“Now. Feel the wind? And tomorrow, and the day after that? We didn’t bring anything for the cool, and besides, I’ll wear it back home.”

“You will not,” I remark. I don’t feel much wind now and, sure, wind can funnel down avenues in New York and fall comes in three months and winter after that. But once we’re back, she’ll think this tacky again.

“I will wear it. I love this place. It’s my roots.”

“Whose roots?” I tease, thinking hers are in New York. But that isn’t really true. In the deepest sense, her roots are here. Because my roots are here. So I’m wrong.

Oh, yes, I’m wrong. No parent is perfect. When Joy was a baby, I spoiled her, the result being a nightmarish terrible twos. Getting through it was a slog that lasted until she was five, but we both emerged on the other side a little smarter. She learned that when I say certain things a certain way, that’s how it is. I learned to hold firm when it really matters and to be flexible when it does not. A stubborn parent creates a stubborn child. A parent who refuses to admit a mistake creates a child who can’t.

Gracious in victory, Joy simply smiles. And again, I feel a twinge of pride, this time that she does like the place of my birth. Distracted by the pleasure of that, I take both sweatshirts and make for the cash register.

Too late, I realize my error. Behind it stands a man I’ve definitely seen before, and from the way he is looking at me, the recognition is mutual. I need my shades. But they’re hooked on the neck of my tee, and putting them on here, now, inside, would be a tip-off.

Since this isn’t a kid working a summer job, I’m guessing that this is Joe-the-owner. He is roughly my age and height, with an auburn man-bun and a sunburned nose. I’m struggling to place him, when he turns the same puzzled gaze on Joy, and it strikes me that he may see the family resemblance even more so in her. Joy has the same dark hair as Margo and Anne, the same forest green eyes, while mine are lighter on both counts. That said, we all have Mom’s heart-shaped face.

A name comes to me then. Joey DiMinico. He was Margo’s year in school, a fact that Anne failed to mention when she told me of the Joe who dressed Dad. Of course, he would find us familiar. He sees the twenty-years-older Anne every day.

This could be a problem, I realize. The last thing I want is for him to pick up the phone and call her before we get to the house ourselves.

“Just arrived?” he asks.