She turned to look at him. “Do you?” she asked. “Do you have dysfunction in your family?”

He laughed. “My immediate family seems reasonably sane. Or maybe we’re just used to each other. We lived on a shoestring. Paycheck to paycheck. We got by. It turned my mom into a really good money manager. But in the extended family we have some real interesting characters. My dad’s dad was married five times. If you knew him, you’d find that hard to believe—there’s nothing all that special about him. My dad has twelve siblings, none of them full siblings, all halfs and steps. Some of them are real losers—money issues, chronically unemployed. One’s a scam man—we give him a wide berth. They’re always looking for handouts—makes my dad crazy. One of my mother’s aunts is a hoarder and the other one keeps cats. Like twenty or thirty cats. We visited them both exactly once. I think there are some serious mental health issues at work there. There’s one of those ‘funny uncles’ somewhere in the family tree—he was not allowed to visit. I’m told my maternal grandfather smacked around my grandmother—my mother said it could get pretty nightmarish when she was a kid. She said if my dad ever raised a hand to her she’d just shoot him. I take it he never did. My dad is kind of a big, handsome, sweetheart of a guy—I guess he inherited the side of my grandfather women fell in love with, but he’s managed to be married only once. My mom, though, was married for a very short time when she was real young. Married for a year or something. She divorced her first husband. She never liked to talk about it. I don’t think I even knew until my sister, Jess, got married at nineteen and my mother lost her mind, terrified that Jess was headed down the same path. Jess is fine. My mom didn’t marry my dad until she was thirty.”

“But you had a normal childhood,” she said.

“Well, I guess. I don’t appear to be scarred. I don’t have any medals, either. And I’ve never been to Russia or China.”

“It wasn’t what you think. It was work.”

“I know. I’d love to see your passports sometime. You’re going to think about this for a while and you’re going to realize you can deal with her now. She didn’t love you enough and she was selfish. She neglected you in ways that still hurt, but you’re whole and strong. You’re all right. You won’t be like that. Because of that experience, you’ll be a completely different kind of mother.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m confident. But I want to suggest one thing. It’ll be hard because right now you’re bruised. I suggest you think about all the things you had. You’ve been putting a lot of focus on what you didn’t have. Your mother doesn’t love you the right way, but she loves you.” He reached across the console for her hand. “You have a chance to write the script here, Gracie. You write the life you want. In fact, I don’t really get it—you’re completely sane. How’d that happen with that prima donna of a mother?”

“Years of therapy,” she said. “It was sports therapy, but you can’t dump the phobias and anxieties and neuroses without some good old-fashioned counseling. And there was Mamie—sweet, loving Mamie. She worked for my mother and she coddled me.”

“That explains a lot,” he said.

“I don’t want to do all the things that I, on the receiving end, couldn’t bear.”

“I understand completely,” he said.

“I want an ordinary, happy life,” she said. “I am not lazy.”

“I like your life,” he said. “I like the life you envision.”

When they finally got back to town, Troy drove the van into the alley behind the shop. No need to park in the front of the store anymore—there was no danger from the mystery man of the note. His Jeep was back there anyway.

“Troy, I think I need some time alone,” she said. “I hope you understand. I feel pretty pathetic right now.”

He leaned toward her and gave her a small kiss. “Don’t work this too long, honey. Lots of people have superannoying mothers.”

“I know. But I need a little time. And there’s no need to worry that anyone is threatening me.”

“Let’s at least talk later,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

* * *

Troy didn’t have to think about it long. He went back to his apartment, cleaned up and changed clothes and drove back to Bandon. He entered the resort property on a guest pass at about six o’clock. There was no answer at Winnie’s cottage and he asked himself where she might be. He drove around a little bit, thinking. There were five restaurants on the property—a couple of clubhouse restaurants and then fine dining. He went to the one with the view of the ocean.

The maître d’ greeted him. “I’m here to meet Mrs. Dillon Banks,” Troy said smoothly as if this visit was planned.

“I wasn’t aware she was expecting a guest. This way, sir.”

She had a table near the window and she was alone. Her table was a bit secluded from the other diners. She wasn’t eating. She had her fingers wrapped around a drink and she looked pensively out the window.

“Mrs. Banks,” he said.

She looked up at him.

“May I join you for a few minutes?”

“I suppose this has something to do with my daughter. Yes, Mr. Headly. Have a seat. Have a drink.”

“Thank you,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite her. The waiter was instantly beside him. “Bring me whatever Mrs. Banks is having.”

“So, is Izzy all right?”

“She’s a little rattled, but she’s resilient. You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. Banks—it’s hard for me to think of her as Izzy. She’s Grace to me.”

“Grace. Yes,” she said, sipping her drink. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Headly?”

“I’m a high school teacher. And a part-time bartender at a local beach bar. Not exactly a high-profile profession, but I find teaching rewarding.”

“And your relationship with Izz...Grace? Is it serious?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m very serious about her, though we don’t have marriage plans. I’m not rushing into anything. That doesn’t mean I’m hesitant. It just means we deserve time. Tincture of time, my grandmother used to say.”