Beside me, Paul is silent. But, of course, he knew the circumstances of Mom’s death. He had sent me a condolence note so thoughtfully written, so kind, so true to my mother that I cried over it. I still have it back in New York in the hand-painted box Mom gave me when Joy was born. She had meant it for things I wanted to keep for Joy, like the tiny band that circled her ankle in the hospital nursery, photos from those early years, and baby teeth retrieved by the tooth fairy. Now it also holds mementos of Mom herself, like the hoop earrings she wore the last time I saw her—and the very beautiful note from Paul. She didn’t envision my using the box for these, didn’t plan on dying so soon.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “She should not have died that way.”

“Not when she’d finally become someone she liked.”

His kind eyes are pensive. “I always sensed a restlessness in her”—he smiles fondly—“the proverbial bird in a cage. Was she finally fulfilled?”

“Very. More confident than I’d ever seen her. That’s one of the reasons I agonize. I could have asked her. She was in a good place. I kick myself for not doing it.”

“What about her will?” Paul asks. “Was there anything in it to give you a hint?”

I consider how much to say, but wills are in the public domain, are they not? “She left me more money than the others. The lawyer said she did it because I was a single mother, and my sisters were okay with that. So maybe that’s the only reason?” I ask, studying his face for a clue.

“Maybe,” is all he says, seeming mystified, too.

“Part of me wonders whether she did it because she figured Dad—Tom—wouldn’t leave me a cent—and if that’s the case, it’s fine,” I insist, lest Paul think me a gold-digger. “I have plenty of money. I don’t need his.”

Paul sighs. “I can’t tell you about that. I didn’t do his estate plan. Nate Yeager did. He’s in the firm. He’ll be in touch.”

In the ensuing silence, I hear Jack call out something about beach plum, then Mike shout something to Joy, but their words are swallowed by the surf. I’m thinking of taking up my camera again, when Paul says a quiet, “You look like your mother, you know.”

It is at the same time a most flattering and frustrating statement. “Yeah, well, that’s one of the problems. If I looked like Tom, we’d know.”

“None of you look like Tom. Your daughter is beautiful, by the way.”