Matters of Faith by Kristy Kiernan

handing her the bowl right then and there. But Marshall appeared behind her, his hands on her shoulders, and smiled at me over her head.
    â€œI want to show Ada around,” he said. “Can we be excused from slave duty?”
    â€œMarshall—” Ada began to protest.
    â€œNo, that’s fine,” I said, waving them off. “Meghan and I can finish up here.”
    â€œMom,” Meghan started to whine, but quieted when I gave her a warning look.
    I held on to Meghan in the kitchen, her back against me, my right arm slung around her chest, just above the soft beginnings of her breasts as Marshall and Ada headed out on their walk. We watched through the screen door as Cal accompanied the couple out to the road, veering away toward his outbuilding and leaving them to make their way, slowly, their arms wrapped around each other’s waists, down the pine needle-littered street.
    He led her away from the path that led to the beach and the romantic sunset over the Gulf of Mexico that was every Southwest Floridian’s pride. Instead he veered toward the path to the bay, where the sunset would be muted, filling the sky with a light that made everything green glow, everything red a torch. It was less showy than the brilliant fireball sinking into the Gulf, but there was a softening beauty in it, and it was, for me and evidently for my son, even more romantic than the beach.
    There were other advantages to ushering in the stars on the bay. I knew that he would show her the right way to leap from rock to rock to make it over to the tiny island without soaking her boots, would identify the wading birds that came out to feed, and might even be able to point out an alligator. And, of course, the real draw was that the bay was almost always empty of people, locals and tourists alike, at this time of day.
    I watched them go and had a nostalgic longing for Cal to come gather my hand in his and lead me through the palms and pines, to find me an orchid in a tree, to guide me over a root or make sure I avoided a snake. I envied them their romance.
    Meghan held no such notions yet and strained lightly against me. I felt myself tightening my arm before I let her go. She opened the dishwasher and began sliding our dessert bowls into their slots in the top rack, the way I preferred it done.
    â€œSo, you like Ada, don’t you?” I asked, moving beside her at the sink to rinse and hand her the dishes. She reached up and turned the radio over the sink on, fiddling with the knob until she found the station she liked, moody, alternative. She bobbed her head as she answered.
    â€œYeah, she’s cool. Don’t you think so? And she knows a lot about a lot of different things. She said she’d teach me more sign language. And she said she’d help me research stuff, like my allergies. And she said maybe I could visit. Sometime.”
    â€œReally? Well, I think you’re a little young to go visit a college . . .”
    â€œNo, I mean when her and Marshall go to meet her family.”
    â€œShe and Marshall,” I responded without thinking. “When is this supposed to happen?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
    â€œThis summer. Can I go?”
    â€œOh, sweetie, let’s cross that bridge when we get to it, okay? I’ve never met her family, I don’t even know...” I trailed off. Ada had communicated with Meghan. Perhaps all my less-than-subtle questioning had been directed at the wrong people all along. “Meggie,” I said, guilt flashing through me at my conscious use of Ada’s nickname for her. Ah, see? New. I was getting the hang of things. “What has Ada said about her family?”
    She slid the dishwasher rack in and manually lifted the door into place, yet another broken hinge in our home. “Just the same stuff she told you. They’re really into, like, no chemicals and stuff.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “I mean, what about their