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Sorry.”
    He really did look sorry about that, so I smiled at him again. “That’s okay. Well, back to work.” I started across the lawn.
    George called out. “Wait, now. Kind of a hellion, always in trouble? But she had a soft heart, always carting around some baby animal she’d rescued. Your mother?”
    I turned back. “You remember her?”
    â€œNot much, really. But I do remember complaining to Louise one summer. This kid was supposed to be helping, but she went around with a twig springing every mousetrap I set. I finally gave up.” He laughed at the memory, then cocked his head and eyed me. “Your mother. Yeah. Now I see it.”
    I walked back to Sandpiper glowing with the things I could tell my mother when she called. “George remembers you. We opened the cottages—you did that, too. Remember the mousetraps?”
    I stood on the step of Sandpiper—my cottage—and squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. And then I got to work. I prepared that little house with affection and all my skill, as if the president of the United States himself was going to pull in here a week from now. When I was finished, I looked around at what I had done and my heart just about burst from pride. The cottage seemed to smileback at me, as if it was proud, too. I walked around, putting on the final touches: I pushed the kitchen curtains open a little more to give a better view, shifted the kitchen chairs out so they’d seem more welcoming to tired travelers, and turned down the beds. Then I locked the door and left.
    In Plover, I found Angel sitting on one of the twin beds, tangled in sheets.
    â€œI can’t…. It’s all…uuggghhh!” she groaned.
    I picked up the knot of sheets. “Do you want to go? George is setting up the grills. He won’t know. I could still say you had to visit a friend, and I just found her….”
    â€œNo.” Angel stood up and found a pillowcase and stuffed a pillow into it. Sideways. “Just help me.”
    Â 
    We were hosing off the picnic tables when George came over. He took out a pocketknife and scraped at some hard green stuff on the boards. “Frass.” The way he said it, it sounded like a swear. “Darned gypsy moths, droppings everywhere.” Then he looked at his watch.
    â€œAlmost three,” he said. “I gotta be at the boatyard. We’re done for the day anyway. You did a good job, girls. Go get yourselves some lunch and have Louise give me a call tonight.” Then he whistled for Treb, who was napping in Plover’s shade, and climbed into his truck. We walked back to the house but didn’t go in. We sank to the bricksteps together and watched his pickup grow smaller, until it disappeared.
    â€œI feel bad for him,” I said. “Pretty soon, he’ll find out. First he’ll be sad, because I think they’re sort of friends. And then it’ll hit him that he’s got nobody to run this place.” I braced myself, realizing I had just committed the giant sin of talking to Angel.
    But Angel just leaned over her knees and picked a chip of mortar off the step. She slid a glance at me through her hair. “Or not.”
    â€œOf course he’ll find out. The police will call him first thing.”
    â€œNo, I mean…” Angel tucked her hair behind her ear to look at me hard, as if she was trying to decide something. “What if we did it? Took care of things here for a while?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œYou heard him. Fifteen or twenty dollars each cottage, each week. I need money. I need three hundred fifty dollars for…well, I just need it. I could earn it here. And I wouldn’t have to go to another dumb foster home while my aunt’s getting a place….”
    I couldn’t say the obvious, but I didn’t have to.
    â€œI know,” said Angel. “We couldn’t do it. I was just