“Hey,” I said, smoothing my hair down. I hesitated, then crossed the kitchen toward him.

My dad looked up and smiled at me and pushed his plate slightly toward me. I decided more cheesecake was an excellent idea and grabbed a fork before sliding into the chair across from him. I speared a bite, realizing suddenly how nervous I was. What if my dad had been being his candidate self all night, pretending to get along with Clark while secretly hating him? I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter what my dad thought, knowing all the while that it did.

My dad was just calmly eating his cheesecake, like he had nothing to say, and I decided I wouldn’t ask. I’d just wait for him to tell me what he thought of Clark, but it wasn’t like I needed to know or anything. This lasted exactly one more bite before I blurted out, “So what did you think of him?”

My dad rotated the plate slightly, looking for the perfect bite, before he said, “He seems like a very nice young man. A little mistaken as to where Stagecoach fits in with Wayne’s filmography. But we can’t have everything.”

I rolled my eyes at that, not wanting to let my dad see just how relieved I was. “You freaked him out with all that Secret Service talk,” I said, rotating the plate back toward me as I cut off a piece with my fork. “I think he thought you were serious.”

“Who says I’m not? Though I suppose I didn’t need to say ‘Secret Service,’?” he mused. “I could have just mentioned some of my old clients. Some very bad people would love to do me a favor.”

I looked up at him, remembering something that had been in the back of my mind ever since the night of Bertie and the chocolates. “Hey, what happened to the drawing that used to hang in the foyer? The one of Stabby Bob?”

My dad looked at me, surprised. “What made you think of him?”

“I was, um . . .” I took a breath. “Clark asked me how you and Mom met.”

Something passed over my dad’s face then, sadness mixed with something happier. “Did I ever tell you she wanted to invite Bob to the wedding?”

“No way.” I hadn’t ever heard this before and was starting to smile, even though there was a slight tremble to it.

“She did. She thought he deserved to be there, being the reason we were introduced.”

“So did he go?”

“Well, he was serving fifteen to twenty by then. So no.” I smiled at that, and neither of us said anything for a moment, but it was like I could tell we were both thinking about my mom. Like just a little bit of her was here in the kitchen with us. My dad cleared his throat, then said, “I can try to find him for you if you want. The drawing,” he said quickly, maybe seeing what I was thinking. “Not Stabby Bob.”

I nodded. “That would be good.” I took a breath, wondering if this was the moment to ask him the question that I’d never stopped wondering about—what he had done with my mother’s Mustang. I hadn’t asked, five years ago, when it didn’t come to our new house with us, and I just hoped that he had saved it rather than sold it off to someone. I was getting ready to ask him about the car, when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

TOBY

Toby clearly wanted to know how dinner had gone, but it was easier these days to call or video chat with her rather than text her. But then it buzzed again, and I saw Palmer was texting now too.

PALMER

HOW DID IT GO?

“Let me guess,” my dad said, picking up the cheesecake plate and pushing himself back from the table. “Bri?”

“Toby,” I said, shaking my head. “And Palmer, too.” My phone buzzed again. “And now Bri.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he said, placing the plate, with at least three good cheesecake bites remaining, in front of me. Then he patted my shoulder quickly, just once, before he turned and headed down the hall to his study.

I watched him go, then picked up my fork, settled back in my seat, and wrote back to my friends.

Chapter ELEVEN

I looked down at the dog sitting in front of me, a smallish sandy-colored mix of some kind. This was a one-time walk; his owners usually spent the summers away but were back in town for just a day or two and needed him to get some exercise. The dog looked back up at me, his tail thumping on the ground. “Okay,” I said, smiling at him as I made sure his leash was clipped on tightly. “Ready for this?” I paused when I realized I’d blanked on his name. But in my defense, when I’d gone to pick him up, it had been a pretty chaotic scene. The dog had been running around barking happily, seemingly trying to get himself as underfoot as possible. Classical music was blaring and a girl who looked a year or two younger than me was doing a series of very complicated pirouettes in the kitchen, while a guy who looked like he was probably her brother sat nearby with a thick law textbook, seemingly unfazed by all of this, muttering about torts. It was a girl around my age who’d taken charge, giving me the dog’s leash and instructions for where to walk him.

“Sorry about all this,” she said loudly, trying to be heard over the music, as she gestured behind her. “We usually spend the whole summer at our lake house, but my sister has an audition for a dance company in New York tomorrow, so . . .” She shrugged, and I tried to hide my surprise, since the twirling girl looked like she couldn’t have been more than fifteen. But I’d taken the dog and said I’d be back in about half an hour. Now I knelt down to see if his name was engraved on his tag, but there was just an M, and his owners’ phone number.