We follow the path as it curves along the shoreline. Finally, he stops in the shade of a weeping willow. His hands are in his pockets, drawing back his suit jacket in what should be a relaxed pose. But he is tense. I see it in his face, his ramrod-straight back, even the set of his loafered feet.

He is about to speak. I can still stop him.

No. I cannot.

As he looks toward the waves, the past arrives. “I’ve known Tom for forty years. We met at a law conference in Boston and his mind was the best legal one there. People were always drawn to him for that. I was no exception. I want to say he was drawn to mine the same way,” he slips me a self-deprecating smile, “but he was more interested in the fact that I lived in Westerly. He vacationed here as a child, and it was where he wanted to settle. Our forming a law firm was a natural offshoot of that. We rented space and hired associates and were just getting off the ground when he signed papers to build the house.”

He darts me another glance to check that I’m still with him, willing to let him set the pace. And honestly, I thought he would blurt out a name as soon as we were far enough from the others. Yes, I’m impatient. But I understand his wanting to start the story at the beginning on this day of remembrance. Besides, there is something about his voice—a personal, heart-felt shade—that, while not quite hypnotic, slows me down.

“He was dating your mother then,” he continues. “The house was not yet finished when they got married, so the wedding was in Newport.” He smiles at that. “It was an extravaganza. Tom had lots of friends and even more acquaintances, and he wanted them all there. Ellie didn’t know them. But she did know me. I was her fallback. She kept coming to talk with me when the rush of faces got too much.”

“Was the marriage doomed from way back then?” I ask.

“Oh, no.” His eyes are sincere. “She was good with company after she got to know people. Once the house was done, they entertained often. Bless her, she always included me.”

“You were her rock,” I say, understanding it even more these last two days.

“Your Dad was too, in his way,” Paul insists. “He was solid. Predictable. She knew what she had to do to please him.”

“And when he started having affairs?” I ask. I understand Paul wanting to lead me gently toward my mother’s infidelity. But I also want to think she was provoked.

He raises one foot to the stone wall, leans an elbow on his knee, and circles one set of fingers with the other as he slides me a look of regret. “Not good. She was hurt. Angry.”