“It was later, when you were back home and still adjusting. Vance said it was late one night after he’d gone to bed. He woke up and found you in the kitchen with your notebook, writing the same thing over and over. Tell Tate about the baby.” She pauses, sips her tea. “You begged Vance to help you call Tate.”

“Oh.”

Ruth studies me, like she’s trying to decide something. “You know, Vance helped Tate get the harbormaster job.”

I write that down. “Why?”

“What you don’t know”—Ruth puts her hands out, palm up—“actually, it’s something Vance never told you . . . is that he’s kept in touch with Tate all these years.”

The information spins in my head. “Why?”

“He’s worried about that boy since you were both little. Alice too. Well, she did before”—Ruth pauses—“before she went downhill and couldn’t focus on anyone but herself.” Ruth presses her lips together. “But she’s sober now and lives here. You have that in your list, right?”

I nod because I’ve just read it.

“Alice used to bring him clothes from the Goodwill in Anchorage whenever she went because Bill couldn’t be bothered to keep the boy in pants that fit or winter coats without holes. Your dad made sure Bill got Tate to school when you two were real little and then later when you were teenagers.” Her lips quirk up. “Used to wake that boy up himself.”

My eyes open wide. “Dad did?”

“Oh yes.” Ruth sips her tea. “But when Tate left, Vance worried about him out there, all alone, so he found a way to get in touch.” She cups her mug with both hands, looks at me over the rim. “That was after he was already married to that horrible woman.”

I write it all down, and while none of it surprises me—especially the part about Dad helping someone, that’s just the kind of person he is—my heart is full. Dad also helped Tate because he knew how much I loved him. He did it for me too. The cramping in my hand pauses my writing, and I stop to stretch out my fingers, roll my shoulders and neck.

Ruth sighs. “Oh, Claire,” she says and touches my hand, her palm surprisingly warm and soft. “You’re trying, sweetheart. It’s just not easy, is it? For anyone, especially for you. But you’re trying.”

“What choice do I have, right, Ruth?”

“I don’t think you understand,” Ruth says.

Something I’ve written makes my face feel tight. “Dad met Tate’s wife?”

Ruth takes my cup and hers, turns to put them in the sink. “Only once,” she says, and I notice that she stands as though she carries a heavy weight across her shoulders.

“Is everything okay, Ruth?”

“I’ll be okay.”

My phone buzzes. “I should probably go. Thanks for the tea.”