“I still have Grandmomma’s scrapbook, of all the news clippings that mention the Richardsons,” she whispered. Then, seeing me at once moved but unpliable, she tried one last tact. “We can’t go because there is no way I can leave.”

My Aristotelian mother, felled by circular reasoning.

“I’ll take the Limoges, Cricket,” I said, ceding the point that was easiest. “The barrel will make a nice side table.”

Her cell phone rang and she pulled out of my arms, looking sheepish, patting her tears away with her fingers. She answered, cautiously, wondering, as I was, who was next to collect, to rubberneck, to exploit. I doubted it was Uncle Danny, who’d been of no help; when Wallis had gone to fetch him, his assistant had in effect used her body to dead bolt his office door. Certainly not a relative, many of whom had stopped returning our phone calls, including Cricket’s own brother. Friends, too, had declined to text or, worse, sent vague, pandering emojis.

“Mac!” Cricket’s face relaxed against the telephone. “It’s Mac,” she explained to me. “Dear Mac.” Her attention was back to her old friend on the other end of the line. “Thanks for calling. Yes, we’re okay. Thanks for checking in. Yes, it’s been miserable. But we’re so looking forward to your wedding. It will be nice to see everyone, get our minds off everything for a bit.” I was about to leave, but her next words stopped me. “Yes, of course we’re coming. Did you not get our RSVP card? I know I sent it in.” Cricket cocked her head, clearly confused. She didn’t see the wave, not even when it was right on top of her. “We’re coming, Mac,” she said. “What is this—you don’t want us there?” She turned away from me, but not before I saw the crash. “Well, thank you for your concern about my feelings, but we still plan on attending.” Her voice, quieter now. “I’m sorry if you feel like our presence will be an embarrassment... No, that’s what it sounds like, Mac. Truly... Okay, then, fine. You’re fine with it. And so are we. We will see you in three weeks. Goodbye.” She hung up and faced me. “That was Mac,” she said, matter-of-fact.

“I got that.”

“Confirming the wedding,” she said.

“Maybe we should consider skipping it?” I asked, hopeful.

“And let him, and that twenty-eight-year-old cocktail waitress he’s marrying, win?”

“She’s not a cocktail waitress. She was his paralegal.”

“He divorced Louise for that bimbo.”

“That ‘bimbo’ went to Yale.”

“So there aren’t any bimbos at Yale?”

“If we skipped the wedding, it wouldn’t be because they won. It would be because we’re going through a lot right now, and it may be best for us to lay low.”