More confident with him on my side, I push Jack from mind and relax. “Sorry I’m late. I meant to get here sooner, but, well, vacation and all.” No lie there, though far safer than mentioning the search for a gun or time with Jack. “How’s your wrist?”

“Fine,” he says. But he is studying me like I’m the clue in a crossword puzzle that has him stumped.

“My hair’s a mess,” I try, explaining the ball cap. When we were kids, hats at the table were forbidden. In a place like this, though, I’m far from the only one wearing a cap. Ocean air? Humidity? Vacation? Skimming past the other hats, I spot my daughter. “Looks like Joy is keeping busy.” The words are barely out when she heads over.

His blue eyes actually soften. “She’s a good child,” he says, and again I hear fondness. Of all the things he doesn’t know in his current state, he should know this. Joy isn’t just a good child. She’s the best.

Leaning in to kiss my cheek, my best child scolds in a whisper, “I was worried, Mom. Like, I was starting to think something popped, you know, burst in your head and you didn’t wake up?” She straightens with her server smile in place and asks in a server voice, “Coffee?” Before I can reply, she has righted a clean mug from an unused place setting and is filling it to the top. She knows I take it black—just as I know, with quick remorse, that she worries when I’m not where she expects me to be. I’m all she has.

At least, I always have been. She has barely finished topping off my father’s coffee, when Anne waves her over, and she’s off—but not before bending to me and murmuring, “You need to tell your sister plastic straws are bad. I mean, where has she been? Didn’t she get the memo? She uses them like they’re air.”

Smiling, I watch her go. Anne may be part of the family she’s always wanted, but that doesn’t mean she gets a free pass, which actually raises another issue. “Is it legal for Joy to be working?” I ask my father.

He is frowning at the spoon in his hand. Grabbing the cream, I add some and gesture for him to stir. In the process of doing that, he seems to have forgotten the question. So I repeat it.

“Is it legal for her to be working?”

“Is that what she’s doing?” he asks back.

“Well, pouring coffee.” But I have to amend that when I see her turn from the window with a plated breakfast in each hand. “And serving food. Are there liability issues for the shop since she’s underage?”