“The Millers have a niece who babysits. She took them to the dog park.”

I waited for an explanation. When none arrived, I shrugged. “Did Wendy acquire a dog and you’re taking care of that, too?”

“No, the niece has a dog. The girls lit up when Tina brought Oodles to meet them. They were so excited.”

I had never witnessed excitement from either of my nieces, so I was sorry I’d missed it. “How are they doing? More important, how’s Dad?”

“He’s wondering where your sister is. What have you heard?”

Mom hadn’t wasted time getting to Wendy, but I couldn’t blame her. “Nothing more than I’ve told you.”

“You didn’t tell me enough.”

“I told you all I could. And before you ask, of course I’ve tried calling her. But even her voice mail is down.” Down as in “disconnected,” something I didn’t add.

“And all she told you was that the problem was complicated, and she would get back to you?”

I didn’t answer directly. “I realize that’s not much. I’m sorry. I wish she’d walk in and tell us what happened. But she made it sound like that might not happen for a while.”

“None of this is like her.”

“So tell me how Dad is.”

“He has the same heart condition as Bill Clinton. You remember him?”

I didn’t laugh, although the fact she’d asked struck me as funny. “Not personally, no. But I did graduate from college, and I voted for Hillary.”

“Unless your father changes his lifestyle, everything will clog up again. When he said he had no intention of becoming a vegetarian, his cardiologist asked him if he had a will, and offered to call a lawyer.”

I whistled softly. “Hardball. What else?”

“Exercise. An absence of stress.”

I couldn’t imagine how we could pull off that last one until Wendy was home again and taking more responsibility for Gracey Group. I got to my feet. “It’s lunchtime. Will you let me fix you a sandwich? You can rest while I do.”

“It’s been so nice having Wendy nearby. I’ve been counting on her help with your father. I hope she resolves whatever the problem is quickly.”

I felt like something Mom had reluctantly fished out of the recycling bin, but I repeated my question.

“No, I’ll come with you, and we can get lunch ready for the girls, too. You’ll want to feed them before you take them back to the town house. You’ll be comfortable there. Wendy’s enjoyed it.”

When Wendy moved to Seabank from Connecticut, where she and Bryce own a showy Colonial, I wondered why. At the time neither of my parents were ill, so they didn’t need help. In fact, Wendy had claimed that with Bryce at sea, she was the one who needed it. Since she was traveling more for Gracey Group, she’d wanted my parents to keep the girls while she was away.

Instead of moving into their home in Gulf Sands, Wendy had asked if she and the girls could move into a roomy town house on the other side of Seabank that Dad owned as one of many investments. The town house, which commands a steep rent, was between tenants, so Dad had agreed.