“If she gets bored, I’ll send her home.”

Nodding, I slip the glasses into my pocket and hurry after my father. At first I don’t see him and feel a mild panic as I look from the square to the road. And then there’s the ocean, which could be dangerous for a man who may or may not remember its dangers, which doesn’t speak well for said man living a single staircase away from the ocean and possibly being able to wander there in the middle of the night. I’m wondering if Anne has taken precautions against that—if she has the doors alarmed in a way that would alert her to one opening in the wee hours—when he appears on the far end of the parking lot, apparently having taken the pergola route around.

“Dad!” I call, running to catch up. “Wait.”

He actually slows down and lets me catch up. “Thought you’d never get here,” he says in a crusty voice that makes me smile. It’s a memory-waker, that voice. And while not all the memories are good, the straight shot back to my childhood is impossible to avoid in this place.

“They’re nice guys,” I say as I fall into step beside him.

He clicks his tongue. “They charge too much. They charge me more because of who I am.”

“Really? But they keep the grounds around the house looking good,” I say in an attempt to appease. “And we do need to do something about the erosion problem.”

“It’s called bluff retreat,” he lectures. “The waves come in higher each storm. When they retreat, they take more of the bluff with them. Bluff retreat,” he repeats in a shout, then waves a dismissive hand. “The state sends letters about beach restitution, but I’m not hauling sand to my beach. All we need is a little vegetation to dry out the bluff soil and hold it in place.”

I am astounded by the coherence of his speech. It’s the most he’s said at one time since I arrived, and other than restitution where restoration should be, it makes sense.

“Then we should put some in. I’ll bet—” I was about to say that I’d bet Jack could advise us on it, since the Sabathian side of the bluff, with its plantings, was faring far better than ours. But mentioning the Sabathian name might set him off.

“Bet what?” he asks, sending me a sharp look. He knows what I was going to say. The man is astute that way, and that’s the good and bad of it. He knows what you want. But then he does what he wants.

I revise my thought, deleting the Sabathian name. “I’ll bet it wouldn’t cost much to have the Hartleys do it.”

“We can do it. Nothing to it. You buy a plant, dig a hole, drop it in. Unless you’re afraid of physical labor.”