The smile remained plastered on his face, but I could tell from the deep breath he drew in then slowly released that my answer had annoyed him. Mission accomplished.

“Same old Grace,” he said.

“Yup,” I replied, but it wasn’t true. When I’d arrived at the Wellstone Center after my failed suicide attempt, I’d wanted to die. Now I was committed to living. And Dr. Stetler deserved none of the credit for the change in my mental state.

“So, you’re back as an outpatient?” he asked.

“No, just visiting.” That was all the explanation I was willing to give.

“But you’re still seeing a therapist, I hope.”

“Yes. She’s very good.”

“Wonderful to hear,” he said with false cheer. “Well, if you ever need me, you know where to find me.”

I smiled benignly. As if! That’s what happened when you spent your days talking to teenagers; you picked up their expressions. Olivia Baylor, my client and MJ’s student since he started tutoring her in math a few months ago, said “as if” all the time. MJ picked up the expression from Olivia and now I said it too.

Olivia was the reason MJ had agreed to apply to the Winston Academy. He had a crush on her, although he wouldn’t admit it. I was just happy he was enrolled in a better high school.

I remained under the tree until MJ and Sofia reappeared on the patio, but with Dr. Simpson only.

“How did it go?” I asked.

I’d directed my question at MJ, but it was Dr. Simpson who answered. “Very well for a first visit.”

I tried to make eye contact with MJ, but he stood with his hands in the pockets of his basketball shorts and stared at the ground.

“I’ll send their social worker an email,” Dr. Simpson said, “but you can let their foster parents know same time next week.”

Sofia skipped back to the car, smiling and humming to herself, but MJ didn’t speak. Nor did he participate in the eye-spy game Sofia and I played for the entire forty-minute drive back to Tim and Richard’s house. When we arrived, I parked out front and walked them inside. I knew Tim was home because his minivan was in the driveway, but the only child with him was Makeyla. The three boys were out somewhere with Richard.

“How did it go today?” Tim asked, glancing from MJ to me.

I met Tim the day after Sofia and MJ had moved in. MJ had texted me his new foster home was okay, but I wanted to see for myself. And I had an excuse to visit because I’d promised to drop off Sofia’s dollhouse. Tim was tall and broad shouldered with freckled skin and a wholesome smile. I immediately imagined him as a former prom king who’d dated cheerleaders in high school and was the star of the football team. I could not have been more wrong.

Tim had helped me carry the dollhouse in from my car, then offered me a coffee. I accepted and we ended up talking for hours. That’s when I learned he knew from a young age he was gay and he hated sports. Richard, his husband, was the sports fan in the family. I met him when Tim invited me over for a barbeque that weekend. With his dark skin, dad bod, and prickly demeanor, Richard was the inverse of Tim. They were the poster couple for opposites attract.

MJ replied to Tim’s question about his mother with a shrug and raced up the steps. A few seconds later we heard a bedroom door slam shut and we both stared up at the ceiling. Then Tim turned to the girls and suggested they go out back and play with the dogs. After Makeyla and Sofia left, Tim said, “I take it the visit didn’t go well?”

I shrugged too. “The therapist thought it did, and Sofia seems okay, but MJ hasn’t said a word.”

“Hmmm,” Tim replied. “Maybe he just needs time to process. It’s been what, three months since he last saw his mother?”

“Six,” I answered.

“That’s a lot to deal with, especially at fifteen.” Then Tim smiled, as if the mere act of smiling could push the bad thoughts away. Maybe for him it could. “We’re taking the kids to the beach tomorrow. It’s Isaiah’s birthday. You want to come?”

“Ummm.” Six kids at the beach did not sound like a relaxing way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

“I’m baking chocolate cake.”

He knew I couldn’t say no. Tim was a terrific baker.

I arrived at the beach at noon, just as they were breaking out the sandwiches.

“Thank god,” Tim said when he spotted the potato chips peeking out of the top of the grocery bag. “I thought they were going to mutiny because the only snacks I brought were cucumber slices and carrot sticks.”

“You deserve a mutiny for that,” I said as I passed the family-sized bags of Doritos and Lays to MJ and Jayden. At seventeen, Jayden was the oldest of Tim and Richard’s foster children. MJ was second oldest and the two had become friends.

I wished Isaiah a happy birthday and handed him the gift card I’d purchased this morning. I’d tried to buy him a real present. I’d spent fifteen minutes walking up and down the aisles of Target trying to guess what an eleven-year-old boy might like before I finally gave up and purchased the gift card instead.

Then I waved to Ethan and the girls, accepted a kiss on the cheek from Tim, a moist hug from Richard, whose body was wet with sweat or sea water or both, and popped open my sand chair under their shade canopy.

Tim searched inside the giant cooler. “We’ve got chicken pesto, vegetarian, or peanut butter and jelly. What’s your pleasure?”

“Homemade pesto?” I asked. Tim’s pesto was the best I’d ever eaten.

“Is there any other kind?” Tim replied.

There was at my house. Now that I was living alone again, cooking meant heating up food from a jar, a box, or a takeout container.

Tim passed a foil-wrapped sandwich to MJ. “Give this to your Lawyer Mom.”

“Lawyer Mom?” I’d never heard that expression before.

MJ walked the sandwich over to me. “Janelle’s my lawyer and you’re my lawyer-mom.”

“I thought I was your boss?”

He shrugged and returned to his beach towel.

The kids ate their sandwiches and most of the chips, then we all sang happy birthday to Isaiah and devoured Tim’s cake. When all that was left was a pile of chocolate crumbs, the kids headed out into the sun again. Sofia, Makeyla, and Ethan returned to their sandcastle, and MJ, Isaiah, and Jayden ran into the surf.

Richard reached into a smaller cooler behind his beach chair and pulled out a hard seltzer.

I raised my eyebrows. “I thought alcohol wasn’t allowed on the beach.”

“You going to turn me in?” Richard asked.

“Not if you give me one.”

Richard smiled. “Black cherry, mango, or lime?”

“Mango,” I replied, and he tossed me a can. I swallowed a mouthful of the sweet, fizzy soda, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes. My belly was full, the ocean breeze cooled my warm skin, and the rhythmic sound of the crashing waves mixed with the din of screaming children lulled me to the edge of sleep.

Then Richard said, “Who’s that chatting up MJ?” and I startled awake.

Chapter 3