At least, that’s the theory.

But Joy isn’t into it. Having followed me into my bedroom, she is the dog with a bone. “He’s the only grandfather I have, and I’ve met him, like, three times? Is that fair? He could be dead this time next year. He could be dead this time next month.”

I begin folding my clothes straight from the basket.

“He could be dead this time next week, Mom.”

She isn’t telling me anything I haven’t told myself a dozen times since I saw my father last. But if I go home now, Margo will never speak to me again. If I go home now, Anne will expect that I’ll always go home. If I go home now, I’ll be subjecting myself to the godawful insecurity that I’ve worked so hard to overcome. I’m a capable woman—a good photographer, a good mom. I’ve built a life in New York. I belong here. Just thinking of Bay Bluff has me walking a tightrope again.

It isn’t your responsibility, is it? Jack Sabathian asked. Well, it is, Mallory. And for a minute, my conscience flickers. Where does conflict avoidance end and responsibility kick in?

But that was Jack speaking. He couldn’t begin to understand my dilemma back then, and he certainly can’t today.

Joy can. Giving her time to think about it, I go into the bathroom to wash my face. But suddenly hers is in the mirror with mine. Her skin is a little darker, her eyes green to my amber, her body leaner, though that could be her thirteen to my thirty-nine, or her love of kiwi versus my love of anything fried—like fried clams, of which the best, the best, were sizzled up fresh at the Clam Shack back home.

“Mom,” she calls with impatience, because she can see my mind wandering again and wants it on her. All maturity is gone now. She is my little girl, the daughter I chose to have when it was arguably a selfish thing to do, the one I love more than life and whose mental well-being is key.

“I want to go,” she insists, falling back on the one argument she knows will prick me. “My father is just a number, meaning no grandparents or aunts and uncles or cousins from him, so your family is all I have. I’m them—this hair, these eyes. And I love the beach. I want to go, Mom. Is scooping kitty poop really more important than that?”

Chapter 3

Rain can be a nightmare for me. It isn’t so bad when I’m photographing a high-rise condo, but when it comes to a freestanding home, curb appeal counts. Downpours can depress even the most elegant property, often in ways Photoshop can’t fix.