“It’s a good day, June. A good day. The peonies are in bloom.” She points out to the garden, where several green bushes are heavy with pink-rimmed white blooms as round and large as serving plates.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Cut some and take them home with you. Spread the wild, I say.” Her eyes almost disappear in the creases of her aged skin as she smiles wide. I wonder, do I just continue making small talk, or do I still ask what I came here to ask?

As though sensing my internal debate, she leans toward me and says, “Was there something you came to talk about?”

“Yes.” I hesitate, unsure how to broach it. “I guess there is.”

“You were gone a long time. Must be a lot of catching up to do.” She chuckles to herself.

“I was wondering, actually.” I pause and smooth the skirt of my dress down, suddenly feeling ridiculous in my getup. “Do you know anything about my father and what may have happened the night he disappeared from Avril Island. Anything at all?”

Her whole body tenses, but her expression gives nothing away. “Your father? What was his name?”

“Simon Bennett.”

“Ah yes. That’s right.” She shakes her head, making the wisps of white hair around her face sway. “I didn’t know him so well. Just to recognize him on the street.”

“Did you ever speak to him personally?” I push, not buying her story of not knowing him.

She shakes her head again. “There wasn’t much mixing between summer folk and locals,” she explains.

“But you knew my mother, April?”

She gives a little shrug. “Not very well.”

“West worked for us. At Avril Island. If I remember correctly, you came out now and again to help with gardening.” I’m not going to let her get away with pretending she didn’t know my family. That we were just summer residents who might have passed her on the street. That we don’t have a family drama sitting between us like some two-headed elephant in the room.

She cocks her head to the side, as though trying to conjure something up. “I don’t really remember. It was a long time ago.”

I decide to try another angle. “I read in one of those newspaper articles about my father’s disappearance that they thought West might have had something to do with it. Do you know anything about that?”

A pained look flits across her face, and I can tell I’ve struck a nerve. “It was so long ago,” she says. “I don’t remember too many details. The police came one day, and West, he …” She trails off, a dazed look coming into her green eyes.

She glances around the room as though looking for something and then focuses back on me, sitting across from her. “Oh dear,” she says. “How rude. I haven’t even put on the kettle.” She starts to struggle out of her chair.