“Should I?”
“Did she call you ahead of time?”
“Why would she do that?”
“Maybe just to let you know.”
“Why would she do that?” he repeats, but he is growing agitated. Not wanting him to raise his voice again, I let it go.
That is when Anne stops by. She is nearly as colorful as Joy, though her eyes are nowhere near as warm. “Everything all right here?” she asks. Always an open book, my sister, I see concern for Dad and annoyance for me.
Ignoring it, I say a bright, “It is. I love your place.”
She relaxes some. “So do I. So does Joy. Is it okay if she hangs around?”
“Uh, sure. If you’re good with it.”
“She knows how to pour coffee,” she says but apparently hears something in the kitchen and turns to leave. “You okay, Dad?”
He waves her off with a hand.
She is no sooner gone when two men approach. They’re Dad’s age, but while he is more formal in a pressed shirt and khakis, they wear tee shirts and shorts. I should know them, but the names won’t come, and when I glance at Dad, he’s rustling through his folded newspaper, clearly as clueless as me.
So I grin at the men and pray. “Hello.”
“Hi theya,” says the taller of the two with a distinctly coastal accent. Fisherman? Not at this time of day. House painters? Ditto. “Just want to welcome you back. It’s been a while.”
“Twenty years,” I admit and wince in both apology and invitation.
“Howard Hartley.” He hooks a thumb sideways. “My brother Don. We used to do the landscaping around your place.”
“Ahhhhh,” I say with a relieved laugh as memory returns. “The Hartley Brothers. Used to?”
“Our sons do the daily now.”
“Mikey and John,” I come up with, pleased with myself.
“They still go to your place.” He turns to my father and tips two fingers off his brow. “Morning, Judge.”
My father sets down the paper. “Howard. Don.”
“How’re you doing today?”
“Couldn’t be better.” He turns to me. “Aren’t we supposed to be back at the house?”
We aren’t. But I give him props for coming up with a plausible cause for escape. Not about to deny him, I reach for my camera. Then I have a thought. “The bluff is in rough shape. Have your sons mentioned it?”
Don answers. “Sure have. The state mentions it, too. You got those letters, didn’t you, Judge?”
If something came in the mail, my father doesn’t remember. Nor does he care to discuss it, says the irked look on his face. While we watch, he pushes out of the chair and strides off.
“Sorry,” I mouth to the men, but I’m thinking I need to follow him. He shouldn’t be out there alone. Seeming to understand, the pair melt away.
I gather my things, then pause. Do we pay? Do we not? Do we tip or not? The table looks bare without something.
“Go,” Anne murmurs. Her hands come around to remove our plates. “He’s my father. I don’t charge him. Take his glasses. He leaves them here every time.”
“Can he walk home, or should I take your car?”
