in leaky spurts, flicking a quick glance at Pike and then away. “Because I didn’t remember until we pulled up to my street.”
A child walked by holding a bedraggled kite with a tear in the middle, like a wound. The girl wiggled her fingers at Manny, who returned the greeting and ambled over. “Didja bust up your kite?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t. My mom said Gregory had to have a turn and he got it stuck in a tree. Brothers are dumb.”
“Yeah,” Manny agreed. “I had a brother and he sure was dumb. Got any tape? The clear kind that people close up packages with?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’ll fix the rip right up. Good as new.”
The girl brightened. “Good idea. But brothers are still dumb.”
Rosa watched it all with the surreal feeling that she was observing from afar. The breeze continued its capricious meanderings, as if things were perfectly normal, as if the world’s equilibrium had not just been dealt a severe blow. Though she saw the wind toying with the branches of the big cypress that sheltered the burned trailer, she did not feel it on her face. Rosa was surprised to find that Pike had stayed near. To gloat, maybe. They both waited until Manny shuffled back, having concluded his kite repair advice. “What did you mean, Dad, that you didn’t remember?”
Manny cast about for a while, starting and stopping his words, pocketing and unpocketing his hands until he finally hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “I think I’ve got something.”
“You’ve got something.” She felt slow and stupid. “Got what?”
“Alzheimer’s?” Pike asked.
“No, not that,” Manny snapped. “It’s got a different name. ‘Pick’ something.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “Here, I wrote down what the doctor said.”
He handed over a crumpled scrap of paper and headed to a bench perched in the shade of the cypress tree several yards away.
Rosa smoothed the scrap. “Pick’s disease.” She looked at Pike. “Have you heard of it?”
Shaking his head, he thumbed his phone to life and typed in the search. She watched him read, and though he kept his features in a calm, noncommittal expression, something trickled through the coffee brown of his eyes and the corners of his mouth tightened the tiniest fraction as he scrolled through the information.
“What?”
He pocketed the phone. “We don’t need to research it now. Let’s go back to Bitsy’s and you and Cy can discuss housing options for Manny.”
He turned away, but she stopped him with a hand on his biceps. “Pike, tell me.”
He didn’t meet her eyes, but stared at her fingers curled around his arm. “Rosa, I think maybe this isn’t something you should hear from me in light of...everything.”
She didn’t remove her hand and he remained there, still looking away.
“Please.”
He hesitated. “It says Pick’s disease is a rare form of dementia.”
She blinked. “And?”
“And it’s irreversible and incurable,” he added softly.
Dementia. Irreversible. Incurable. The words fell like heavy stones in deep water, swallowed by the mad, whirling rush in her head. She looked at her father, who was skinning the bark off of a stick he’d retrieved, hunched and small on the hewn wood bench, dwarfed by both the old tree and the blackened wreck.
There seemed no sense to it, that she was standing, watching her father, while being floored by a diagnosis that seemed as if it belonged to a stranger. Manny had left a long time ago, chasing some sort of mysterious, phantom dream that he could not even articulate. He had abdicated the role of father when she’d most desperately needed one. So why, now, were her fingers rigid and her breath tight? Why should she care? Why did it pinch at a place deep inside?
Infuriatingly, Pike had been right. She should not have insisted he tell her about the disease because she was no longer certain she was in control. Above all things, she would not let Pike see her lose it. The man who hated her father. The man who had ridiculed her mother.
She realized she was still touching Pike and that he had covered her hand with his, tenderly, as if he feared bruising her. She detached herself. “I see. Thank you for the info.”
“Do you...want to go talk to him?”
Deep breath. A steadying smile. “I think we should go back. We’ll drive him to the inn, as you suggested, and talk to Cy. This is one of those times when I wish my brother would actually answer his cell phone, the big dork.”
Pike eyed her uncertainly, looking as though he was about to press her further.
“I’m sure Cy’s got the flat changed by now, or the car completely dismantled—one or the other.” Her laugh sounded tinny and strange in her own ears. She strolled to her father and told him of her plan. He nodded, without comment, and shuffled back to the car, the naked twig still clutched in his fingers.
Irreversible, her mind repeated as they drove back to the Pelican.
Incurable.
Unbelievable.
* * *
THE OLD NISSAN sported four fully functioning tires, Rosa noted, as they pulled in to the parking lot. Cy was on the front porch, poring over a stack of history books. Her brother believed that a decorator’s sacred responsibility was to understand the past of any given building before reinventing it.
“The history of a place is what changes a house to a home,” Cy preached at anyone who would listen.
He glanced up as the trio climbed the front steps. “Oh, hey, Pops. Changed your mind about the visit?”
Before Rosa could open her mouth, Cy began hurling historical bomblets at her from his spot on the wicker bench. He gestured with a dusty volume. “Got it from Julio. Took us an hour and a half to find it. The Pelican was built by Harold Herzberg in...”
“In 1860, Cy. I know.”
“Yes, but did you know he was a carpenter turned...”
“Forty-niner who eventually discovered that there was really no money to be made in the goldfields. Yes, I knew that, too.”
“Well, did you know that there was a notable portrait done of Herzberg and his wife, worth thousands, that was stolen from what used to be the Tumbledown Bank some twenty years ago?”
“Hmm. Nope, that’s news to me.”
“Anyway, his carpentry background explains the extensive woodwork.” Cy patted his pockets for a pencil until Pike pointed to the one behind his ear. “There’s a mention of the oak window seat in the dining room being a favorite of Mrs. Herzberg, who used to have guests join her to shell peas and watch the horse-drawn carriages come up from the docks. We’ll need to do it.”
“Do what, Cy?” she said wearily, though she already knew.
“Restore the window seat. Make it a focal point. It won’t be hard—most of the wood is still sound. Aunt Bitsy is fine with it.”
“Yes, she is,” said Bitsy as she stepped out onto the porch. She handed Cy a tape measure. “You left this in the bathroom.”
Pike huffed. “I’m aware that no one is listening, but this inn is on the verge of being sold. There’s no need to do work with window seats or paint or anything else.”
Cy wore a glazed expression as he rambled on about crown molding and stain.
Pike rolled his eyes, mumbling something about being trapped in a nuthouse.
Rosa tried to rally, determined to ignore Pike and his bad