Frank helps me cover my boat—my dead father’s boat, named after my dead mother—and we head to the clubhouse for a coffee, then a Bloody Mary, then a pitcher of local brew and a basket of steamers. By two o’clock, two sheets to the wind, I cave to Frank’s insistence that the community do something nice for our family—to show support for what we’ve been through, he keeps saying.

“Everyone feels so bad, you know? The wives. Everyone.” He leans toward me. “I’ll let you in on a trade secret. The sooner you let ’em do something, the sooner they’ll drop it.” Well. This makes sense. The casseroles, the condolences. By forcing meatloaf and favors upon us, concerned friends have made themselves part of the story: a tragedy worthy of legend, a rumor that bears repeating. Frank misreads my smile, though, and says, “Am I right? Tell you what: We’ll let the girls put together a memorial—maybe a benefit for suicide hotlines or something—to show support and pay respects. You won’t have to do a thing,” he insists. “Leave it to Bonnie and Elizabeth. They love that stuff.”

“You don’t know Elizabeth,” I say.

“The hell I don’t. I know women.”

The hell he does. “So, listen,” I say. “Just out of curiosity—I’m not selling today or anything—but just for kicks, tell me about that buyer.”

26.

“That’s really weird, Dad,” Jonah tells me back at the house.

“It is so weird,” Elizabeth echoes. “Why do they care? They didn’t know him.”

“No, but they know us,” I explain. “They care about us. I thought you’d be touched.” Truth be told, the party made more sense when Frank sold me on it. “It would be healthy to change up the mood around here. We’ll celebrate Nick’s life.”

“The funeral was yesterday, Dad. You weren’t so thrilled about celebrating him then. Some of us need more than twenty-four hours before we can fake a celebratory mood.”

“Please,” Elizabeth says. “We’re all so tired. Robert, your idea is weird, and I don’t get it, but if you and Jonah want to plan it, I won’t try to stop you.”

Jonah starts to explain why he’s out, but when I tell him about the fundraiser part, and how we could make a big donation in Nick’s name somewhere, he relents.

Elizabeth says, “Just know: I’m not cooking.”

“Me neither,” says Jonah, who has never been expected to cook in his whole life.

I say, “Good. Because the whole point of this thing is to let our friends do something nice for us—because they want to.”

Elizabeth laughs. “In our house?” She shakes her head. “The real centerpiece of this party will be morbid curiosity, mark my word. But whatever. Oh, and I’m not arranging flowers.”