“I used to see them out walking when I was young. She and Selwyn Parr, hand in hand. She was older than me, but not by much—and there she was, with that terrible old stick! I couldn’t understand it. Now, of course, I realize they were soul mates. Not that Mr. Parr would have used the term!”

“Often you survive better if the marriage was happy.”

Mrs. Moore lows gently. Her eyes are faded, green turning to gray, and they move rapidly, one eyebrow flickering.

“Do you agree, Mrs. Moore?”

“Yes! Yes!”

Philip laughs and puts one hand on her shoulder.

“So where have you been for those twenty years, Philip?”

“South of France. Painting. Everyone thinks of sunshine, wine, and olives. But the winters are no picnic, especially in a drafty studio.”

“So I’ve heard. My late wife’s parents moved from Alexandria to Nice.” I remember Yvette’s mother, complaining in her letters of the icy blasts on the Promenade des Anglais. “My mother-in-law wore her coat until June. Yvette—my late wife—used to make fun of her. Yvette herself, you see, had come from Alexandria to Alver Shore.”

“Goodness,” Philip says. “Alver Shore. Gosh. That really is a leap. Did you say, your late wife?”

“Yes. She died ten years ago.”

“Yes!” It’s almost a groan, and very loud. His mother is pushing herself forward in her seat, her stiff forearm lifted up as if she’d catch hold of my arm if she could.

“God,” says Philip. “Oh, my God.”

“Yes!” His mother bursts out again. A terrible, throaty bellow. Others in the garden turn their heads toward us and swiftly away, not wanting to stare. Philip is hunkered down beside her, and I’m bending low as well, taking her hand. She can’t close her fingers around mine but her voice does all the tightening and straining. “Yes,” she insists. “Yes . . .”

“What is it, Mrs. Moore? Has something happened?”

“I don’t know.” Philip’s shaking his head, the motion is panicky.

“Are you unwell? Do you need a doctor?”

She shakes her head to one side, her face contorted.

“It must be so frustrating.”

She snorts. You have no idea.

“Perhaps we should go home.” Philip puts a hand on his mother’s arm. “Would you like that, Mum? Go back to Redwood? Have a rest?” He stammers out the questions.

His mother slumps in her seat, her chin rocking up and down. Philip stands up straight. His face is so white that his freckles stand out.

I walk up the garden path with them. He blows out a shaky breath as he pushes his mother’s chair. “I worry when she gets agitated,” he says in a low voice. “It might lead to another—another episode.”