I shake my head, and focus on the waves. Their rhythm is a lullaby—sweet, soothing, elementary—that takes me back in the best of ways. And I’m definitely back there when I feel Jack’s foot brush mine, warmth in the night chill as he shifts his legs. Was it accident or intention? I don’t know. But I don’t move, barely breathe. That one glancing touch brings so many memories that I’m momentarily engulfed.

“Your father knows.”

Pop. The bubble bursts. Convinced that I imagined his touch, I turn my head so that my cheek rests on my thigh. His face is in profile—the nose that is too sharp for beauty but so reflects his manner as to be laughable—his bearded jaw, chin, and upper lip—the protrusion of his brow that tells of a frown.

He turns to me, fully rational and in control. “He knows what happened that night. If we assume my mother’s dead, he’s the only witness left. That’s another reason I called you. He’s losing it. Someone needs to get the truth out of him before it’s gone.”

So. His major concern when he called me in New York wasn’t the gun. The gun was an excuse. His worry is that the way things are going, my father’s mind will shrivel up and crush everything inside, just take it right away. He’s thinking Alzheimer’s, too, I know he is. And I want to discuss this with him. But we’re already in agreement here. He wants answers about his mother; I want answers about mine.

I try to think how to approach my father. “It’s a sensitive topic.”

“It needs to be done.”

“Anne is protective.”

“Anne is overprotective.”

Which means I need to work directly with Dad. “He puts up a wall when I’m around. I’m walking on eggshells.”

“It’s just asking questions.”

“He doesn’t like questions, especially intrusive ones.”

“Would you rather he take it all to the grave?”

“Of course not.” I want to know whether my father loved my mother, whether he loved me, and if not, why not, and he’s the only one who can say. “I just have to figure out the best way to do it.”

“Time’s running out,” Jack warns.

“I know.”

“So do it. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

It isn’t why I’ve come. I’ve come for Joy. At least, that was the premise. But seeing Dad again, seeing this place, even being here on the beach where so many watershed moments occurred, I feel a deeper calling. Yes, it’s about retrieving the past.

“Mallory,” he says in the forceful way he always had.

“I will.”