He darts her a quick glance before returning to me, like he’s right back where we were twenty years ago, just the two of us. “Sometimes people dream things up. They come up with bizarre theories to excuse their own failure.”

“Failure in what?” I asked more sharply than I should have with Joy right there, but I didn’t see failure in my father. He had been frantic when he returned to shore that night. He had sped to the dock and barely tied the boat before he was out and running along the shore, searching for Elizabeth. He was shouting for the rest of us to come, desperate to get as many people looking as possible. He had been so upset that, of course, my mother and sister had assumed the wrong thing.

“Failure in life,” he accuses. “Failure in love.”

Joy is looking back and forth, confused.”What is he talking about, Mom?”

I suck in a deep breath, needing a moment and trying to make it look casual. I can’t believe how quickly this has surfaced. But then, I’m not the one living in Elizabeth MacKay’s house with the detritus of the life she left behind. She was troubled. We all knew that. It was one of the few memories on which we agreed.

Chapter 5

Jack Sabathian has his mind set. I can see it in the lines between his eyes, which could as well be carved in stone. I won’t win this argument. The best I can do is to extricate my daughter and me from what will only grow more contentious the longer we stay.

That said, I might have glanced at my watch in feigned surprise and made a polite excuse about needing to see to my father or help Anne or unpack. But I refuse to feign anything in front of this man—refuse to be the apologist, especially since it was my peaceful reunion with the water that he disturbed.

Instead, I sing a definitive, “Oooo-kay, this is going nowhere.” Grabbing a handful of Joy’s sweatshirt, I pull her toward the stairs.

We’ve barely taken two steps, though, when she pulls free and turns back. “You’re a vet, right?” she asks Jack, just to let him know she knows, because she doesn’t wait for an answer. “Can I work for you?”

“Joy!” I cry, beside her again. “Let’s go.” I hook an arm in hers, but she won’t budge, simply turns wounded green eyes on me.

“I’m serious, Mom? If I was in New York, I’d be working at the shelter. What’s the difference?”