“Mr. Young?” Thomas asks, swapping his phone for a notebook and pen. “It’d be great to hear from you, too.”

Dad glances at Mom. She half shrugs. “Go ahead.”

“Any favorite stories about Sylvie to share?”

Mom daintily picks up a piece of chicken but doesn’t eat it. She’s hardly touched the food on her plate, just moved it into different positions. Dad finishes the last drop of his beer—Pfriem, made at a local brewery. Thomas dusted his five minutes into the uncomfortable meal. Any worries I had about my parents spilling too much of my past—things I didn’t know or secrets that could hurt me—are long gone. They have even less desire to tell Thomas anything than I do. We just need to get through this dinner, take off in the morning, and never come back.

Dad says, “She always did well in school.”

“Especially in biology,” Mom adds.

“My high school didn’t offer any courses on tarot, psychic readings, or tapping into your inner medium,” I quip. I’m not sure why I’m poking the bears, maybe because neither of them will really look at me.

Thomas tips his beer bottle back even though it’s empty. “Another one?” I ask. He flashes a grateful smile and for a split second we’re on the same team. The idea of that, someone having my back in this situation, is a fantasy. I made this bed of nails and tonight need to sleep on it.

“Sure,” Thomas says. “Thanks.”

“Dad?”

“Yes.”

I grab two beers from the fridge and pop the tops with the church key hanging on a hook shaped like a cherry. Everything in this kitchen has remained in its place . . . except me. My arm grazes Dad’s shoulder when I set his down on the table. It’s the first time we’ve touched in years. He shifts out of reach. Before I give Thomas his, I take a long pull off the bottle. As I hand it over, our fingers graze. I wait a few seconds, force contact, before I release the beer.

Thomas watches me before he says, “I’m looking for more personal stories about your daughter. It’s hard to get a clear picture of her childhood.”

Dad says, “Like all reporters, you want dirt.”

Thomas corrects. “I want the truth.”

Dad tries to stare him down but Thomas doesn’t retreat. I’m both impressed with his level of determination and concerned.

“She helped the pickers during harvest, liked to make homemade tamales with Carla, my manager’s wife. We never lost the three-legged race on Fourth of July. She loved when the blossoms came out, used to make crowns out of ’em . . .”

I chuckle. “I made you wear them.” Silence drops like a guillotine’s blade.

Thomas says, “Huh. Sylvie tells me you and your wife have quite a love story.”

Dad glances at Mom. She gives a tiny nod. “My grandfather and Hana’s were orchardists in this valley. Then World War Two came. There were several Japanese families in High River at the time, mostly farmers and orchardists. Before they were taken away, interred in camps in California, they signed over their land to neighbors to make sure it was taken care of, not claimed by the government or bought by strangers, while they were incarcerated. The agreement was that their neighbors would return the land once the Japanese were released from the camps. My grandfather and Hana’s granddad made that deal.”