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“We were young and neither of us had a job at the time, so he packed up a lunch and drove me down the coast to this beach with a series of caves. I’d never seen anything like it. We ate and talked, and he drew a picture in the sand with a stick that was so detailed, I didn’t understand how he could’ve done it.You’re an artist,I said.No, just someone with lots of pictures in my head,he responded. And, Finley, that was an understatement. Everywhere we went, he drew. On napkins and park benches and newspapers. Even on my hand sometimes.”

“What did he draw?”

“People, mostly. Or parts of people. Eyes or lips or ears. Sometimes hair that looked like waves with another person surfing in the locks.”

“Is that what he drew on your surfboard?” I asked.

“Something like that,” she said hesitantly, obviously still not able to recall the details.

“If you can remember anything more specific, maybe our listeners can help us find it.”

“What listeners? Are they listening right now?”

“No, I have to edit and work on the sound quality of our recording, and then I publish it. Then they listen to it.” At least, that was what I used to do. Before I stopped the last step of that process several episodes ago.

“Kind of like a radio show,” she said.

“Yes, true,” I said. “The surfboard?” I added, trying to get her back on track.

“I remember it was beautiful. And I didn’t understand how Andrew couldn’t see that he was an artist.”

“You’re right,” I said. “How couldn’t he?”

“He thought a real artist was trained and had the right supplies and a specific amount of experience and was recognized by others.”

“Oh,” I said, understanding why he might feel that way. “So he drew you a picture in the sand on your first date and then what?”

“And then we took off our shoes and walked along the waterline, leaving footprints in the wet sand, until we came to the caves. The tide was coming in, so we couldn’t explore them much, worriedwe would get trapped. As we stood inside that cave and the water lapped over my bare toes, he pulled me close and…”

She paused and didn’t go on.

“He kissed you?” I asked, unable to wait for her to finish her sentence.

“He didn’t,” she said. “He was going to, but I turned and pointed out to the ocean and said,Look at that otter.”

“Why, Grandma?”

“Because I was scared. I’d never been kissed, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for my first one to happen while I was worried about the tide and the caves and getting stuck.”

“What did he do?”

“He looked out at the water too and said,I think that’s a sealion.”

I smiled. “Was it?”

“There was no otterorsea lion.”

I gave a tempered laugh. “That was sweet of him.”

“He didn’t have to correct me,” she said.

“But it was fake!”

“Exactly.”

I reached out and squeezed her hand. My mom was wrong. “YouknewAndrew Lancaster. That’s so cool. You almostkissedAndrew Lancaster.”

“Oh, we kissed. Just not that time.”