Jill has kept that tradition going,” Daria said. “She has to get special permission each year, because bonfires are no longer allowed on the beach. She has to make the fire closer to the water, but she’s fanatical about it. She’s got a couple of teenagers, and her husband comes down on the weekends. I don’t know what happened to Brian, her brother.” Daria looked at Chloe, who shrugged.
“Haven’t seen him in years,” Chloe said.
Rory was pleased to hear that some of the old residents were still around, although he was disappointed that Cindy Trump was not one of them. He’d always thought that Cindy somehow held the key to the mystery of the foundling.
He looked at Shelly. She was a striking young woman, with large, light brown eyes, that long blond hair, a willowy body and perfect tan. Sitting there on the floor of the living room, she was all legs and arms and gossamer hair. She’d been wearing the same ingenuous smile since his arrival, and he realized that she had a childlike way of speaking, a simplicity about her. He’d lived with Polly long enough to recognize it, and he wondered if Shelly’s rude introduction to the world had left her with some brain damage.
“How about you, Shelly?” he asked. “What are you up to?”
“I work at St. Esther’s Church as a housekeeper,” she said proudly. “And I design shell jewelry.”
“Shell jewelry?” he repeated.
“Uh-huh.” She stood up and walked out to the porch for a moment. Back inside, she handed him a choker, a small, gold-plated starfish set in the center 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
