“We got another mention in Time Out,” Britt said, showing them the item on her tablet screen. “‘Despite its quirky name, there is something magical about Ooh-La-La, with its irresistible fusion of French country charm, sleek modern design, and local offerings.’”

“I’d change that quirky name if I could,” her mother said. “But it stuck, and we’re stuck with it. I came up with Ooh-La-La back when I was a silly girl.”

“You’re still a silly girl,” said Britt. “You’ll always be a silly girl.”

“Keeps me young. Okay, let’s focus. We need to make sure we have the go-to items. We want people to come in to browse around, and leave with something they can’t live without. The question is, what exactly is that something?”

“I think it’s going to be the glug jug again,” Britt said. “I know it’s nothing new, but they’ve got all those yummy fresh colors.” The pitchers, shaped like stylized swans and fish, made a distinctive gurgling sound when poured. They were last year’s bestseller.

“Did we order enough?” asked Cherisse. “And I’m wondering the same about the Laguiole corkscrews and champagne sabers. Ever since that article came out about genuine Laguiole from France being so much better than the knockoffs, they’ve been selling fast.”

“I think we’re good on cutlery,” Camille said. “The Lena Fretto pottery is going to be a winner, too. No one else carries that. Good job, Mom.”

Having a home-goods shop was both an art and a business. On the one hand, everything had to pencil out—the cost of the item versus the retail value. That was the business part. But on the other hand, each choice was very personal. What did people want to surround themselves with? What did they want to bring into their homes and use or appreciate every day? What did they want to share with their friends? Irish linen tea towels? Baltic crystal champagne flutes? Humble Mason jars that could be converted into birdfeeders?

The right choice meant excitement and profit. It meant happy customers telling their friends about that charming shop in Bethany Bay. It meant better terms from the suppliers. It meant the Adams and Vandermeer women got to feed their families and pay their taxes.

The wrong choice—that surefire hit that turned out to be a miss—meant sidewalk sales, the clearance bin, selling at cost. They tried to avoid being led astray by reps at the gift fairs Cherisse attended, but supply and demand was not an exact science. Occasionally, they got caught with far too many questionable yard ornaments. Even now, the sale rack had last season’s aebleskiver pans, absinthe spoons, asparagus tongs, and the carrot pencil sharpener they were sure no one would be able to resist.

They made some decisions about fall and winter buying, then concluded their meeting with a calendar of events for summer.

“You should do a meet-the-artist evening at the shop with Lisette’s pictures,” Britt suggested to Camille. “Who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone.”

“What part of ‘no more dating’ did you not understand?” asked Camille. She did like telling people about her work, the photos she printed from found film. Back when she did her own photography with vintage cameras, her prints were bestsellers. That was all in the past, though. She didn’t have the heart to take pictures these days. “I’ll look at my calendar and get back to you.”

They left the coffee shop and crossed to the Marina Park, where Britt’s husband, Wylie, was watching their two little ones, Zoe and Van.

“Mommy!” The kids spotted Britt and ran to her, both clamoring to be swooped up.

“Hey, what about us?” asked Camille’s mother. “Our turn.”

“Grammy! Aunt Camille!”

Camille scooped up her niece, earning a snuggle. “I love how you always speak in exclamation points. You smell like an ice cream cone,” she said.

“Daddy bought us ice cream!”

“Right before lunch!” said Van.

She picked him up next. “You smell like a hamster.”

“I do? Cool!”

“How’d the strategy session go?” Wylie asked.

“We’re all set for summer.” Britt stood up on tiptoe and gave her husband a kiss. “Thanks for watching the rug rats.”

“Let’s do something this weekend,” Camille suggested. “If you’re not busy.”

Britt’s mouth turned down in a moue. “We’d love to, but there’s something on the calendar already. Playdates and soccer tots. Let’s aim for another time, okay? I’ll e-mail you.”

“Sounds good.”

They all walked together along the waterfront holding hands like cutout paper dolls. Cherisse sighed. “So freaking cute. I love being a grandma.”

“I love being an aunt. Easier than being a mom, eh?”

“You were easy,” her mother said. “How’s Julie doing?”

Camille’s stomach knotted. In a very short time, her sunny, funny daughter who’d never given her a bit of worry had become a problem child. “Not so easy. Spends all her time alone, doesn’t want to talk about anything. She seems really down on herself. I offered to take her shopping for summer clothes, but she said she hates shopping because she hates the way she looks.”

Cherisse dropped her voice. “She’s gotten awfully chubby.”

“Don’t you think I’ve noticed, Mom? Don’t you think she has?”

“I feel so bad for her. She’s such a pretty girl.”

“And how much do you think that helps?” Camille felt helpless, exasperated. “I’ve been trying to get her to stay active and eat right without giving her body-image issues. It’s a sensitive subject.” Mostly, she didn’t say a word, but kept junk food out of the house. Drinks other than water were a thing of the past. Cookies and carbs—no longer on the menu. Camille herself had lost five pounds trying to keep sweets and treats at bay. “Julie’s going through a rough time, and she’s smart enough to know it. She’s barely started puberty, while the other girls look like lingerie models. And even though I know it’s not all about looks, Julie wants to fit in. And I want her to be confident in who she is.”

“I understand,” said her mother. “You’re doing your best. I want her to feel good about herself, too. She’s at such a tough age.”

Camille nodded, her stomach tying in knots. When things weren’t right with her kid, things weren’t right at all. “I hope she has a better week. Honestly, she’s changed so much in the last six months. Not just her weight, but her attitude. She can’t stand school. Her friends don’t come around anymore. Sometimes I think she can’t stand me.”

“She’s a teenager. That’s her job. How about sending her over to the shop tomorrow after school? I’ll spend some time with her, and bring her to the house for dinner.”

“That sounds good, Mom. Thanks.” Camille was grateful, but that meant an empty night for her. “Every once in a while I think about what life will be like once Julie’s on her own. Who’ll keep me company then?”

“You don’t want to know my answer,” her mother reminded her. “Camille, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Drake, but—”

“I know. I know.” They’d had the discussion too many times to count. Camille’s independence had become a sort of isolation. “Okay, maybe I’ll get a dog. Or wait, a cat. Less of a commitment.”

“Maybe you could quit waiting for the perfect guy to come along and stop holing up in your darkroom,” her mother suggested.

“I like holing up in my darkroom.”

“And I like the idea of all my daughters having wonderful, fulfilling relationships.” Her mother brushed Camille’s hair back, the way she had ever since Camille was a little girl. “Sorry, I’ll lay off. Isn’t that Stan Fenwick?” Cherisse shaded her eyes and faced the picnic area. There was a family of five gathered around a table, enjoying a picnic in the sunshine. The sound of their laughter and chatter drifted on the breeze.