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until midnight in the shop. The tourists kept coming, and I stayed open an hour later because it was the family business, and because I felt we could rake in extra cash . One of the bars at Coral Gables had closed, and crowds were migrating from that bar to the Sand Bar. Luckily, our shop was situated right between the two. We were nice when we scooped ice cream, and that night we got so many tips that, when we finally did close down, we decided to hang out for late-night, thin-crust pizza across the street at Marro’s .
It was then that we heard loud pounding on the window near our booth. We looked out, as did everyone else in the restaurant, and to our shock, there you stood, Grams, with your pink robe and pink slippers. You were waving your forefinger at us, and pointing to your wristwatch. We should have told you we were going for pizza that night. You were up and waiting for us in your little apartment behind the shop. We should have told you. You probably would have liked a pizza and beer yourself. I know you only drink beer with pizza and would not eat pizza without a beer .
Oh, Grandma, your refrigerator stored nothing but Kit-Kat bars, Swiss cheese, ham, butter, and thinly sliced rye bread. As for Rebecca, I haven’t meant to ignore her in this letter– well, she kept our apartment meticulous. She alphabetized her books and fed her plants a weekly dose of Advil. They were gorgeous plants, growing out of control. Rebecca spoke Spanish to them .
P.S. And to think, Rebecca is now speaking with God. I wished she were here speaking with me instead .
    Vicki folded the letter, then closed her eyes. She felt butterflies flapping about in the pit of her stomach, their wings—normally used for courtship, regulating body temperature and avoiding predators—now entangled and crumbling apart. They had danced about so many times through her life that she knew their choreography by heart. At times, they made her nervousfor no good reason at all. She often feared they might be bats, but how ridiculous!



CHAPTER THREE
    VICKY HAD ARRIVED AT Fort Myers International Airport many times during her life, always to visit her grandparents, who spent their winters living on Sanibel Island. After Grandpa died, she visited even more. She didn’t know how she would like Florida now that one of its most treasured seashells, her grandmother, would no longer be found on its beaches.
    “Well, she should stop searching for seashells on the Sanibel seashore,” she slurred silently as she stepped off the plane. She was in no mood to recite silly little tongue twisters, but two little girls seated in the row in front of her had been tongue twisting for nearly the entire second hour of the flight, and as hard as she tried not to become infected, everything was more contagious on a plane.
    “She should instead safely start the summertime stingray shuffle near the Sanibel seashore,” she said slowly as she stumbled over someone’s small suitcase in the gateway and stopped. She said it again, faster. “She should safely start summer’s stingray shuffle near the Sanibel seashore. Sea should shave … she should safely shart … shit … stop saying such silly stuff,” she said. “So shut up.”
    There is nothing worse than a perfectionist tongue twisting, she thought as she spotted her parents standing in a crowd, everyone’s faces bronzed and looking quite relaxed as if the entire crowd had just finished a great game of golf. “Great game of golf on gorgeous green grass … great game of golf on gorgeous green grass … gate game of goof … get off it!”she scolded herself. “You can practice later.”
    “Practice what?” asked her mother as she threw her arms around her.
    “Golf,” she rapidly replied, noticing how much younger her parents looked, since relocating to Florida several months ago.
    “We’ve been playing every morning, and we’d love for you to join us,” said her father, joining the hug.
    “Did I say ‘golf?’