Casually, like it’s just popped into my head, I ask, “Paul represented Elizabeth, didn’t he?”
His eyes fly to mine, faded blues alert. “Why do you ask?”
“No special reason. I was just thinking about her business, like what happened to it after she went missing.”
“Like?Like?I hate that.” I begin to fear I’ve lost him, when he mutters, “The thing shut down. It wasn’t worth much.”
“Ever?”
“Once. But a few bad moves killed it. Bad moves,” he repeats before seeming to catch up with the thought again. “She fell behind.”
“Did that upset her?”
He considers, then nods.
“Enough so that she would deliberately jump from the boat?”
“Boat?”
“That night. Was it suicide?”
He lowers his legs from the chaise and pushes himself up. Standing, he braces his good hand on his lower back and leans sideways to ease a crick. When he straightens, he is facing the bluff. Quietly, he says, “I don’t remember,” and turns tormented eyes my way. “Wouldn’t I remember something like that? She told me everything else. I’ve never been so close to someone.”
“You loved her,” I say, giving him permission to admit it.
“I loved her,” he repeats.
“Why didn’t you marry her instead of Mom?”
He considers that and shrugs. “She doesn’t want me. Besides, I want family. She wants work.”
That makes sense, given the way she treated her husband and son, but before I can ask more, he is on his way to the stairs. Witha foot on the first, he stops, considering the right side of the bluff, then ours on the left.
He gestures at ours. “Why is this side so bad?”
I remember his articulate discussion of beach erosion yesterday, but clearly he doesn’t. “That side has plantings to keep the bluff from eroding.”
“Why not this side?”
“Because… because it just doesn’t yet. I’m happy to do it. Would you mind?”
“Why in the hell would I mind?” he barks, that simply agreeing to the fix. I think of the analogy, plants-to-bluff like medicine-to-brain, but I have no time to raise it. His mood has shifted. He is already starting up the stairs, grumbling, “Why hasn’t your mother done it? Where the hell is she anyway?”
Ignoring his questions, I take the stairs at a trot. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“We can have breakfast here or at the square.”
He doesn’t respond, simply aims for the road. And yes, we can walk. Walking down is easy. But I remember how breathless he was yesterday on the walk back up.
So I run inside for my keys and, sliding quickly behind the wheel, start the car. Stopping several paces ahead of him, I lower the window just as he draws even with me. “Climb in, Dad.”
He seems startled to see me. Bending just that little bit, he squints. “Margo?”
“Mallory. Climb in.” He climbs in. “Seat belt?” I prompt.
But he either doesn’t want it or can’t process the request. “I tried to help her.”
