“Can’t we stay longer?” Joy asks that night. She has taken over Jack’s guestroom, which would have looked as sterile as so much of the rest of the house, if, within minutes of her retreat there, she hadn’t scattered her belongings around. It’s deliberate. She’s already told me that she hates Jack’s ex-wife’s taste.

“I have to work,” I say, clearing the bed enough so that I can pull back the duvet. “This job has been on the books since before we left.”

“But I like it here, and Teddy and Jeff aren’t leaving ’til Sunday. Can’t you put the job off until Monday?”

“Nope.” Propping up the pillows, I wave her in. “The client runs a business out of her townhouse, so a weekday won’t work.” I rummage around for the Lois Lowry.

“Then leave me here for the weekend and come back Monday.” When I dart her a doubtful look, she says, “Or Margo can drive me back?” As I snag the book from the easy chair, she suggests other options. “Or she can put me on the train in Providence and you can meet me at Penn Station, or I can take—”

“You are not taking an Uber or anything else.” Sidestepping Guy, who looks to be asleep on the bath towel Joy dropped on the hardwood floor, I climb onto the bed.

“Well, then,” she tries sweetly, green eyes wide with possibility, “I can stay here until you do come back. Wouldn’t that work? I mean, we discussed the possibility when we first decided to come—”

“You discussed it,” I remind her, but gently. Despite the dread I felt before we came and the angst we’ve experienced here, a tiny part of me doesn’t want to leave. Sensing that a stiff upper lip is needed for both of our sakes, I say, “I gave you the week, which was more than I wanted.” Had we left last Sunday as I initially planned, I wouldn’t have had a chance to reconnect with Jack. Life would have been simpler then.

Joy sits cross-legged with her hair in a mess around her face and, taking my hands, positively beams. “But aren’t you glad you stayed? Think about it, Mom. If we’d left last Sunday, we’d only have had to come back for the funeral, and then you’d have missed those last days with Papa.” Her smile fades. “And with everyone else.” She grows worried. “What happened with Chrissie?”

“We, uh, had a misunderstanding. We’ll work it out.”

“It has to do with Paul, doesn’t it.” She isn’t asking, isn’t even letting her voice rise at the end.

“Indirectly,” I say but leave it at that.

When my silence drags on, her expression darkens. “Are you ever going to tell me?”