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is what she’s like these days—my fifteen-year-old—one minute a graceful woman, the next a gawky child.
    “What’s up, Mom?” Bea asks wiping wet sand from her lycra biking shorts.
    “I’m just walking Christine to the station,” I say, trying to sound casual, trying not to sound as if I’d been imagining her drowned for the last hour. Kyle, who runs the kayaking rental and tour operation, gives me a skeptical look as he drags his kayak up the sand. I recently confessed to him—over a bottle of Valpolicello—how nervous I am when Bea’s out on the water.
    “Hey, Aunt Christine.” Bea straightens up and leans toward Christine to kiss her on the cheek, being careful not to drip on her. But Christine steps forward on the sand, teetering a bit in her high-heeled boots, and hugs Bea to her. When she steps away her hand lingers on the damp ends of Bea’s long braid for just a moment.
    “I’m sorry I missed your lecture, Aunt Christine, but we thought about you. We paddled across the river and up the Wicomico onto the grounds of Penrose’s abandoned estate. There are all these cool statues underwater.”
    “The sunken gardens of Astolat,” Christine says. “Penrose was inspired by the Sunk Gardens at Great Dixter, which he saw on a trip to East Sussex in the twenties. I didn’t realize there was much left of them—or that the property was accessible.”
    “Yeah,” Kyle says while motioning for Bea to grab the front end of the kayak, “it’s private property but if you enter from the river no one stops you. You have to know what you’re doing though. Some of the statues are half submerged. The first time I saw one I thought it was a dead body. Scared me half to death.”
    Christine turns toward Kyle, who’s coiling a nylon towline. He’s wearing lycra bike shorts and a Polartec fleece vest half unzipped over his bare chest. Beads of river water on his arms—deeply muscled from paddling and rowing—catch the light from the boathouse. It’s hard to imagine him being scared off by a bit of garden statuary. “I’d love to see what’s left of Penrose’s landscape designs,” Christine says. Kyle tosses the coiled towline and gives Christine a more careful look. Even in this light, Christine’s gold hair and sapphire blue eyes are striking. I can’t blame Kyle for being drawn to her—men always are—or Christine for the flirtatious lilt to her voice. I’ve learned over the years that she does it without meaning to. It’s like there’s so much extra energy in her that she gives off sparks.
    “You’d love it, Aunt Christine,” Bea says. “Why don’t you come up next weekend? I’m sure Kyle would take you …”
    “We’d better get going or we’ll miss your train,” I say, making a mental note to lecture Bea later on the penalties for trespassing. “Bea, would you take the dogs home?”
    Christine hugs Bea again and waves toward Kyle. As we’re passing the boathouse I remember to ask about Eugenie’s notebook.
    “That officious secretary of Gavin’s demanded I give the original back,” Christine tells me. “I told her I still needed it for research and she said she would make me a copy, so I asked her to make you one while she was at it.
If that wasn’t too taxing for her
. Make sure you get it from her.”
    I thank Christine, trying not to laugh at her aggravation. Fay Morgan is famously protective of Gavin and everything to do with Penrose College. We cross over the trestle to the southbound side—Christine already has her ticket so we bypass the station—and descend onto the brightly lit platform, where I notice that she’s covered with wet sand.
    “You’re going to be miserable all the way back to the city,” I say, batting at her damp dress.
    “Tell me about Kyle,” Christine replies, swatting my hand away. “Did I notice something going on there?”
    “With Bea? Don’t be ridiculous, she’s fifteen, he’s our age.…”
    “I’m not talking about Bea.”
    I