The question hangs there, but I’m distracted watching her. She sets the plates down before a Vineyard Vines pair, and wipes her palms on her apron while they talk. From there, she turns to clear a nearby table whose occupants have left. She certainly seems to know what she’s doing.

My father hasn’t answered.

Again, I repeat the question. “Is liability a problem?”

“What does Anne say?” he asks—and it strikes me that he doesn’t remember the law. Too quickly, he adds, “She’s only helping until the other one comes.”

Well, that does make sense. It also raises an issue I want to discuss. “I met her—Lily—outside. She must be in the kitchen by now. Amazing how much she looks like Elizabeth.” When he doesn’t react, I ask, “Do you know why she’s here?” I’ve heard Jack’s thoughts. I want to know his.

“Why do any of them come?” He grapples with the question. “She needed a job. For summer. I think she has something else for the fall.” It’s another plausible statement, but in the next instant, he looks stricken. He presses his lips together and looks at me in desperation. He is clearly trying to remember what that something else is.

“Is her family struggling?” I ask.

“Struggling?”

“With money?”

“I think. Yes.”

“Do you know why?” When his blues sharpened, I softened the question. “What do her parents do for a living?”

He draws back. “How would I know?”

His voice is too loud. I drop mine even more in the hope he will take the hint. “Do you know that she is Elizabeth’s great-niece?”

“Objection!” he bellows. “That is irrelevant to the point. The prosecution has no business raising it.”

I grasp his cast and say a hushed, “I know. You’re right. Question withdrawn.” To my relief he lets it rest. Truth be told, I don’t care what Lily plans for the fall. I care about making this man comfortable. Opting for distraction, I gesture at the plate before me. “Is this Joy’s breakfast?”

He regards the half-eaten avocado toast. “I believe.”

Taking the fork, I set to finishing what my daughter has left. Between bites, aiming for light conversation, I say, “I also met Lina. She seems nice. How did you come to hire her?”

He lifts the newspaper and, using his full right hand and the fingers of the left that are free above the cast, shakes it into its proper folds. When he has it right, he sets it aside. “Hire who?”

“Lina. Your housekeeper?”

“I know who Lina is,” he snaps but he doesn’t answer the question, seems to have forgotten that, too. Having settled the newspaper, his focus is on the kitchen.