An hour or more passed as men and women took turns at the microphone. They talked of how wonderful Gavin and Elizabeth were together, of their teamwork and spirit. And with each telling Gavin’s soul shone brighter, his presence became known. His children were struck again and again that no matter how much they knew him, there was so much they did not know. There was the woman he saved from an abusive man at the pub; the money he gave to local charities; the hours he spent listening to patrons’ troubles.

When the speeches were finally finished and the singer reclaimed the microphone, Colleen stood between Hallie and Shane. “Did we really know him?” she asked.

“Of course we did,” Hallie said. “We knew him as our dad, as the man we loved. We knew him as ours.”

“But no one can ever really belong to just you. Listen to these people.” Colleen pointed at the stage. “Maybe deep down we’re all unknowable, even to those who love us most.”

Shane pulled her close. “Maybe. But we knew his heart and that means we knew him.”

“Know him,” Colleen corrected Shane. “Because he is always here and he is always in us.”

“Yes.” Hallie glanced around the room and then back at her siblings. “Have you seen the girls?”

“Last I saw them they were devouring the shamrock cupcakes,” Shane said and pointed to the empty table at the far end of the room.

“Just great, now a sugar high.” Hallie wandered off to find her daughters as Shane went to check on the back bar.

Colleen stood alone in the middle of the crowd, feeling the heat and pulse of grief. Voices blended until one stood out. “Lena.”

Colleen turned to face Walter Littleton, his face twisted in grief, his eyes red with both whiskey and regret—quite the combination, as she well knew. “Walter.”

“I am so sorry,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a crumpled napkin. “I’m sorry you lost such a great man. But I lost him, too, Lena; I loved him.” His voice was broken, fragments of it cracking with the words.

“It’s the whiskey talking,” Colleen said flatly.

“No.” He shook his head. “You don’t have to punish me anymore. I loved your dad and I am so, so sorry.”

“Loved?” Colleen stepped closer to him, and he didn’t smell like alcohol, but only of sweat and dirt. “How can you say that?”

“Because I do. Because I did.” He took a step back. “I’m not the monster you think I am, Lena.”

Somewhere below the clammy and oppressive grief for her dad, Colleen felt a sense of sadness for this broken man losing his wife and daughters in ways he hadn’t expected. “Not a monster,” she said quietly. “But a man who is capable of causing great pain in one small family. A selfish man.”