She smiles. “He’s sweet. But not really my type.” I note that she didn’t comment on Ben. What is her type? I wonder. Carrie could be a player, too, perhaps even ought to be a player—she has all the wherewithal and no reason not to use it, though I have never really seen her in action, so to speak. But she has put down her empty mug with a clunk. “Right. And so to bed. To sleep, perchance to dream,” she proclaims, though the delivery is marred by another catlike yawn.

“Hamlet.”

“Yup.” She runs her tired eyes over me even as a third yawn takes over her mouth. “You know, you look exhausted too. You should sleep in. I’ll try not to wake you in the morning.”

“I’ll try.” Then, without thinking I add, “Wait.”

“What?” She pauses in the act of pushing off the counter.

I say the words before I can consider them properly, before I can paralyze myself by overthinking. “Do you miss Mum?” I shake my head, frustrated. Of course she misses her mum; she didn’t have the complicated relationship with Karen that I had. “I mean, how do you miss Mum?”

She settles back against the counter and looks at me carefully, or as carefully as her bleary eyes can manage. “It’s not . . . it’s not every minute of every day. I think I would miss Dad that way; he’s the one I’ve always called first. But Mum was . . . well, you know.” She smiles ruefully as if I must know what she means, but I’m not sure I do. “Certain things remind me, I suppose. But really I think I miss the . . . the certainty most.”

“Certainty?”

“You know, feeling that everything is going to be all right, that there’s always a safe place, that all will be as it’s meant to be.” You know. But I don’t know that feeling. I never have. “They say you truly grow up when your parents die. I know I’ll be worrying about Dad more now, too.” The rueful smile comes out again. I wonder if that’s why she’s here—here in the Manse—beyond the per diem saving and the benefit of her own room: she’s become acutely aware that one day we might be all each other has. Or am I projecting my own thoughts upon her? She looks at me with her disquieting eyes. “You miss her, too.” Her words are perfectly balanced, halfway between a statement and a question.

“I wasn’t sure I would,” I admit. “We only spoke a couple of times a month.” Logistical calls. I’m flying out to this place. I’ll be gone for this length of time. That kind of thing. A courtesy, at best, since it was much better to call Pete for anything practical.

“Do you wish you’d come back?”