So instead of looking at family photos, Josie placated her father by running as many errands as possible: she dropped a check off at the caterer, picked up black stockings for her aunt, took the funeral program to be copied, bought the liquor for the reception, and finally, when there was no other reason for her to stay away, turned off her cell phone and drove to the beach.

It was chilly, and she huddled beneath an abandoned life guard station to shield herself from the wind. She realized that she had, without thinking, driven to Butterfly Beach and then down to the beach below the Biltmore, the hotel where her parents brunched every Sunday. When she was little, she had loved going. She would eat chocolate chip pancakes shaped like animals while her parents sipped Bloody Marys, read the New York Times, and chatted with the other high-society regulars. When she was done eating, she was allowed to play on the sand below, and as long as she stayed where her parents could see her from their booth at the window, she could do as she pleased. She was used to playing alone, and usually she didn’t mind, but one morning she had wanted her father to come with her. He had been away on business for the last few weeks but, the Sunday before he had left, he taught her how to skip rocks across the calm ocean.

“Please,” she said, and tugged on his shirt. “I want to show you how good I am.”

At first he smiled and agreed, but then Josie’s mother interrupted.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” she said.

“Neither has Josie.”

Her mother looked at her father, and Josie knew that there was something more at stake than who her father chose to spend the next twenty minutes with.

“You can spend time with her when I go to play tennis; she can play by herself now.”

“Carol …” he said.

“Fine, do what you want,” her mother said, and raised the Arts section of the Times to cover her face.

Her father sighed and started to get up.

“I don’t want you to come,” Josie said.

“Jojo …,” he said, and stood.