They got out of the car and began walking. Gradually, the sand grew steeper until they were climbing up the slope of the first dune.

People were scattered across the face of the dunes, some of them perched on the crests, and children rolled and tumbled down the sandy hills. Above them, a couple of hang gliders floated in the air; a few more were poised for takeoff on the side of the tallest dune-the dune Zack was most intent on climbing. He charged ahead of Rory, whose bad knee gave a warning twinge as he neared the crest, and he was breathing harder than he had in years. Either the dunes had grown a lot taller over the last twenty years or he’d grown a lot older. He never remembered being winded when he climbed them as a kid.

He had so many memories of these dunes. He’d been one of the small children who rolled down the sand hill, standing up dizzily at the bottom, only to scamper up the slope again. He’d been a wild preteen, flinging himself from the top of the dunes into a slide to the bottom, where he’d have to empty pounds of sand from his shorts and sneakers.

And he remembered being a teenager out here, in the daytime with the sun and the heat. At night with the stars.

A string of people were seated along the crest of the dune, watching the gliders, and Zack and Rory joined them. The sun beat down on them, but there was a soft, refreshing breeze that blew grains of sand gently against their cheeks. From where they sat, they could see both sound and ocean, and the cottages down by the beach were so minuscule, it was like viewing them from a plane.

“I think those people are just learning how to hang-glide,” Zack said, pointing to a group surrounding a hang glider, which rested on the sand.

Rory tapped the shoulder of the young woman sitting next to him.

“Do you know if that’s some sort of class?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” the woman answered. Her blond hair blew across her face and she brushed it away with her hand.

“It’s a beginners’ class. My cousin’s in it.”

“Which one is your cousin?” Zack asked.

“The guy that just landed,” the woman said.

“Or, I should say, the guy that just got dragged across the sand on his face.”

The woman’s cousin, who looked quite young from this distance, appeared none the worse for wear from his rough landing. All of the would-be pilots were wearing harnesses and helmets. Rory and Zack watched a few more takeoffs and landings, and no one seemed to get terribly high in the air or fly for very long, but the smooth glide a dozen feet or so above the sand was inviting.

Zack was clearly mesmerized. Finally, something besides the beach and Kara was getting a rise out of him.

“Why don’t you and I take a lesson one day?” Rory suggested.

Zack looked at him, disbelief etched on his face.

“A hang-gliding lesson?”

“Sure.”

“Are you talking about here? This summer?”

“Why not?” He could do this, he thought. It looked safe enough. He’d watched enough of the beginners crash-land on the cushion of sand and get up unscathed to feel confident that he and Zack could handle this.

He did wonder how his knee would fare; it was still aching from the walk up the dune. But this was finally something they could do together.

“I can’t believe you’re serious,” Zack said.

“I just can’t see you” — “I was at one time a professional athlete, you know.” Rory felt quite the old man at the moment.

“Let’s do it,” Zack said.

“When?”

“Well, how about I…” He stopped himself. He should give this responsibility to Zack.

“How about you call the school and find out when they have beginners’ classes. You can sign us up.”

“You probably think I won’t call,” Zack said with a grin.

“I hope you will,” Rory said sincerely.

“I’d really like to do this with you.”

The emotional edge to his voice must have been a little too much for Zack, because he stopped talking, turning back to watch the gliders sail off the dune. And Rory turned to his own thoughts, his own memories. Did teenagers still climb these dunes at night, he wondered, after the park was closed and it was not allowed? He remembered one particular night out here. The dunes may have shifted over the years, but that memory was planted firmly and forever in his mind.

It was one memory he would never share with his son.

Should I leave this blind open for you. Father? ” Shelly asked.

“Or is the light in your eyes?”

Sean Macy looked up from his desk. Shelly was dusting the blinds in his office, while he pretended to straighten papers, shuffling them from one side of his desk to the other. Shelly had been chattering to him, but he had no idea what she’d said until this question about the blind.

“Leave it open,” he said, although the sun was indeed in his eyes.

“It’s fine.”

“So, anyway,” Shelly said as she moved on to the next window with her duster, “I think they’d be perfect together.”

Perfect together? Who was she talking about? Whoever it was, he couldn’t think about it now.

It was Friday afternoon, almost time for him to hear confessions, but he was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he didn’t know how he would be able to focus on the sins of his parishioners. He was in deep trouble—with God and with his own conscience. He looked down at his hands where they rested on top of a sea of unfinished paperwork. His hands were large, well shaped and swept with delicate gold hair. They were the hands of a sinner.

“Did you know him?” Shelly asked.

“It seems like everybody knew him.

Except me, ‘cause I was too little. “

“Know who?” he asked, struggling to catch up with her one-sided conversation. He couldn’t seem to give her his attention today. Usually when he was troubled, he found Shelly’s presence a comfort. He would share his concerns with her, enjoying her sympathetic ear—and the fact that she did not easily put two and two together. He could safely share things with her that he wouldn’t dare tell another soul. Being able to speak his problems out loud was somehow cathartic and helped him think through his options. He never named names, of course, and was always careful to tell her that she must keep what he said to herself. He was confident that she did.

Shelly was nothing if not honest. Besides, the relationship was symbiotic: he was the keeper of her secrets, as well.

“Rory,” Shelly said. She turned away from the windows, grinning at him with the devil in her eye.

“I don’t think you’ve been listening to me, Father Sean,” she said.

He tried to return the grin.

“You’re right,” he admitted.

“I’m sorry.

Shelly. “

“It doesn’t matter.” Shelly sat down in the chair near the window, the blue duster resting on her knees.

“But I didn’t tell you the best part yet,” she said.

“What’s that?” He leaned back in his chair, determined now to give her his attention.

“Rory’s going to find out for me who my real mother is.” The expression on Shelly’s face was childlike. Ingenuous. Expectant. And Sean felt the floor of his office give way beneath his feet.

“I don’t understand,” he said, completely attentive now.

“Who is… do you mean Rory Taylor?”

“Yes! He wants to tell about me on his True Life Stories program.

Isn’t that cool? “

Sean played with a pen on his desk, rocking it back and forth with his big, golden sinner hands.

“And what do your sisters think about this?”

he asked.

“I don’t care what they think,” Shelly said, and Sean thought it was the first time he’d ever seen that look of stubborn rebellion on her face. He knew that the Cato sisters would not approve of Rory Taylor’s tinkering with the past. No way.

Shelly suddenly groaned.

“I almost forgot,” she said.

“Ellen and Ted are coming tonight.”

“Who?” He was momentarily confused by her abrupt change of topic, although after twenty-two years of knowing Shelly, he was certainly used to it.

“Oh, your cousin Ellen,” he said.

“Yes. And I still don’t really like her. Father. I keep trying, but I just don’t.”

“You’re making a sincere effort, Shelly, and that’s what matters.” He looked at his watch.

“I’d better get back to this paperwork,” he said.

“And you to your dusting.”

“Right!” She jumped up from her seat and began working at the blinds once more.

Sean looked at the papers spread out in front of him, then shut his eyes. Rory Taylor.

His hands trembled as he put the top on the pen and rested it on the desk. He would never be able to concentrate on hearing confessions now.

Daria awakened hungry that Saturday morning. The sun light poured into her bedroom, where everything was white and blue and clean and bright, and she felt the blissful realization that she did not have to go to work or teach a class or do anything other than goof off all day. Perhaps she would go to the gym. Perhaps Rory would go at the same time. Then, suddenly, she remembered that Ellen and Ted were in the cottage, and her mood plummeted.

They had arrived the night before, and Daria had instantly felt her spirits sink when their car pulled into the driveway. She hadn’t had to deal with her cousin since the summer before, and only now did she realize how heavenly the year had been without Ellen’s opinions and interference Daria had greeted the two visitors, then pleaded exhaustion and went to bed, feeling a little guilty leaving Chloe and Shelly to provide hospitality.

Ellen, along with Aunt Josie, had spent all of her summers at the Sea Shanty until the year she married Ted. Since then, she and Ted and their two daughters came down on occasional summer weekends. They never waited for an invitation. Ellen would simply call and say they were coming, and after all these years, Daria felt unable to tell her no. Anyway, Chloe would never let Daria turn their cousin away. Chloe was able to view Ellen from an entirely different perspective.

“We have to understand why Ellen is the way she is,” she would say.

“Her father died when she was little. Aunt Josie wasn’t exactly the warmest, most maternal human being on earth. We need to have sympathy for Ellen. We need to show her love and compassion.” But it was hard to show someone love and compassion when all you received was sarcasm and insensitivity in return.

Trying to recapture her good feelings, Daria got out of bed and pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. She glanced out her window at Poll-Rory, wondering if Rory was up yet. Then she walked down the stairs to face her guests.

She found Ellen on the porch, pouring orange juice into glasses on the picnic table. A platter of waffles and sausages rested in the center of the table, and Daria knew that Shelly had busied herself cooking that morning, probably to escape from Ellen.

“Well,” Ellen said, looking up from her task, and Daria noticed that her cousin’s hair was strewn with silver now. The color was actually pretty, especially in the sunlight pouring through the porch screens, but it looked as though a five-year-old had cut her hair with dull scissors.

“You look a little more with it this morning.”

Already, Daria felt her skin prickle.

“I’m sorry I crashed so early last night,” she said, sitting down in one of the rockers.

“It had been a long day at work.” “Well, no one held a gun to your head when you picked such a physical career,” Ellen said. She set the pitcher down on the table and arranged the glasses by the individual place settings.

“Guess I’m just a masochist,” Daria said, unwilling to get into a fight. Better than being a sadist, she thought, remembering the mammogram she’d had the year before. A small cyst had appeared in her breast and her doctor had ordered the test to rule out anything serious. The mammogram had been simple, quick and painless, but she imagined the experience would be entirely different if a technician like Ellen were responsible for tightening that cold plastic vise.

Chloe walked onto the porch and glanced at the table.

“How come there are only four place settings?” she asked.

“Guess,” Ellen said.

“Ted’s going fishing.”

As if on cue, Ted walked onto the porch, fishing pole in one hand, bucket in the other.

“What’s been biting lately?” he asked Daria.

Daria tried to remember the latest fishing report. It was impossible to live in the Outer Banks and not be aware of what was biting.

“Croaker, I think,” she said.

“Spot. Bring us home some dinner, okay?”

She didn’t dislike Ted. He was overweight, with a belly that protruded farther over his waistband every year. He had kind brown eyes and a receding thatch of gray hair. He was bland, reticent and a doormat to his wife, but there was little offensive in his own demeanor. For as long as Daria had known him, Ted would take off for the fishing pier first chance he got, and she didn’t blame him for wanting that escape.