“He took me to a surf movie. I didn’t know much about what was going on but it looked like a lot of fun.”

  “I’ll bet the audience was like ninety per cent guys,” said Kris. “Grubby dragged me to a surf film once.”

  “At least. And really enthusiastic.” As soon as she paused for dramatic effect Ronnie knew she shouldn’t have. She continued to her punchline anyway. “And from the smell, mostly stoned.”

  “Not that I would partake, of course,” An stated. He said this with a completely straight face but anyone could tell he wasn’t being very serious. Did he smoke pot? Ronnie had no idea. There was so much they still didn’t know about each other.

  And so much they did know. “It’s time you get that out,” she said, nodding toward the boy’s guitar case. “They’ve heard so much about it but have yet to see it.” They had just arrived, having ridden over in her Simca with both their instruments in the back seat. Ronnie had pulled her car in along the street, beside the Summerlin property. There had still been parking open at the beach end of the street. That would be gone soon, as beach goers filled all avaible spaces there on a Sunday morning, and lined the street too, all the way down to Gulf Shore. Neither the Summerlins nor their neighbors on the other side of the pavement nor most of the other homeowners along the beach here had any compints about these weekend crowds; things had always been that way.

  The newer Neapolitans, the ones who’d moved down with all their money and northern ways, didn’t always understand this. Some would close off the beach altogether if they could get away with it. Ronnie could help fight against that sort of thing if she were an attorney, couldn’t she? Her thoughts about her new career choice hadn’t progressed much beyond that. It wasn’t a bad pce to start though, was it?

  “It’s a Gibson,” announced An, ying the case on a table and beginning to undo the csps. “A Hummingbird.”

  “And here I was expecting a vintage Southern Jumbo,” came Jam’s zy voice from where he reclined in a wn chair. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of church clothes yet. Ronnie assumed those were church clothes. She’d never been to church in her life though she’d gone into Saint Ann’s a couple times with Joey when there weren’t any services going on.

  “Ha, I wish!” An said and then chuckled. “’Cause then I’d sell it and buy a Dove.”

  “Heathen,” said Jam. “The Jumbo was Woody Guthrie’s guitar. Hank Williams, too! I’ll bet you py bluegrass on that thing.”

  “I might. But Keith Richards cims this is the perfect acoustic for rock.”

  “Oh, well, if Keith says so I guess it’s okay. Just ignore me.”

  “We already do,” Joey told him. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Didn’t you use to py?” asked Kris. “I remember you pying.”

  “I could never hope to match my sister so I kind of let it go.”

  “Like you could never match my height so you stopped growing,” Joey told her.

  “Ooh. That’s harsh,” said Jam.

  “Just what I expect from her.” She plopped down in a chair beside him. “She’s jealous on so many levels. Not the least of them my handsome and athletic boyfriend.”

  “I don’t see any boyfriend,” Joey said, looking about. “I think he must be imaginary.”

  “He’s at church, like most good boys are on Sunday morning. I—don’t know if he’ll come by ter or not.”

  “Joey and I took care of that early again. Six-thirty mass. Fortunately, I didn’t get roped into serving this morning.”

  Ronnie wasn’t sure what ‘serving’ meant. Not like a waiter, she was sure! The Catholic mass was yet another mystery to her. She suspected, however, it meant the two of them got to sit together today. “Oh.” She went over to her own guitar case, a cardboard affair partially held together with tape, and pulled out a paperback. “We need to ask James if he knows how to pronounce this.”

  “Okay.” An followed her over as she handed the book to Jam.

  He gave it a gnce. “That looks interesting. Lend it to me when you’re done, will you? I do know the word Ouroboros. The snake that swallows its tale, a symbol of eternity or something along those lines. Anyway, the strongest accent is on the third sylble.”

  “Told you so,” said Ronnie.

  “Yeah, but you were pronouncing the first sylble wrong,” An shot back.

  “Well now you both know and won’t embarrass yourselves if you’re ever asked on national television.” He gave the pair a bit of a wicked grin. “Assuming you believe me.”

  “They might,” said Joey. “They don’t know you as well as me.”

  “Get another opinion,” Kris advised.

  Ronnie was getting tired of this endless banter. Yes, it was her friends and yes, they had been this way since they were tykes together. On another morning it might not annoy her as much. She went back to her guitar and lifted it from its case. An experimental strum. Already out of tune. It didn’t hold it very well to begin with but riding in the back seat on a hot morning didn’t help either. She’d turn tuning keys ter. An’s instrument looked so much nicer. That finish was called a cherry sunburst, right? The hummingbird picture on the pick guard was a bit gaudy, though. A bit much.

  An was still talking with the others about something. She walked toward the Gulf. Maybe it would be nice to swim right now. She’d been shown—by Angelica—that there was a pce she could shower off the salt water around on the south side of the house. She hated to go about sticky-prickly all day after a swim, with dried salt on her skin.

  Much less sand! The yard rose just a little as it approached its rear edge, where a fringe of sea grape bushes divided it from the beach. Maybe a natural dune, now covered with wn. Beyond y tall grass, sea oats—maybe with a few sand spurs sprinkled in—and beyond that, sand, the famous sugar-white sand of the Naples beaches. People here liked to think it famous anyway. There was a concrete bench back here, in the shade of the towering coconut palms. Ronnie sat and gazed out at the Gulf. More green than blue and almost dead calm. An probably hated that. He liked to drive to the beach just on the chance of unexpected waves.

  She wouldn’t cut through here and trample on the fragile natural growth. That would be poor payback for how this family had treated them these past weeks. Oh, she wouldn’t have done it anyway, even if she happened to hate the Summerlins. Some beach goers didn’t care. They’d push through instead of going around. There were people on bnkets. Kids running, spshing. Radios turned to conflicting stations. Some of them Latin. Lots of Miami Cubans would drive over here on Sundays. Maybe Lin’s retives!

  She preferred quieter weekdays. And she liked it just as well when it was cold and windy and big gray sbs of wave rolled in. Ronnie turned back around, toward her friends. Lin and Angelica had joined them. And Mister Summerlin, wasn’t it? For some reason, she felt shy about going back and saying hello. Not just to Preston Summerlin. All of them. They were too much at times. She’d like to be at home.

  Here came An. Smile and be nice. Smile and be friendly. “What’s up?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

  “I guess so.” She amended that. “Yes. Yes, I’m all right. I want to swim.” She suddenly half-sobbed and half-giggled. “And swim and swim, all the way to Mexico!”

  “Oh. Feeling like you need to bust out?”

  Ronnie turned to him, surprised. “You know about that? Do you want to do that sometimes?”

  “It’s my life, Miss Deerfield. I think it’s why I surf. And at this time of the year—” He nodded toward the ft Gulf. “I get particurly antsy. I’d had high hopes st weekend with that tropical storm churning over by Texas, but it didn’t deliver.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. “Maybe this will help both of us.”

  “It can’t hurt,” he said, before his lips met hers. Then neither said anything.

  For a while, neither said anything. “You do have to take me surfing someday,” she told him.

  “But this should do until then. Let’s make them all jealous again.”

  Ronnie thought it a pretty good idea. “Now let’s go py our guitars,” she said sometime ter.

  “Not swim?”

  “Maybe in a while.”