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I started to rise, and he took my arm to guide me up and into his arms.

For a moment, he just held me, and then he kissed me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that kiss, that moment. Yes, it was like some very romantic movie scene, the two of us on the beach, the ocean in the background, the breeze lifting strands of my hair, the terns circling as if they were part of it.

But the truth was, it wasn’t one of those “I love you so much” kisses. He was kissing me and holding me as if he would never see me again. It felt more like a kiss good-bye than a kiss of love.

“You’re something special,” he whispered, still pressing me to him. “I wouldn’t even bother to put up a fight if it weren’t for you.”

“Then put up a big fight,” I told him.

He finally smiled.

Hand in hand, we walked back up the beach toward the pier. Neither of us spoke until we arrived at where we had to part to go to our cars.

“Will you call me later and let me know how it went?” I asked.

“Why ruin your night?”

“If you don’t call, my night will be ruined.”

“Okay,” he said. He kissed me again. “I’ll keep my temper under control, take the verbal whipping, say whatever I need to say, and keep my fingers crossed behind my back.”

“Fingers crossed behind your back?”

“Don’t you know that when you say something, make a promise, but keep your fingers crossed, it doesn’t matter if you’re lying? I wouldn’t have known that, either. I don’t think it’s a big thing now, but it used to be. I saw it in a television movie my father was in. He had a son who did that.”

To illustrate, Ryder held his right hand up with his middle finger crossing his index finger.

“I read that it dates back to a belief that it would ward off witches or other evil spirits. Maybe I’ll do it every time I’m around my sister.”

“Don’t hate her,” I said.

He pulled his head back. “Don’t hate her? If anyone shoul

d, you should be the one who hates her today.”

“I’ve seen what that kind of hatred does, and not to the person you hate but to yourself.”

He shook his head. “You sure you’re not an angel or something?”

“Hardly.” I looked back at the boardwalk. “When we were living out there, there was this homeless woman who was a practicing psychic. I know that’s kind of a trite character in movies, the vagabond person who utters some prophecy.”

“Like the blind soothsayer in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.”

“Exactly. I saw lots of people give her money to get their fortunes told. Even other homeless people would do it. She would hold a person’s hand, close her eyes, and make some very dramatic statement.”

“What made her so special, especially if she was homeless?”

“There were many reasons people were homeless. There were stories about some of the people we saw, stories that they had enough money to rent a room but would rather live the way they were living. Maybe they were crazy. I don’t know. She made enough money to survive. I did ask my mother why she could make predictions, and she told me to ask her, so one day, I did. The three of us were eating some sandwiches, sitting on a bench.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she had the ability to feel either the love or the hate in people, and if there was more hate, she could predict unhappiness ahead, but if there was more love, she could feel pretty certain that they would eventually find happiness if they didn’t have it. That was it. The whole thing.”

He smiled and shook his head at me. “You sound like a New Age priestess or something.”

“There’s nothing new about that idea. Ever hear ‘Love your neighbor’?”

“Okay. I’m convinced. I won’t hate my sister. I’ll thank her for being a bitch today.”