“Annie,” I chide.

“He is,” she accuses.

“No,” I insist, but her metal chair is already scraping back on bluestone, and in seconds she is striding toward the truck.

Bill has turned to watch her, a raised hand frozen midair. He clearly doesn’t know what to do.

I do. Catching Joy’s eye as I get up, I gesture at the empties on the table. “Put these in the trash, babe, and take Papa to the salt pond?” I point to a break in the trees. “It’s just down that path. Sunset there will be gorgeous. Let me talk with Anne.” She barely nods, when I take off.

“Wait up, Anne,” I call. My flip-flops slap the heels of my feet as I trot across the gravel lot toward the truck.

She whirls to face me, arms folded, face tight. In her emotion, I see the intensity of Margo, the anguish of Mom. But Anne is so laid-back. At least, that’s how I always saw her. Was it true? Or did I simply want it to be?

“You came back for him,” she repeats the charge, green eyes granite-hard.

“I came back for you.”

“You came back because he’s feeding you lies, and you believe him.”

“That’s not true. I came back for you.”

“But he was the one who got you back. Nothing I said all those years could do it, and I tried, Mallory, I tried until I finally gave up.” Her eyes well, and therein lies my younger sister, the sweet one, the naïve one, the one who wore vulnerability just under the rose-colored glasses. “Why did you come back? What is he telling you? Is he turning you against us?”

“No. No. Annie, listen to me,” I cry, clutching the hem of her tank in an attempt to connect us one way, at least. “You’re my sister. You’re why I’m here.” I want to touch her but am afraid she’ll pull away. That would hurt me more than the sight of her tears. My own eyes may be dry, but my heart cries. “I came back because Jack was blunt about Dad. He said I was dumping it all on your shoulders, and he was right.”

She doesn’t blink. “I told you about Dad. I told you his memory wasn’t good. I told you his moods were up and down.”

“But you kept saying you had it under control.”

Her eyes widen. “So it’s my fault you stayed away?”

“No, Anne,” I sigh. “No.” Taking the risk, needing to attach us somehow, I cup her shoulders and look into her eyes. “It’s my fault. It was easier to stay in New York. Easier to believe what you were saying. Easier to look the other way.”

“Yeah, looking the other way, straight at Margo. I’m all alone here, and you two are ultra-close.”