No. Not stalking. Or maybe, in a watered-down sense of the word. But a pathological stalker? No. If Chrissie Perez was that, I’d have seen other elements of psychosis in her, and I’ve never seen a one. We’re that close. Still, if this brilliant woman, this sensitive woman, this loving woman hid such a crucial fact from me all this time, what does that say about our friendship?

I need answers, but not with Joy listening. This is between Chrissie and me. And while Margo can’t possibly know what’s going on here, she has taken my daughter in hand. Again. And I’m grateful. Again.

So I remind Joy, “Your cousins are here, babe. They want you.”

Joy wants them, too, which is why her leaving doesn’t take any more convincing than that. But she doesn’t go before asking Chrissie, “Will I see you at the house?”

And how to answer that? Worst case scenario, Joy and Chrissie may never see each other again. I’m agonizing about that, when Chrissie tugs on the side braid that falls thick and vibrant over my daughter’s collarbone. “I may have to head right back, Joy. But somewhere or other I’ll catch you. Go, be with your cousins.”

When Joy gives her a parting hug, I realize something else. Chrissie is good at equivocating. She knows how to be vague in a way that sounds definitive but that doesn’t say a hell of a lot. A therapist does this. A friend should not. Chrissie could have told Joy she would see her tomorrow morning, or next week in New York, or next month at the Jersey shore, because Dante’s place is large. But any of those promises would lessen her options.

The evidence mounts. Right now it’s circumstantial, but I sense that’s about to change.

After Joy leaves with Margo, Anne and Bill linger at Dad’s grave watching workers fill in the rest of the dirt. Jack stands with Paul a short distance from us, and with the rest of the mourners heading for their cars, it’s Lina, Chrissie, and me.

“Why are you here, Mom?” Chrissie asks Lina, but she sounds confused, not accusatory.

“She’s Dad’s housekeeper,” I explain.

“Why are you here?” Lina hisses at Chrissie again.

I answer this as well, perhaps more sharply than I might have, but I’m in a rush to move past the preliminaries. “We’re friends in New York,” I tell Lina, though all the while I’m staring at Chrissie. I want her to know that I’m waiting. “She’s here to support me.” A beat passes. “Aren’t you?” I ask, hating the bitterness in my voice.

“That was the idea,” Chrissie says with a snort. “Clearly it backfired.”