Page 51

Her smile fades. Every Sunday, the three of us visit Dad at Oak Grove, but tomorrow Connor won’t be walking through those doors with us. The planner feels heavier in my hand.

Birdie gives me a tight hug. “I’ll be here by ten. We can spend some time with Uncle Tom, then head to the vineyard.”

“And if Andrei calls before then?”

“You can answer from a safe distance while wearing clothes that don’t make you wonder what his mouth would feel like.” She releases me before I can object and picks up her shoes. “I’m helping you make responsible choices.”

I fold my arms and raise one eyebrow at her. “You spent half the evening questioning Reid about his kitchen.”

“That was important research.” She smiles, but worry remains in her eyes as she opens the back door. “Lock this behind me, Cass.”

I turn the deadbolt after she steps into the alley, test it twice, and climb the narrow stairs with Murphy behind me. Upstairs, I place Connor’s planner inside Grandma’s cedar sewing box beneath my bed, then stand there with one hand on the lid.

Tomorrow I must tell Dad that Connor is working, because the truth would frighten him and then frighten him again when he forgets. The lie is merciful, but that doesn’t make it easy.

Oak Grove Memory Care Center sits beyond Seattle among cedar trees, raised gardens, and cheerful blue benches. Pale stone walls and broad windows make it resemble a comfortable lodge, although the keypad beside every exit tells the truth.

Birdie and I arrive with lemon cookies Dad may or may not remember liking. A receptionist checks our names and unlocks the inner door, where warm air smells of coffee.

“Thomas is in the sunroom,” she tells us, smiling as she hands us visitor badges. “He finished a number puzzle before breakfast and corrected the answer sheet twice.”

Pride and grief rise together. Dad spent more than thirty years teaching students that every math problem had an answer, but now the mind that finds an error on a printed page may forget the name of the woman beside him.

We follow the corridor into a sunroom filled with soft chairs, potted ferns, and books chosen more for large print than variety. Birdie carries the cookies because I keep rubbing my locket, and she knows better than to mention it today.

Dad sits near the windows with a mechanical pencil in his hand. His silver hair has been combed neatly, and his blue cardigan covers a pale shirt and khakis. He is leaner than last month, but his wedding band remains on his left hand.

“Hi, Dad,” I say as I approach.

He raises his head, and the kind blue eyes I inherited meet mine. I hold my breath until recognition spreads across his face.

“Cassie.” He smiles and pushes his chair back. “You drove all this way on a Sunday.”

“Of course I did.” I hug him, breathing in the familiar scent of cedar soap. His arms hold less strength than they once did, but his palm presses between my shoulder blades in the same comforting rhythm from my childhood. “Birdie came too.”

Dad looks past me. Birdie has stopped beside the table, holding the bakery box against her green sweater. Her auburn hair is twisted into a low knot, and she gives him a warm smile.

His face brightens. “Jo, you cut your hair.”

The mistake opens an old wound before I can protect myself. Mom wore her auburn hair short when Dad proposed, and Birdie resembles her when sunlight catches the gold in her green eyes.

Birdie doesn’t correct him or look toward me for help. She places the cookies on the table and crosses to him with her hands open.

“It was getting in my way,” she says gently. “You always said I spent too much time pushing it out of my face.”

Dad laughs and takes both her hands. “You never listen until you decide it was your idea.”

“That still sounds like me.” Birdie bends and kisses his cheek. “May I sit with you?”

“You never had to ask.” He pats the chair beside him, then looks at me. Confusion passes through his eyes as he tries to place us in the same room. “Cassie, did your mother bring you?”

I lower myself into the chair across from him and curl my fingers beneath the table. “Birdie drove with me, Dad.”

He looks at her again as the past lets go of him. His smile falters, but Birdie squeezes his hand before embarrassment can take its place.

“I’m your favorite niece,” she reminds him. “I brought lemon cookies, which proves the title is deserved.”

“Birdie.” Recognition returns with a pleased breath. “Your mother used to hide those from me at Christmas.”