I’m about to return the phone to my pocket when I think of Chrissie. I could text her, too. Or call. But I’m not ready for either. As hopeful as I’m feeling about other players in this drama, I’m still in the dark about her. Though family ties may fray, they never completely break, but friendship is different. We pick our friends. We can unpick them. Her lack of forthrightness gnaws at me. Granted, I’m super sensitive right now. It’s possible she’s a scapegoat for my upset.

But overthinking won’t help that, either. I need time.

If the goal is creating new memories, a cookout on the beach works. Everyone chips in carrying things down from the house, cooking at the firepit, spreading blankets, and passing food around, but the real fun begins when the burgers and dogs are gone, the live dog is banished to Jack’s, and Margo’s boys take up with a soccer ball. Joy, who is no athlete, insists on joining in, and, taking pity on her, I do as well. Before long, we’re all playing. We tell ourselves that it’s a tribute to Dad, but it’s a way of letting off steam for sure.

Naturally, we end up in the water. It was often that way, this progression from sand and sweat to relief. Also, as it often was, by the time we’re toweled off back on the beach, the sun is nearly gone. The sky is orange-pink on the bluff behind and purplish on the horizon ahead, with finger-clouds of every shade in between. We sit comfortably around the fire, which has died to embers that are perfect for toasting marshmallows. When we were kids, this was one of our favorite things to do.

It’s different with Tom no longer the director. The fact of his fresh burial is just beneath the surface of our smiles, but the kids are faster to rebound. Given the eagerness with which Joy makes s’mores for every adult who wants one, I know she won’t forget this night.

Nor will I. It’s a moment out of time, one for updating the past in favor of the future. It’ll stand us in good stead once we’ve gone our separate ways again.

Once we’ve gone our separate ways again. Funny, how the subconscious can repress a single thought and then, when it pops up for half a second, not be able to push it back down. I have to be on the road back to New York by Friday evening if I hope to work on Saturday morning. That leaves only two more days here.