“I made myself available,” I admitted.
Gregory nodded.
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t excuse yesterday.”
“No.”
“But it explains part of it.”
“I think so.”
I drove in silence.
Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Why did Brenda really want me to stay home?”
Gregory looked uncomfortable.
“She said you’d been sad the last few times we went to Cape May.”
I frowned.
“Sad?”
“You disappear sometimes.”
“Disappear?”
“You sit on the porch. Or walk to the beach alone. You talk about Dad.”
“He was my husband.”
“I know.”
“She thought the kids notice.”
“They should notice. Their grandfather existed.”
“I agree.”
My voice rose despite myself.
“Did she think grief was contagious?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Gregory sighed.
“I think she’s uncomfortable with it.”
That sounded more believable.
Brenda had always hated sadness.
As a teenager, she left rooms when movies became emotional.
At Robert’s funeral, she spent most of the reception refilling coffee cups.
