I know little about his work. I never asked, and the timing is crazy now. But isn’t this a distraction, too? “Who is she?”
“Sara Donovan, married, three kids. A couple years back, we merged our practices. I cover for her when her kids are sick. She’ll cover for me now.” He wraps a hand around my neck, support of the first order.
“Thank you,” I say, clinging to the warmth of suede-soft gray eyes before he turns back to the bluff.
Returning to the house, I join Paul on the front steps, where I offer him the same out I offered Jack. “If you have to go back to work…”
He smiles sadly. “I’d rather be here. Tom is—was—a close friend.”
Was.The correction startles me, which is ridiculous, since that’s why Paul is here, since that’s why these flowers are here and why my sisters are not. How to process my father’s death? I feel so many conflicting emotions that I jump right up again, put a hand on the top of my head, and say to Paul, “Uh, uh, would you giveme a minute? I mean, please don’t leave, but just, uh, just stay right here?”
“Of course.”
And I’m off, running inside and up the stairs. I need my camera, my security blanket, which waits, patient and steadfast, in the bedroom. Gripping it, I feel calmer. This is who I am when the rest of the world is in flux.
Outside again, I jog to the bluff to document the planting. Joy continues to add fertilizer and water to the hole in which the bayberry bush beside it will soon sit. She knows exactly why I’m doing this at this particular time. We’ve talked about my need for the Nikon. She has accused me of hiding behind it when I don’t want to mix with parents at school concerts. Bless her, though, she says nothing now. And Jack? After staring at me in mute sadness, he, too, goes back to work.
When I return to Paul, I’m more composed. Setting the camera down with its nose aimlessly aimed at a vivid blue hydrangea, I put my palms together and, feeling decidedly sheepish, press them between my thighs. “Sorry about that.”
Paul is easy. “I understand. You didn’t expect this when you left New York.”
I chuckle. “Nope.”
“For what it’s worth,” he says on a wry note, “I didn’t expect it either when we agreed to meet for lunch.” He grows serious. “I saw Tom every week. I probably should have come more often, but, well, there just wasn’t much to say. I’d tell him about a new case or about some gossip in the firm, but I don’t know if he wanted to hear it. He always knew who I was. But there were times, especially lately, when he barely acknowledged me. It was anger. He didn’t like the man he’d become, and I exemplified the one he used to be. Lately, if I lasted here ten minutes, I was lucky.” He pauses, then says, “So, was I coming to visit for him or for me?”
Though his confession suggests the latter, the little I rememberof Paul argues for the former. He always struck me as selfless, in stark contrast to Tom. Tom craved attention. He was the center of his world. Would he have appreciated the effort people made cutting flowers from their own gardens and driving them here? I’m not sure.
“He was a complicated man,” I say, looking out at the sea. It is still there, the sea is, always there and comforting in its constancy.
I feel Paul’s eyes on me before they shift away. “He had a good heart.”
I don’t know about that, either. But this is a time to remember the positive, or, at least, to try, and I do have the best of intentions. But Tom is gone, and here is Paul, who knew him well and may be our only source for answers. “He left questions.”
Paul looks at me again. When I meet his gaze, he sighs. “You mean about Elizabeth?”
“Yes. And his relationship with my mother.”
He considers that. “He loved your mother.”
Well, there is the matter of her adored peonies, which he wants on his casket. And he has certainly referred to her enough in recent days. But is that because I’m here, or because he feels guilty for not being a better husband, or, simply, because he only remembers things from the past, like the early days of their marriage?
“Did he?” I ask Paul, wanting his opinion. I do want it to be love. Totally aside from the anguish that finally led to divorce, I want some of what we grew up with to be real.
“In his way.”
I’m not sure what way that is. “They were divorced, so something clearly went wrong. What did he feel for her?”
Paul lifts a single brow. “Love, loyalty, fondness. Hate, distrust, obligation. Definitely complicated.”
Like my relationship with Jack, I think. But the thought is soon overrun by other questions. “Where did Elizabeth come in? Did you know that she and my mother were friends before either of them met Tom?” Yes, he knew that, to judge from the pinch of his mouth. “And then, twenty years ago? What happened that night?That.Night. Somany questions there. What was Elizabeth’s frame of mind when they went out on that boat? Her business was tanking, wasn’t it?” As her lawyer, Paul would know,doesknow from the distress on his face. But he may not feel free to tell me, and I don’t want him to leave, so I rush on. “Margo remembered hearing a gunshot that night. Dad swore he didn’t have a gun. We now know that he did. But did he have it back then? And if so, did he use it? Did she?”
We weren’t on the boat. We can’t know for sure. After hearing everyone else’s opinions all these years, though, I want to hear his.
But not yet, I realize with a jolt. Not. Yet. Right now, right here, I have a window. Margo and Anne are in town, Jack and Joy are on the bluff, and we’re alone, Paul and I. Here’s my chance.
“There’s something personal,” I begin, “and it’s probably insane, but if anyone would know, you would, and I may not have time again to ask.”
His expression softens with the kindness I recall. “You’ll have time, Mallory. I’m not going anywhere.”
