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Does she just hate to think about that time? I won’t push her. I pushed her enough. And we’re supposed to be away from it all.
The four of us walk along the beach for Saturday sunset, a ritual from when I have business visitors, who tend to enjoy the backyard view of the mansions, the lifestyles of the rich and famous, though they rarely admit it. Carly and Bess are no different, but they do admit it, pointing out different displays of excess. Vicky seems unimpressed, if not slightly hostile toward displays of wealth.
Between houses, the girls run ahead with Smuckers, kicking around in the surf.
“Back in your town, remember how you told me about being bullied?” I say.
Vicky gives me a blank look. “Sure.”
“Was it somebody wealthy?”
Her brow furrows. “Why would you think that?”
“Just wondering. You’re not impressed like a lot of people are. And, well, you did call me a rich, entitled jackass at one point.”
She takes my hand. “You know I don’t think that.”
I keep my eyes on the horizon, feeling her gaze on my face. I wonder if that’s why my mother chose her. I hate the question I’m about to ask, but it’s been burning in me. “Did my mother seem…happy in those last years?”
She squeezes my hand. “Henry—”
“I just…didn’t know her the last few years. I missed her.” I never say that aloud.
“She seemed happy…in her way.”
I nod.
“I wasn’t sure how much you wanted to know about her. But, yes. She had her routines and Smuckers. She’d terrorize people in the neighborhood, like when they wanted to pet him, she’d act angry. That was kind of her jam.”
I smile. It’s a bittersweet feeling, more sweet than bitter now.
“She was such a character,” I say. “I always imagined I could repair things. That somehow I’d break through and we’d have a heart-to-heart.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I make her tell me all the stories she can remember. We stand in the wet, sucking sand together, the ocean swashing around our ankles, watching Carly and Bess swim, and Vicky tells me little anecdotes. One after another.
We laugh about it. It feels good. No—it feels utterly amazing.
“I’m glad she had you around,” I say.
She kisses me on the shoulder. “I’m glad I could be.”
“Why do you think my mother chose you?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Maybe it’s silly to keep wondering about it, but I do. Do you think my mother chose you because she sensed you have an allergy to guys like me? Did you two talk about that sort of thing?”
“Hmm.”
“I know she ostensibly chose you on the basis of your being a dog whisperer, but she could’ve done a lot of messed-up things with that will. Yet she chose you.”
“I really think it was about the dog,” she says. “She loved that dog. Even the last words she said to me…” She stops, clearly regretting going down this road.
“It’s okay, you can tell me,” I say. “Please. Tell me. They were the last words she said. I want to know.”
“Well, they were about the dog. Clutching at him, and she goes, I love you, Pokey.”
