I can ask around for contact information, at the very least the town in Florida where she lives.
But no. I can’t. Not without stirring up dust.
I’m trying to come up with a plausible excuse for asking someone in town about her, when my cell rings. Seeing a Rhode Island area code, I answer with care. “Hello?”
“Mallory? It’s Paul. What a treat to hear your voice. Visiting in Bay Bluff, are you?”
My caution vanishes. His voice is as warm as my memories of him. “I am. It’s overdue, I’m afraid. But I hadn’t seen Dad in a while.”
“Is he all right? I mean, other than the usual?”
“Yes, he’s fine, other than that.”
“Are you here with your daughter?”
“You know about her?”
“Of course. I see your father often, and what he doesn’t tell me, Anne does. It’s Joy.”
“Yes, and true to her name. She’s been wanting to spend time with Dad. I figured we should do it before he gets much worse.” My voice thickens with concern. “Can we talk in person, Paul?”
“Not today. I’m sorry. I’m not in Bay Bluff. I bought a placein Lenox a few years back. The Berkshires are different from the shore, and then there’s all the music here.”
Another memory returns, making me smile. “You love music. Longhair Paul. We used to tease you. I’m sorry for that. I love classical music now. So does my daughter.”
“Both of you? That’s good to hear. And yes, I’d like to talk in person. I’m driving home tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”
We agree to meet Monday for a late lunch in downtown Westerly. By that time, I reason, Mike Hartley will be close to finishing the bluff plantings, Joy will be with Jack or Anne or Margo, and Lina will be with Dad—all of which leaves me free for a clandestine meeting.
When I return to the living room, Margo is on the sofa, exactly where I left her. Her legs are crossed at the knee, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on Dad as he does his puzzle. He is so intent on it, that I wonder if the focus is a concerted effort to keep his mind sharp. He doesn’t look up when Margo leaves the sofa and joins me at the door.
“Not a great conversationalist,” she whispers as we move into the hall.
“What else is new?” I hitch my head toward the stairs. “There are boxes of photos in the attic. Look at them with me?”
I’m halfway up when I realize she is lower, slower, studying the family shots on the turret wall. “Funny,” she says when I join her, “you take one family picture, and it’s a novelty. The next year, you add a second and see how the kids have grown. By the next year, there are three pictures, and it’s become a routine. By the time you get four or five, you have a tradition. Family pictures are heirlooms, way more valuable than anything money can buy.”
“You have them.” I’d seen them myself, there on her living room mantel.
“Mine are candids, even selfies now. I hated these posed ones.Elizabeth took them.” She frowns at me. “Why was Elizabeth always the one who suggested it?”
“Was she?”
“Dad couldn’t have cared less. Mom liked them. Maybe she did it for Mom?” Margo climbs to another photo. “Annie smiles in every one. Was she that clueless?”
“She was innocent.”
“Did she not see that our parents were unhappy together?”
“Eventually. Obviously.” I lower my voice—not that there’s anyone around—but still. “Margo, did Mom say anything else the night she was drunk?”
“Not drunk,” Margo replies, rising another step to study the next picture, “just tipsy. If she’d been full-out drunk, I wouldn’t give as much credence to what she said.”
“Tipsy then. Was there anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Like… well, maybe aboutwhyshe and Dad weren’t happy.”
