“Thank you,” I say, clinging to the warmth of suede-soft gray eyes before he turns back to the bluff.

Returning to the house, I join Paul on the front steps, where I offer him the same out I offered Jack. “If you have to go back to work…”

He smiles sadly. “I’d rather be here. Tom is—was—a close friend.”

Was. The correction startles me, which is ridiculous, since that’s why Paul is here, since that’s why these flowers are here and why my sisters are not. How to process my father’s death? I feel so many conflicting emotions that I jump right up again, put a hand on the top of my head, and say to Paul, “Uh, uh, would you give me a minute? I mean, please don’t leave, but just, uh, just stay right here?”

“Of course.”

And I’m off, running inside and up the stairs. I need my camera, my security blanket, which waits, patient and steadfast, in the bedroom. Gripping it, I feel calmer. This is who I am when the rest of the world is in flux.

Outside again, I jog to the bluff to document the planting. Joy continues to add fertilizer and water to the hole in which the bayberry bush beside it will soon sit. She knows exactly why I’m doing this at this particular time. We’ve talked about my need for the Nikon. She has accused me of hiding behind it when I don’t want to mix with parents at school concerts. Bless her, though, she says nothing now. And Jack? After staring at me in mute sadness, he, too, goes back to work.

When I return to Paul, I’m more composed. Setting the camera down with its nose aimlessly aimed at a vivid blue hydrangea, I put my palms together and, feeling decidedly sheepish, press them between my thighs. “Sorry about that.”

Paul is easy. “I understand. You didn’t expect this when you left New York.”

I chuckle. “Nope.”

“For what it’s worth,” he says on a wry note, “I didn’t expect it either when we agreed to meet for lunch.” He grows serious. “I saw Tom every week. I probably should have come more often, but, well, there just wasn’t much to say. I’d tell him about a new case or about some gossip in the firm, but I don’t know if he wanted to hear it. He always knew who I was. But there were times, especially lately, when he barely acknowledged me. It was anger. He didn’t like the man he’d become, and I exemplified the one he used to be. Lately, if I lasted here ten minutes, I was lucky.” He pauses, then says, “So, was I coming to visit for him or for me?”