“Did Jack hire a private investigator?”

“Yes,” I admit. “He wanted to know why Lily Ackerman is here.”

“She’s working for me,” Anne retorts. “That’s why she’s here.”

“Do you know that she’s Elizabeth’s grand-niece?” I ask, trying to sound curious, rather than confrontational. Daring a glance at my father, I find him staring at me. Listening? Absorbing? Understanding? Any of these things would be good. If he joins in the discussion, he may add to it.

“Of course I know,” Anne replies. “I’m not blind, and despite what you think, Mal, I’m not irresponsible.”

“I never—”

“She and I Skyped before I hired her—Skyped twice, because I saw what she looked like the first time and wanted to know more. I care about the shop—and the town—and my family. If I felt she was coming here to cause trouble, I would never have hired her. Can’t you trust me in this, at least?”

I reach across the table and grasp her forearm. “I do, Anne. But you need to trust me, too. I didn’t ask Jack to hire a private investigator. That’s totally his business.”

“But you’re texting with him. How long’s that been going on? I thought you and he were done.”

“We are done. He got my number to call me in New York, so now that he has it, he texts. We all text.”

“Not with an enemy of the family,” she declares in too loud a voice.

Leaning in, I lower my own. The other tables are filled with people Anne has to know, and though we’re outside, where the sound of a passing car mixes with cricket chirps, caws of crows in overhanging trees waiting for crumbs, and the distant surf, Gendy’s patio isn’t large.

“Jack is not an enemy of the family,” I say.

Anne makes a throaty sound. “He’s a pain in the butt. Didn’t I tell you that? He’s still living in the past. He wants someone to pay for his mother committing suicide.” The words barely settle on the table when she asks, “He’s going after Dad. It’s what he’s always wanted. Why else would he hire a private investigator? And don’t say it’s about Lily. Lily is as innocent as Joy.”

Dad, no longer looking at me, has finished his ice cream. After pushing the empty cup aside, he uses his napkin to wipe the small space where it was.

“Yes, it’s about his mother,” I tell Anne in an urgent whisper. “He never got closure. Her family won’t talk with him, and suddenly a relative shows up claiming she knows nothing. He wants to be sure.”

Anne sits back, pulling her arm free. Accusation is in her eyes and her voice. “You’ve discussed all this with him.”

I sigh. “He talked.”

“Is he why you came back?”