Stories.”

      Dead silence filled the room. Chloe and Daria looked at each other, and Rory didn’t miss the disapproval in their faces. Shelly wore a sheepish smile, and Rory suddenly realized she had written the letter without her sisters’ knowledge.

      “That is so cool!” Shelly said finally. “Thanks, Rory.”

      Daria looked at her younger sister. “You wrote to Rory?” she asked.

      Shelly nodded.

      “I wish you’d told me that, honey.” Daria’s voice was disapproving, but not unkind. Even so, he instantly felt sorry for Shelly.

      “I thought it was a wonderful letter,” Rory said quickly. “A wonderful idea. And if I can’t uncover the answer during my research, Shelly, maybe someone watching the show will know what really happened and contact me.”

      Chloe tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa. “I don’t think this is such a good idea, Rory,” she said. “Why dredge up something that happened twenty-two years ago?”

      “Chloe’s right,” Daria said. “I’m sorry to put a damper on your idea, but Shelly’s a Cato, Rory. She has been, right from the start. Of course, she’s always known what happened to her, but she’s one of us, an integral part of us. Who her birth mother was doesn’t matter.”

      For the first time since his arrival, Shelly lost her smile. “I know I’m a Cato,” she said to Daria. “But I’m also something else. I’ve always wanted to know what that something else is.”

      Daria looked surprised. “You never said anything about it, Shelly. Nothing at all.”

      “Because I figured there was no way to ever find out,” Shelly said. “But I was watching True Life Stories one night, and I knew Rory lived here when I was found, and he always can figure out those mysteries, so…if he wants to try—” she shrugged “—I want him to.”

      He had not expected resistance. It was understandable, though, that Chloe and Daria would find his plan unsettling if they hadn’t known about Shelly’s letter. Was he being intrusive? Was Shelly’s plea enough reason for him to tamper with their lives?

      “Well,” he said, standing up. “I guess I’ll have to give this some more thought.” He saw Shelly bite her lip. A crease formed between her eyebrows. “And right now, I’d better go home and see what my son is up to.”

      “Good seeing you, Rory,” Chloe said. She did not stand up, but Daria did. She walked him to the porch door.

      “Don’t be a stranger, Rory,” she said.

      “Thanks,” he said. “I won’t be.”

      “I’m sorry Shelly bothered you about…”

      “It’s not a bother at all,” he said.

      Daria brushed a few flakes of sawdust from her hair, and in the porch light, Rory saw a world of worry in her eyes. “I think it would be a mistake to pursue the story,” she said.

      “Well,” he said, touching her arm, “we’ll talk about it again, all right?”

      He left the Sea Shanty and was halfway across the cul-de-sac when Shelly caught up to him.

      “Rory, wait a second,” she said.

      He stopped walking and turned around. Poll-Rory’s porch light lit her face.

      “What’s up?” he asked.

      “Please, Rory. I still want you to try and find out who my real mother was,” she pleaded. “I really want to know.”

      He hesitated. “Your sisters have some genuine concerns,” he said.

      “Yes, but I’m the one who counts, right?” Shelly asked.

      He studied her face. She was a stunning young woman with hope in her eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile at her. “That’s right, Shelly,” he said. “You’re the one.”

      5

      DARIA’S MOOD WAS LIFTING. SITTING IN HER PARKED CAR IN the Sea Shanty driveway as she waited for Shelly and Chloe to join her for the drive to Sunday mass, she felt a lightness she had not known for the past two months. She’d felt it when she’d awakened that morning and found herself getting out of bed with a smile on her face. She only had to look across the street at Poll-Rory to know the reason for her altered mood. Her lightness was tempered, though, by Rory’s desire to pry into Shelly’s past. Nothing could be gained by that…and too much could be lost.

      The Wheelers—seventy-something Ruth and Les—were getting into their van in the driveway next door. A few of their grandchildren climbed into the van with them, and Daria knew they were going to St. Esther’s for mass, as well. She waved, and Ruth Wheeler called out a greeting.

      Chloe and Shelly walked down the wooden front steps of the Sea Shanty. Shelly got into the front seat of the car, Chloe the rear.

      “St. Christopher,” Chloe prayed as Daria backed the car out of the driveway, “guard and protect us on our journey.”

      For as long as Daria could remember, Chloe had uttered that prayer every time she got in a car—even after St. Christopher had been desainted. Chloe had a bit of the rebel in her.

      “There’s Rory Taylor.” Shelly pointed toward Poll-Rory, where Rory and his son were crossing their yard, carrying beach chairs and towels under their arms.

      Daria tapped her horn. Rory waved at the car with a smile as she passed them. Rory’s son reminded her of the boy she had known many years ago—the handsome, blond-haired boy with the broad-shouldered build that would later serve him well on the football field. She remembered what a strong swimmer Rory had been and how she’d liked to watch him swim far out into the ocean until the lifeguards whistled at him to come in. He’d been a lifeguard himself one year, and he’d rescued an elderly man caught in the undertow. He’d been seventeen then, and by that time he’d definitely forgotten she existed. The local newspaper printed his picture after he rescued the man, and she’d carried that picture around with her for years, even after he’d gone off to college and stopped coming to Kill Devil Hills.

      “Your

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