“I’m helping,” I insist, but I’m careful to keep my excitement from sounding like gloating. “It’s one less thing for you to have to worry about.”

“Yuh,” she drawls. “And you’ll tell Dad?”

“That’s the best part,” I gush, unable to hold it in. After too much frustration, here is a bit of light. “He and I were on the beach before we came here, and he was the one who raised it. He told me to do something. He actually complained that Mom hasn’t.” I don’t mention the paying part. I will happily pay. No doubt, Anne already does her share.

“He thought Mom was here?” Anne asks with a sorrowful glance at the front corner table. Dad is still hidden behind the paper.

“Just confused,” I say and put a confident hand on her arm. “I got this, Annie. You go back to work and cross one thing off your list.”

Returning to the table, I’m feeling good. I still have calls to make to Paul, who may be able to shed light on Elizabeth, and to Shelly Markham, who may know whether my mother had an affair. And Jack has his to-do list. But this is my first real sense of accomplishment.

My satisfaction lingers through breakfast as one table clears and another fills. When the screen door opens yet again, though, and I see my sister, my contentment fizzles.

It isn’t my younger sister. It’s the older one.

Chapter 17

Margo. Too chic in her blouse, stacked sandals, and capris. Too formal with her dark hair in an artful coil at her nape and her makeup just so. Too wide-eyed to uphold the rest of the confident image.

She glances quickly around Anne’s shop before zeroing in on me, by which time I’m halfway to the door. I want to be pleased that she’s come, but her presence here is as shocking to me as it is to her, if the dazed look on her face is any measure. It was her vow never to return, spoken aloud more times than I can count. Just yesterday, when she realized where I was, she was angry.

My whisper is urgent. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you?” she whispers back. Her glazed eyes have landed on Dad, who is studying his crossword puzzle. “I was on my way to the house when I saw your car. Omigod, does he look old.”

I understand her shock. Prior to coming here, I’d seen my father every few years, but for her, it’s been the full twenty. Memory freezes the past in ways that can be good or bad.

“He’s not well,” I tell her, “and it isn’t just his mind. He gets winded with even the slightest exertion, which he wants to ignore—”