“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.”

I think of the miles I clock walking from our condo to the market to Joy’s school, the hours I spend in the gym, and the vacuum I push, the sheets I change, the dozens of shelves I wipe down to remove every last crumb each and every time Joy sees a single cockroach. Afraid of physical labor?

“I am not. I’d be happy to plant whatever needs to be planted while I’m here, and Joy would be glad to help. What you need to do is to make sure Anne is on board.”

He looks at me in surprise. I’m not usually as assertive with him. In this case, though, assertive is also practical, so I don’t take it back. And then, just as his eyes return to the road, my phone chimes. Joy would text, so I know it’s not her. Same with close friends. The realtors I work with know I’m away, unless it’s a new contact, which I wouldn’t want to miss. Lifting my phone, I shade the screen with a hand.

Margo? I re-angle the screen to make sure I’m seeing it right, but her name remains, which is worrisome. I’m usually the one who calls her, not the other way around, and the timing couldn’t be worse. If she’s calling, though, something may be wrong, so I answer.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

“Fine, great, actually, because I’m in the city. I thought I’d stop by.”

“In New York?” I ask in alarm and switch the phone to the far ear.

“Last minute girlfriend weekend. Joanie scored tickets to Hamilton, which I missed when it was in Chicago, so the three of us just took off. Are you free?”

Free? Omigod. If she could see me now, she wouldn’t be pleased. Nor would Dad, if he knew I was talking to my sister. Granted, he’s focused on the road, trudging along in his boat shoes, one foot striking pavement, then the next. There’s a deliberateness to it, like he wants to be sure he does it right. Trying not to watch, I wander toward the trio of mailboxes to give myself, my sister, and my phone more room.

“I’m not in the city,” I tell Margo softly. “I’m sorry. How long will you be there?”