Because, my adamant eyes answer Margo, I’ve tried convincing him but he refuses, and anyway, this isn’t the time.

Accepting that for now, she sits straighter and looks around. “This place is adorable. So, who do we know?”

Henderson has left without a glance at me, for which I’m very happy. “Uh,” I scan faces, “over there, Mr. Babcock.”

“My history teacher?” She passes over him before doing a double take, then, gawking, returns to me. “Ancient,” she whispers, but her gaze has shifted. It is now riveted on Lily, who is approaching a table with four breakfasts perfectly balanced, two per arm. “Who is that?”

I explain the relationship to Elizabeth, as well as how Lily came to be here, and neither of us holds back the eeriness of it. Jolting Dad to talk is the point. But he remains placid, his mind either elsewhere or empty.

Then Anne whips out of the kitchen and makes a beeline for us through the mosaic of tables. She leans close to Margo. “Can we talk? Outside?”

With an almost imperceptible nod, Margo gets up. When Anne gestures me to come, too, I hold back. They haven’t seen each other in nearly nine months, and I do know what’s coming. It’s the same indignant, why-are-you-here discussion Anne had with me. I don’t imagine Anne will mention being pregnant, so she doesn’t need me to support her in that. I figure I’m better off at this table, holding the fort with Dad.

But she gestures again, insistent now. I need you with me, her eyes say. She wants a moderator. After a quick look at Dad, who is blissfully unaware, I follow her out. Truth is, I have my own agenda. If Anne is abrasive, Margo may turn and leave. But now that she’s finally here, I don’t want that.

As it happens, Margo is quiet. When Anne asks the expected question, she isn’t belligerent. She seems torn, eyes avoiding ours and wandering instead to the base of the square. The shops are open now; a sprinkling of tourists walk from one to the next. The clouds I saw near the horizon at dawn are drifting closer.

Margo says, “I should have come a while ago.”

“Yuh,” Anne scoffs, “like twenty years ago?”

“I couldn’t then. But after Mom died…” Her voice trails off.

“Like since you lost one, you should go to the other? Like since you had Mom’s money, you should go after Dad’s, too?”

I put a warning hand on Anne’s arm, but her only concession is to lower her voice. The underlying rancor remains. “For what it’s worth, he left it in trust for the sake of the house.”