Though his confession suggests the latter, the little I remember of Paul argues for the former. He always struck me as selfless, in stark contrast to Tom. Tom craved attention. He was the center of his world. Would he have appreciated the effort people made cutting flowers from their own gardens and driving them here? I’m not sure.

“He was a complicated man,” I say, looking out at the sea. It is still there, the sea is, always there and comforting in its constancy.

I feel Paul’s eyes on me before they shift away. “He had a good heart.”

I don’t know about that, either. But this is a time to remember the positive, or, at least, to try, and I do have the best of intentions. But Tom is gone, and here is Paul, who knew him well and may be our only source for answers. “He left questions.”

Paul looks at me again. When I meet his gaze, he sighs. “You mean about Elizabeth?”

“Yes. And his relationship with my mother.”

He considers that. “He loved your mother.”

Well, there is the matter of her adored peonies, which he wants on his casket. And he has certainly referred to her enough in recent days. But is that because I’m here, or because he feels guilty for not being a better husband, or, simply, because he only remembers things from the past, like the early days of their marriage?

“Did he?” I ask Paul, wanting his opinion. I do want it to be love. Totally aside from the anguish that finally led to divorce, I want some of what we grew up with to be real.

“In his way.”

I’m not sure what way that is. “They were divorced, so something clearly went wrong. What did he feel for her?”

Paul lifts a single brow. “Love, loyalty, fondness. Hate, distrust, obligation. Definitely complicated.”

Like my relationship with Jack, I think. But the thought is soon overrun by other questions. “Where did Elizabeth come in? Did you know that she and my mother were friends before either of them met Tom?” Yes, he knew that, to judge from the pinch of his mouth. “And then, twenty years ago? What happened that night? That. Night. So many questions there. What was Elizabeth’s frame of mind when they went out on that boat? Her business was tanking, wasn’t it?” As her lawyer, Paul would know, does know from the distress on his face. But he may not feel free to tell me, and I don’t want him to leave, so I rush on. “Margo remembered hearing a gunshot that night. Dad swore he didn’t have a gun. We now know that he did. But did he have it back then? And if so, did he use it? Did she?”