Page 29 of Seashells and Other Souvenirs

I set the sizzling pan back on the burner and start browning another pound of ground beef. The amount of prep work it takes to feed our massive family tacos for dinner is astounding. We started helping my aunt early this morning and have already packed one house’s fridge full of meat.

Elle sits on the counter beside me, teaching me the Spanish words for everything in the kitchen. Sutton is taking a nap, and Rebekah is playing on the living room floor with Marcie while Dillon watches a soccer game with Chris.

“Oh, come on,” Chris yells. “This ref didn’t have any trouble finding his yellow cards earlier.

” Spain isn’t playing today, but we’re all wearing our jerseys anyway.

The sounds of the game are accented with thuds coming from upstairs where my older cousins’ little girls are practicing their gymnastics routine for the talent show.

The front door opens constantly as people come and go, and an uncle keeps issuing loud reminders to “close that door behind you!” To some, it may seem overstimulating for a beach vacation, but to me, this is beautiful, peaceful chaos.

“Alex!” Uncle Zack walks into the kitchen and wraps an arm around me, squeezing my shoulder. “I heard you’re finally working on that book! How’s it coming along?”

I keep my reply to a bare minimum. “Okay.”

“It’s a very mysterious project,” Elle chimes in. “She’s hardly told us anything about it.”

I stir the contents of the pan and watch the grease pop while I think. “Well, it’s not exactly shaping up to be what I thought it would. It’s sort of . . . evolved a bit.”

“Good.” My uncle opens the fridge and pulls out a can of coke, bends back the tab. “That means it’s real.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean that that’s how actual life works.

We go looking for one story and find that another, better one has already been written for us.

That’s what you should document.” I reach for the pan’s lid, but he tugs on the oven mitts and takes it over to the sink for me, drains the grease into an empty can.

“Didn’t I always tell you you’d write a book one day? I can’t wait to read it, Al.”

But in my mind, I’m already in a different kitchen, thinking about the notebook in the drawer, wondering if parts of the story that I don’t yet know about are being written right now.

“Want to referee for us this year?”

I look up from the table I’m wiping down after dinner to see Elias grinning, swinging a whistle from his pointer finger.

Behind him, several teenagers are carrying buckets, sponges, and orange cones.

A giant cluster of kids hovers around them.

My Aunt Clara takes the dishcloth from my hand and nods, and I join the exodus to the sea.

This is my favorite time of day to be on the beach. The scorching heat has left for the evening, along with most of the other families, and the sky is just starting to change into her night clothes.

We’re almost to the steps when we pass an exhausted mom with her chattering son in tow.

“Donovan. My dude.” Elias stops to high-five him. “Catch any good waves today?”

“Yep!” He lights up, and I’m struck again by how much his face resembles a former version of his uncle’s. And by how much time I’ve spent thinking about that uncle’s face today.

“Question.” Elias squats down to Donovan’s eye level. “How fast can you run?”

“Real fast!”

“We’re about to do some Olympic relays if you want to join us.”

Donovan’s head snaps up to Kelsey, his eyes begging for a yes.

“We’ll make sure he gets back to you safely,” Elias promises.

Kelsey takes the boogie board from her son’s arms and whispers, “Have fun.”

Once on the sand, we get to work setting up the course. The hopeful athletes stand in a circle around Elias as he reviews the rules. “Most importantly,” he calls over the assembly, “let’s have a good time together!”

The next forty-five minutes are a blur, flying faster than dozens of sprinting children, laughing and cheering and not yet fully realizing that they are having the literal time of their lives.

Joy leaks from the corners of my eyes as the last race ends with Elias placing a cheap gold medal around Donovan’s neck and lifting him into the air.

The green team whoops wildly. We spend the trek back to the houses singing silly songs we grew up on at my uncle’s camp.

My favorite is the one about how much we have to be thankful for because even though my little cousins insert the most random things into the verses, every single one of them truly is an undeserved gift.

Darkness settles in around the porch lights, but I spot Jude right away when we enter the busy yard. It’s almost as if he’s become a magnet since I moved next door. He’s standing with Rebekah, Sutton, Elle, and Kelsey, still dressed in his black work clothes, a cup of lemonade in hand.

“Mom!” Donovan scrambles off Elias’s back and runs to Kelsey. “Look!” He holds up the medal, turning it so it catches the fluorescent light.

Jude finds my eyes, and it’s all I can do not to tell him on the spot how special his nephew is, how much every second with him makes me want to go back in time and relive every moment I’ve spent in Jude’s presence, this time appreciating them as I should.

“You guys should all come crabbing with us tomorrow night,” Elle suggests. “We won’t be leaving until about this time, so you should be home from work, right, Jude?”

“Your job is really cramping our style,” Sutton teases. “Didn’t you tell them the Henrys were coming? They should have given you the week off.”

Jude chuckles. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that I’m working out my two weeks’ notice at the restaurant. So next year, I’ll be ready.”

I almost choke on the sip of tea I’ve just stolen from Rebekah’s red plastic cup. I watch the corner of Jude’s lips fight to stay put; he knows this information will drive me crazy with questions.

“Hey.” Chris jogs over with a basketball tucked under his arm and kisses Sutton’s cheek. Someone across the yard has taken the baby for a while, and Sutton looks rested for the first time in days. “We need an extra guy, Jude. Up for a quick game?”

I half expect him to say no, to find some reason to head back to his place.

But he sets his drink on the picnic table behind us and cuffs the legs of his pants.

When the guys jog back over to the concrete driveway court, we girls stay at the table.

A few aunts and cousins join us, passing stories and babies around and occasionally swatting a mosquito.

I trace the lines of condensation on Jude’s half-full lemonade cup and try to keep my sight from wandering over to the game too many times. Something about watching him and Chris and Dillon enjoy one another’s company is confusingly wonderful.

When they rejoin our group, Dillon slides onto the bench beside Rebekah, and I pass a sweaty Jude his drink. Chris takes Marcail from my cousin’s lap and throws her into the air. She belly laughs, and Jude smiles as he lets his arm brush against mine for the briefest second.

I take in all the people around me, some I’ve known forever, some newer to the best week of the year, and I know in my spirit like I never have before—Grandmama was right. Some things can only be multiplied.