“That was different.” I feel an immense loyalty on my mother’s behalf. “I can wonder all I want—it’s my life, my identity—but they have no right to do it. She was a beautiful person who was stuck in a lousy marriage.”

He grunts. “Yeah, well, seems like everyone is lately.”

“That’s not true. My best friend in New York has a great marriage, in part because her parents had a bad one. She consciously decided that history would not repeat itself.” The thought of Chrissie usually makes me stronger, but I can’t get past a certain vulnerability. In a small voice, I ask, “Roberto Aiello?”

“He was a good-looking guy. Tall, dark hair, tanned.”

“I don’t tan well.” But I do remember his hands. Large and knobby, they were showing my mother how to deadhead the rhododendron. I wince, look at Jack, and whisper, “Do you think it was him?”

A wave thunders in as I say the words, and as soon as they’re out, the breeze whips them off. Which is good. I don’t want them here.

But I do want an opinion, and Jack always has that.

So once the waves quiet, I prompt. “Jack?”

“I don’t know. But it would explain Lina staring at you—you know, if she was looking for something of him in your face.”

Needing to move, I splash my way down the water line.

“But hey,” he calls after me, “she could just be wondering. She could have heard the talk, too.”

Having a different father has always been my greatest fear. It’s the only thing that explains Tom Aldiss’s manner toward me. I’m not the first child of a troubled marriage who has wondered this. But seeing an actual face? Doing the math and realizing the timing works?

Jack splashes alongside. “It wouldn’t be a terrible thing.”

“It would. All those times he was at our house? Did he know? Did he look at me funny? Did he teach me how to deadhead the rhodies?” I look up at Jack. “Am I related to Danny? Did I even know his sister?”

“She was younger.”

“I don’t remember a thing. Did I deliberately not? Like, a defense mechanism?” I had an awful thought. “And what about the roofer? Did my mother adore him, too?”

“Mal—”

“Or the pharmacist? Mr. Hennessey? Omigod!”

Jack takes my arms in a soothing way. “Don’t believe gossip. Idle tongues wag.”

“But you know I’ve always wondered. You know I had doubts. Did you bring this up out of spite?”

His hands tighten. “No. Trust me. No.”

“So is the pharmacist still around? Or the roofer? Do I look like either of them?”

“You look like your mother, and Hennessey is around, but the roofer’s long gone.”

“And Lina Aiello is a widow, meaning Robert is dead. What do I do now?”

“You could ask your father.”