“I just heard about your father, Anthony. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She held up a copy of the Block Island Times. Leonard’s author photo was on the front page. “I wish I knew sooner. I just found out. Anthony—” She raised an arm like she was about to hug him, but something in his face must have stopped her because she let it fall.

Every time Anthony forgot for a fraction of a minute and was then reminded, he broke anew with the realization. His father was gone. “Thank you,” he said formally.

“Can you come by the shop for a minute? Can I make you a coffee?”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to leave my mother for too long. And I don’t really want to see anyone.”

“Just for a minute? We just reopened.”

“Okay. Just for a minute.” They made the short walk to Joy Bombs in silence. Olivia was working behind the counter, doing her usual thing. There was a small line. Anthony didn’t want to see any people. He felt raw. His sleep had been fractured; his organs felt swollen and tender.

“Here,” Joy said. “Come back to my office. I’ll get you a coffee and bring it to you.”

Anthony sat in the corner of the kitchen at her desk, which was piled high with paper and order forms and a manila folder that said INVOICES in Joy’s beautiful, crooked handwriting.

When she returned with the coffee, Joy said, “Your mother was able to come. That’s really great.” She squeezed his hand.

“My mother’s been here for several days,” he said. “Even before . . . It’s a long story. It’s a very long story. Cassie and Max were here too. My mother and I are leaving on the last ferry today. The funeral is on Sunday. My mother—” He was supposed to be good with words, but, of all of the words in the universe, there were none that felt right for Dorothy.

The kitchen smelled like the remnants of that day’s baking (chocolate, lemon) and also like something surprising (basil?), and even besides that there was something else, something particularly Joy, something as wild and unsettling as the ocean itself. The way the light caught Joy’s face and her hair: his heart lurched. He might never have an opportunity to say what he wanted to say.

“Listen,” he said. “Give me one more chance to say I’m sorry about the whole mess. I’m sorry about my secret past. I just need to say that, before I go.”

“I just need to say that I don’t care that you plagiarized.” Joy’s voice was gentle. “I never cared about that. I cared that you lied to me, Anthony, that you didn’t even tell me you had a son.”

“I know,” said Anthony. He shook his head. “I know. It’s terrible. And I love my son so, so much. You don’t even know.”

“Of course I know. I’m a parent too. I’m divorced. I have a daughter. You didn’t have to hide any of your things from me. You didn’t have to be ashamed of them.”