“Sure was,” says Ruth. “And the other was when he saw her kiss the boy.” She sips her tea. “Vance came over and paced a hole in my floor. He said he had no idea raising a teenage girl would be so hard.” Ruth is laughing—a rare occasion, but it utterly transforms her face, makes her eyes squint shut, her cheeks round.

“I told Dad he was the one,” I say, shifting in my seat when I think about how deeply I believed that, having to fight the feeling even now.

“Even back then?” says Harriet. “Skinny little Tate?”

I nod. “He said all he wanted was to live in Whittier.”

“That’s all you talked about,” says Ruth.

Harriet nods. “You never wanted to leave.”

I take a long drink of tea, let the sweetness roll around on my tongue. “What does Dad think about Tate being back . . .” I hesitate because something isn’t right; I sense it from the deep wrinkle in Harriet’s forehead.

Ruth covers my hand. “Vance died from a heart attack five months ago, but you’re working really hard to remember that.”

I inhale; yes, I know this, damn it. I dig my fingernails into my thigh. I have to know it.

“It’s okay, Claire,” Ruth says. “And Vance was thrilled when Tate moved back.” She pauses, raises her eyebrows, but the note card is sitting out on the table, and I’ve just read the bit about Tate and his daughter.

She continues, “Right before Vance died”—she coughs and blinks hard—“he said you’d all wasted too much time being apart. That everyone needed to be together again.”

“I have all of you,” I say.

Harriet touches my arm. “But you deserve to have everything, Claire.”

I read the line about Tate and his daughter, try to feel happy for him and ignore a terrible loneliness that expands into self-pity. But I keep reading the note card, and a piece of me falls away. Tears collect in my eyelashes, and I swipe at them, angry for this surge of emotion that makes me feel weak. I slide my glass to the side, turn to get Pete’s attention.

“Another one, Claire?” he calls.

“Whiskey this time, Pete.”

“Claire.” Ruth says my name low, a warning tone I remember from my childhood like it was yesterday. “Easy. You came to hear Alice and one of your students play.”

“Here you go, Claire.” Pete sets it on the table.

It’s gone before he turns to go. “Another one, please.” He gives Ruth a wary eye, so I tap the glass on the table once, hard. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but I can’t seem to stop myself.