“Walk. He needs the exercise. And if you want to put in plantings on the bluff, there are people who’ll do it cheaper than Mikey and John. I’m on top of this, Mallory.”
“You’ve talked with someone?”
“It’s on my to-do list.”
“Okay.” I can’t argue with that. “What about Joy?” She is on the far side of the room, again with a carafe in each hand.
“If she gets bored, I’ll send her home.”
Nodding, I slip the glasses into my pocket and hurry after my father. At first I don’t see him and feel a mild panic as I look from the square to the road. And then there’s the ocean, which could be dangerous for a man who may or may not remember its dangers, which doesn’t speak well for said man living a single staircase away from the ocean and possibly being able to wander there in the middle of the night. I’m wondering if Anne has taken precautions against that—if she has the doors alarmed in a way that would alert her to one opening in the wee hours—when he appears on the far end of the parking lot, apparently having taken the pergola route around.
“Dad!” I call, running to catch up. “Wait.”
He actually slows down and lets me catch up. “Thought you’d never get here,” he says in a crusty voice that makes me smile. It’s a memory-waker, that voice. And while not all the memories are good, the straight shot back to my childhood is impossible to avoid in this place.
“They’re nice guys,” I say as I fall into step beside him.
He clicks his tongue. “They charge too much. They charge me more because of who I am.”
“Really? But they keep the grounds around the house lookinggood,” I say in an attempt to appease. “And we do need to do something about the erosion problem.”
“It’s called bluff retreat,” he lectures. “The waves come in higher each storm. When they retreat, they take more of the bluff with them. Bluff retreat,” he repeats in a shout, then waves a dismissive hand. “The state sends letters about beach restitution, butI’mnot hauling sand tomybeach. All we need is a little vegetation to dry out the bluff soil and hold it in place.”
I am astounded by the coherence of his speech. It’s the most he’s said at one time since I arrived, and other thanrestitutionwhererestorationshould be, it makes sense.
“Then we should put some in. I’ll bet—” I was about to say that I’d bet Jack could advise us on it, since the Sabathian side of the bluff, with its plantings, was faring far better than ours. But mentioning the Sabathian name might set him off.
“Bet what?” he asks, sending me a sharp look. He knows what I was going to say. The man is astute that way, and that’s the good and bad of it. He knows what you want. But then he does whathewants.
I revise my thought, deleting the Sabathian name. “I’ll bet it wouldn’t cost much to have the Hartleys do it.”
“We can do it. Nothing to it. You buy a plant, dig a hole, drop it in. Unless you’re afraid of physical labor.”
I think of the miles I clock walking from our condo to the market to Joy’s school, the hours I spend in the gym, and the vacuum I push, the sheets I change, the dozens of shelves I wipe down to remove every last crumb each and every time Joy sees a single cockroach. Afraid of physical labor?
“I am not. I’d be happy to plant whatever needs to be planted while I’m here, and Joy would be glad to help. What you need to do is to make sure Anne is on board.”
He looks at me in surprise. I’m not usually as assertive with him. In this case, though, assertive is also practical, so I don’t take it back. And then, just as his eyes return to the road, my phone chimes. Joywould text, so I know it’s not her. Same with close friends. The realtors I work with know I’m away, unless it’s a new contact, which I wouldn’t want to miss. Lifting my phone, I shade the screen with a hand.
Margo? I re-angle the screen to make sure I’m seeing it right, but her name remains, which is worrisome. I’m usually the one who calls her, not the other way around, and the timing couldn’t be worse. If she’s calling, though, something may be wrong, so I answer.
“Hey. Everything okay?”
“Fine, great, actually, because I’m in the city. I thought I’d stop by.”
“In New York?” I ask in alarm and switch the phone to the far ear.
“Last minute girlfriend weekend. Joanie scored tickets toHamilton,which I missed when it was in Chicago, so the three of us just took off. Are you free?”
Free? Omigod. If she could see me now, she wouldn’t be pleased. Nor would Dad, if he knew I was talking to my sister. Granted, he’s focused on the road, trudging along in his boat shoes, one foot striking pavement, then the next. There’s a deliberateness to it, like he wants to be sure he does it right. Trying not to watch, I wander toward the trio of mailboxes to give myself, my sister, and my phone more room.
“I’m not in the city,” I tell Margo softly. “I’m sorry. How long will you be there?”
“Just the weekend. Where are you?” she asks, indignant, like we’d had plans and I stood her up. Had it been anyone else, I’d be offended. But this is quintessential Margo, imperious to the core.
I get a mirror attitude in the other ear. Dad has followed me over. “Who is that?”
Rolling my eyes, as if the caller is no one special, I say into the phone, “You’re leaving Sunday?”
