“The funeral? No, I’m not calling about that. The funeral was two months ago. She died in January. I’ve been wanting to tell you, and didn’t quite know how to do it. You and I haven’t really kept up, over the years.”

“No, we haven’t. But … you’re doing all right?”

“I’m hanging in there,” I say. “You know, I drove out to Jetty Park today. First time since I’d been there with you and the kids.”

“You haven’t gone for all these years? Why?”

“I don’t know. It felt off-limits, I guess. All those places we used to go—as a family—I just sort of … avoided. I even avoided the mall for a while. It just would have been awkward to run into you and the kids while I was, you know, with Leona.”

“I guess that’s why it never happened,” Teresa says.

“I was thinking about how you wouldn’t let the kids swim near the jetty because of the sharks. And remember how you wouldn’t let them see the launches close up? Because of explosions? I was thinking: None of them were ever bitten by a shark, or burned up. You did that.” I’m trying to pay her a compliment, but it hasn’t come out right. The Scotch is starting to get in the way. “How are the kids, anyway?”

“They’re fine. Are you—are you in contact with them … at all?”

“I’ve been terrible about that,” I admit. “And I don’t want it to be that way. I mean, I’d like to get back in touch with them, if they want to hear from me.”

“I’m sure they do. If that’s what you want.” She doesn’t sound quite as sincere as she did a moment ago, but at least she hasn’t hung up on me. “You know, they’re all in different places now.”

“Really?” A stupid reply; of course they are: they’re grownups. I wait for her to speak again.

“Joe lives in Chicago.”

“No kidding. Chicago. And Frankie?”

“Frankie’s … in Jacksonville.”

“Well, at least one of them hasn’t abandoned Florida. How about Matt and Karen?”

There’s another long pause, and I suspect she’s deciding what she will and won’t tell me.

“Everyone’s fine, Roy,” she says.

It’s that use of my name that puts up the wall I know will be there for the rest of the conversation.

I hear a man’s voice in the background asking who’s on the phone. “One of the neighbors,” she tells him. Technically true. We live on the same island.

“Teresa,” I say, “I should let you go. I just wanted to, you know, check in.”

“I’m really sorry to hear about Leona.”

“Thank you. And I—I hope you’re doing okay.”

“I am.”

“All right, then. I’ll talk to you.”

“Goodbye, Roy.”