“Why in the hell would I mind?” he barks, that simply agreeing to the fix. I think of the analogy, plants-to-bluff like medicine-to-brain, but I have no time to raise it. His mood has shifted. He is already starting up the stairs, grumbling, “Why hasn’t your mother done it? Where the hell is she anyway?”

Ignoring his questions, I take the stairs at a trot. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“We can have breakfast here or at the square.”

He doesn’t respond, simply aims for the road. And yes, we can walk. Walking down is easy. But I remember how breathless he was yesterday on the walk back up.

So I run inside for my keys and, sliding quickly behind the wheel, start the car. Stopping several paces ahead of him, I lower the window just as he draws even with me. “Climb in, Dad.”

He seems startled to see me. Bending just that little bit, he squints. “Margo?”

“Mallory. Climb in.” He climbs in. “Seat belt?” I prompt.

But he either doesn’t want it or can’t process the request. “I tried to help her.”

I coast slowly down the hill with my foot on the brake. “Elizabeth?”

“She was upset. Upset,” he repeats as he searches for the next thought. “Afraid. She was afraid to lose everything. I had to help.”

“What did you do?”

He considers that, but either he can’t recall or doesn’t want to say. Hooking his elbow on the open window, he turns away from me and looks out.

“Dad?” So close. I know the answer is there. I want it. But he remains silent, and the square is in view. Frustrated, I try the Aiellos. “Seeing Lina yesterday got my mind working. I remember her husband, Roberto. Did you know him at all?”

He is silent so long I’m about to give up, when, without looking my way, he says, “Gardener.”

“Yes. Roberto Aiello.”

He does turn now, seeming puzzled. “Do I know him?”

He would, if the man had an affair with my mother—unless he didn’t know or doesn’t remember. But here we are, stymied again. Didn’t know or doesn’t remember. That seems to be the way on too many counts.

Frustrated, I pull into the lot and park. Once inside, we settle into Dad’s front corner table. Joy rushes over with coffee, which is some comfort. Anne rushes over with the newspaper. Lily rushes over with a menu for me. She already knows that my father wants bacon, eggs, and cinnamon toast, and I just double the order.

With a great rustle, he immerses himself in the paper. Around us, voices are early-morning low. Forks scrape on plates, teacups on saucers. The shop is half-filled, though a pair of young parents with toddlers arrive minutes after we do. Of the patrons already there, several faces are vaguely familiar.