“She’s a good cook,” I tell my father. “Well, for eggs. She takes after me when it comes to the rest, which is meh.” I wait for him to scold me for that. He believes women should cook. Actually, scolding would be better than no reaction at all, but no reaction at all is what I get. He is … I have no clue where.

Margo returns. “The toothpaste was on your dresser, Dad,” she says off-handedly, as if someone else had put it there, which we know isn’t the case. “I put it back in the bathroom.” Retrieving her coffee, she takes a seat.

Nope, not another word from his mouth, I tell her with a disheartened look.

“At least the rain stopped,” she tells Dad, then me, “it’s gorgeous out, a good day for planting. What time is Mike coming?”

“Nine,” I say.

No reaction from Dad, though it’s certainly another opportunity for him to scold. If he has forgotten giving me permission and only remembers not wanting to pay someone else to do what he thinks my mother should, that would be something. But he remains unconnected. Maybe he’s picturing Sunny Side Up and expecting us to take him to the square? I remember Anne telling me of the time he went down in his pajamas. I hope he doesn’t plan on doing that now. Then I wonder if he plans things at all, or if they just happen with the random shift of thought.

“Wait’ll you taste my eggs, Papa,” Joy calls from the stove. “They’re delish.”

And they are. She has added spinach, cheese, and the last of the grain salad from Saturday night. It’s our favorite way of disposing of leftovers, our composting cuisine, and while an occasional creation doesn’t work, today’s does.

Between bites, Joy describes our most notable egg failures with grand distaste, but her eye is on the clock. At five before eight, she goes to the window in the dining room to check the front drive. Margo starts to ask. I gesture her silent, but that game is done when Joy shouts, “He’s here! I’m going.”

I rush to the front door, only to be hit by ocean air and screen when she is halfway down the walk.

Margo is beside me. “Who is that?”

The car is black. Thanks to the rain, its newness shines.

“Jack.”

Having pulled up at the end of our walk, he leans across to open the passenger door.

“Driving a Tahoe? Not his usual clunker?”