The store is also a go-to stop for instruments. This is where we got Jude’s guitar and Penny’s violin, and even my keyboard.

But it’s been years since I’ve been inside. So I’m surprised when I open the door and am immediately greeted with a slew of familiar smells—musk and lemon wood polish and cigar smoke. I’m even more surprised when the man behind the counter grins widely when he sees me. “Is that Prudence Barnett? Holy hell, you’ve gone off and turned into a teenager. Look at you!”

I freeze a couple steps into the doorway and smile awkwardly. “Um. Yep. Hi.”

“Come in, come in.” He waves his arms, like he’s trying to drag me forward with the force of his gestures. He’s a big guy. Like, Hagrid big. I’d remembered this, but thought that my young mind must have been exaggerating, because now that I think of it, I was a little afraid of him when I was a kid, even though he was always really nice to me and my siblings. But there’s just something unsettling about being greeted by a guy well over six feet tall, who probably weighs twice as much as my dad. He has an unruly gray-peppered beard and is wearing a tweed newsboy hat. This, too, I remember from childhood.

“I expected your mom or dad to stop in any day now. Didn’t think they’d be sending you in, but it sure is good to see you. All grown-up. I can’t hardly believe it.” He clicks his tongue, then lifts a finger, indicating I should wait. “I’ll go get your money. Be right back.”

I blink. Money?

But before I can say anything, he’s slipped into a back room, a tiny office with a window covered in yellowed blinds. I approach the main counter, where he keeps the jewelry. There are so many little velvet boxes holding little diamond rings that it’s dizzying. I move to the next case. Necklaces, watches, bracelets—earrings.

I inspect them all, but none of them is Maya’s. He probably wouldn’t keep a solitary earring with these sets anyway, I reason.

Maybe he has a missing-parts jewelry section?

I make a quick pass around the room. More glass cases hold antique cigar boxes, porcelain figurines, hand-painted teacups, pocketknives, collectible coins, baseball cards. One entire case is dedicated to used cell phones. The walls are covered in paintings. The shelves display everything from clarinets to laptops, bowling balls to table lamps.

There is a display of costume jewelry on one counter. I spend a minute digging through it, but there’s nothing that resembles the earring, and if Clark really did pay more than a grand for it, I doubt it would be sitting out here unattended.

“Here we go,” says Clark, emerging from the office with a white envelope. He lays down a handwritten receipt, then opens the envelope and takes out a handful of money. He starts to count it out, placing each bill down so I can double-check his math, but my attention is on the slip of yellow paper.

Guitar amp: $140.00

Tennis bracelet (diamond 1 ct): $375.00

Cordless drill: $20.00

DVD player: $22.00

Electronic keyboard w/stand: $80.00

At the bottom is my dad’s signature and phone number.

My eyes linger on the last item. A keyboard. The keyboard, I’m sure, that I’d told Ari I would give to her, before I realized we didn’t have it anymore.

Before my parents told me they sold it.

“Six hundred and thirty-seven.” Clark finishes counting, then stacks up the bills again and slides them back into the envelope. He hands it to me, along with the receipt. My hand instinctively closes around it, feeling the heft of the money inside. “We’ve had some interest on that cutlery set, but no takers yet. Your pop mentioned he might be bringing in a guitar? Acoustic, I think? Those have been selling like hotcakes lately, if you want to let him know.”

Cutlery? Guitar?

“Um. Okay. I’ll mention it to him.” I swallow. “Which cutlery set, exactly?”

“Ah, you know. This vintage one.” He walks around the counter and ushers me toward another case, where he pulls out an old wooden box. When he opens it, I’m greeted with a set of silverware—lightly tarnished spoons and forks and a row of steak knives strapped to the bottom of the lid. There are some serving pieces, too—a ladle and one of those huge forks used for carving meat. I reach out and run my finger along the handle of one of the spoons, engraved with a motif of grapes.

I know this silverware.

“You okay?”

I snap my attention up to Clark. “Yeah. Yes. I just … didn’t realize my parents were selling this off. This was my great-grandma’s. We put it out every Thanksgiving.”

I can’t tell if his frown means he’s worried for me, or that my sentimentality could keep him from making a sale. “You’d be surprised how many people are off-loading this sort of thing,” he says, and I think he’s trying to ease my mind. “Silverware like this? It’s almost more valuable being melted down for the silver. Not a big market. It’s pretty, but kind of a pain compared with stainless steel. People just don’t know how to care for these things like they used to or they don’t have the time or just don’t feel like it. Can’t hardly blame them.”

I nod, but I’m barely listening.

My parents are selling off their stuff.

I know money has been tight. I know they’ve been worried about paying their rent at the record store. But I had no idea it had come to this—pawning their possessions to make ends meet.

Why didn’t they tell us?

“Anything else I can do for you?” Clark asks.

I look down at the envelope in my hand. I consider giving it back to him. I really don’t want to be walking around with hundreds of dollars in my bag all day. But I don’t want Clark to know that my parents have been keeping this from me. I’m embarrassed to think how clueless I am about my own family’s situation.

So instead, I smile graciously and tuck the envelope away. My bag feels fifty pounds heavier.

“There actually is one other thing,” I say, clearing my throat. “I met a woman the other day. I don’t know her name, but she spends a lot of time metal detecting out on the beach.”

“Oh, you must mean Lila.” Clark nods. “I’m amazed at the things she digs up out there. Once brought in an old sheriff pin—not a real one—but like they would have put in a cereal box, maybe from the thirties or forties? It was so neat. You just never know what’s out there, waiting to be found. So what have you got to do with old Lila?”

“Well, she found something on the beach, and it turns out that it belongs to a friend of mine. A diamond earring? I asked her about it and she said she sold it here.”

Recognition flashes over Clark’s features, and is immediately followed by regret. “Aw, man. It belonged to a friend of yours?”

I nod. “Her grandmother gave the earrings to her before she passed away. She—my friend—still has one, but she lost the other on the beach at the start of summer.”

Clark heaves a sigh and rubs the back of his neck. “That’s tough, Prudence. I know exactly the earring you’re talking about, and yeah, Lila did sell it to me, but … it already sold. I didn’t have it in the case for more than a couple of hours before it was snatched up.”

Disappointment sinks in.

“I was surprised, too—being just half the pair, you know? But the woman who bought it said she was gonna use it for a necklace pendant, I think. And it was a nice piece. Vintage. Quality diamond.”

“Could you tell me who bought it?”

He frowns and strokes his beard. “I don’t know her name. She comes in here every once in a while, but I’ve never had much of a conversation with her. I could maybe check back through our records, but … no, you know what? I remember now, she paid with cash, so I wouldn’t have her name anyway.”

“Cash? But it was pretty expensive, wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t cheap. But our customers, you know, it’s not that strange for someone to pay with cash. Either way, I’m really sorry. If she comes in again, I can see about getting her name and some contact info. Maybe your friend could work something out.”

I’m tempted to tell him that, legally, she’d be obligated to give the earring back, but … that doesn’t really matter right now. I may never find the woman. I may never find the earring.

I feel like I’ve failed Maya, and despite how much I’ve tried to justify what happened, I can’t help but feel partially to blame for the loss in the first place. This feels like cosmic injustice, the exact opposite of what I wanted. Jude may not have deserved Maya’s saying mean things behind his back, but Maya didn’t deserve losing her beloved heirloom forever, either.

At least, that’s how I feel.

And if the universe feels differently, well, I’m beginning to wonder whose side it’s on.

THIRTY-SIX

“Success!” Quint hollers, charging toward me, a sheet of paper in his waving hand.

We’ve been buzzing around downtown Fortuna Beach all afternoon, since Quint finished up with his morning shift at the center. I’m waiting for him on a bench just off the boardwalk, checking businesses I’ve spoken to off my list. It’s been a busy day, going door to door along Main Street, telling people about the rescue center and the gala and asking for donations and sponsorships. Or—if nothing else—asking if they’ll let us put up an advertising poster in their window once we get them printed.

For the most part, business owners have been eager to join our cause. Sure, there were some who were quick to declare that they couldn’t afford to give any handouts, and some were downright rude about it, too, but by and large, the local businesses have been happy to help. People want to be involved, especially given the publicity the beach cleanup and seal release garnered. I’m convinced that, money conundrums aside, this is the perfect time to be hosting the gala and capitalizing on the progress we’ve already made.

This has been just the distraction I needed after my trip to the pawnshop. Every time I find myself with a quiet, idle moment, my mind goes straight back to the envelope of money in my bag, and the family silverware that will never again be placed on our Thanksgiving table.