I needn’t have worried about infringing on Tom’s memory. His absence, even beyond those hallowed, hollowed cushions of his chair, is a stark presence in the house. If it isn’t his pen on the floor by the chair, it’s his glasses in the key bowl in the hall or his boat shoes parked side-by-side at the back door.

That said, even if these things hadn’t kept us subdued, caution would have. The truce between us is fragile. No one wants it broken.

That goes for Jack as well. I’m not sure how he ended it with Paul outside, but he is suddenly, solicitously, with us in the house. He runs to the market for cookout makings, then keeps the kids busy readying the firepit while my sisters and I prepare salads, chips and salsa, and trays of garlic bread, condiments, and s’mores makings.

Another time, Margo or I might have noted the stereotype of women in the kitchen, but given Anne’s career, we don’t dare. Besides, there is something soothing in filling a traditional role here together. There’s a sense of the torch being passed now that the last of a generation is gone.

More than once, I think of Paul, who was with us over the years for so many family gatherings. He is grieving for his friend. That should be reason enough to invite him to join us. But I’m not ready to reveal the other, and whether I can have him here without giving it away with a careless word or look is up for grabs. The last thing I want is to muddy the waters of this intra-family truce.

That said, I am sorry he’s alone. Finding a free minute, I slip off to a private part of the porch to phone him, then change my mind and text. It’s the coward’s way, I know. But I’m giving myself permission to be that for once.

Was he very difficult? I type. After sending it off, I return the phone to my pocket and am heading inside, when he texts back.

He says he loves you. Mutual?

As I study the words, I think about the irony of sudden honesty. But how to answer?

It is a minute before I reply. I always did.

Past tense?

Maybe present too. We’re different now. Figuring out what to do with these new renditions of us, homes and careers and all, isn’t easy.

Don’t overthink it, Mallory.

Fine for him to say. But how can I not? What happens between Jack and me impacts my daughter’s life.

Or maybe Paul is right.

Can we talk tomorrow? I ask.

Of course. I’m around.