“There’s a stairway to the beach at the end of the street,” I said, “so a lot of beachgoers walk past the house. Maybe someone walking by was curious about ‘Cosmo the Storyteller.”“

He smiled, “Remarking on the paint job?”

“It is designed to grab attention, right?”

“Right.” He glanced between the camper and the house and said, “Mind if I move a couple of things into the house for safekeeping?”

“Not at all. But as I was saying, why don’t you stay?”

“No need to,” he said, walking to the back of the camper. “I have a place to sleep.”

“Well, then, stay here in your camper.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“Maybe we could get to know each other.”

He laughed as he opened the camper door. “Same question: why?”

I waited while he stepped into the camper and retrieved the rolling trunk. When I suggested he put it in the guest room, he seemed amused, but did as I asked.

We went back out on the patio.

“You asked why I wanted you to stay,” I said. “What happened-between our parents-it wasn’t right.”

“Oh? So we should suddenly become cousins? Real cousins? Just ignore the past few decades of neglect?” He shook his head. “You Kellys are unbelievable.”

“I’m as much a Maguire as you are!”

“Forgive me for saying so, but so what?”

“Do we have to perpetuate something our parents started? Make it worse?”

“Why start with me? Go ask my mother’s forgiveness, not mine. God knows Mom has always been more interested in you than I am. In fact, the last time I saw her, she told me she was going to cut me out of her will in your favor. Even showed it to me.” He laughed. “Some day you’ll be the proud owner of a couple of religious statues and a dozen or so Georgette Heyer novels.”

Well, that shut me right up.

“What?” he asked, seeing my dismay.

“I’ve tried to think of a way to tell you this,” I said miserably.

He stared hard at me.

I drew a breath. “When your mother called you at the Mission Viejo Library, did you call her back?”

“No,” he said warily. “But what business is that of yours?”

“I think she called to tell you about your father,” I began. “Was-was he ill?”

“Yes,” he answered, then his eyes widened. “Was…?” he repeated, then said, “Not already! It’s too soon! He’s… he’s not… he died?”

“Yes.”

All the color left his face. He lowered his head, exhaled loudly. He made no other sound for several long minutes. But then, as the shock seemed to wear off, he stood up, fists clenched. His face, so pale just moments ago, was now flushed with rage. “I can’t believe it!” he said angrily. “I can’t believe she-she asked you to tell me-”

“She didn’t!” I said quickly.

“You just took it upon yourself? Why on earth-”

“Because… maybe you should sit down again.”

“No,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me, as if trying to read my mind. “Something’s happened-what’s wrong?”

“Travis, I’m sorry, I’m-so sorry to have to tell you this, but your mother was in a car accident and-”

“She’s hurt? Where is she?”

I shook my head. “She was killed, Travis.”

“Killed?” he said blankly, as if it had become a foreign word. “Killed?”

I nodded.

“By a car?” Still unable to grasp it.

“She was crossing a street…” I said, but trailed off as I saw his face twist up with grief. “Oh, Travis-” I reached out toward him.

“No!” he said.

He turned his back to me, took a faltering step, then sat down hard in the chair. He brought his knees up, sitting sideways, curling himself up in the chair, hiding his head in his arms. “No, not her. Not her,” he said, again and again, until he began sobbing too hard to say it.

The dogs had gingerly stepped onto the deck by then, and stood with hips leaning against my knees in what I took to be some sort of pack formation against danger, their ears forward and watching him with concern. Deke looked back at me, then ventured forward first, sniffing at his shoes and singing a single, high-pitched note of anxious sympathy to him. I was going to call her back, but he reached for her and held on to her soft black coat, and soon Dunk was also sidling in to offer whatever comfort he could.

I started to go inside the house, to give him some privacy, but turned back at the last moment, unwilling to let the dogs be smarter than I was, deciding that the family stubbornness that had pitted the two of us against one another might be put to better use.

The dogs moved away as I knelt next to him. I put an arm around his shoulders. He stiffened. I half expected him to tell me to go to hell, but instead he tentatively took hold of my hand, then squeezed it tightly, not letting go. After a time, he shifted in the chair, uncurling enough to put his head on my shoulder, and we held on to one another until this first wave of grief was exhausted.

He quieted, then pulled away awkwardly and went into the house without saying anything to me. I stretched and got up off my sore knees, waited a minute or two, then followed him in, dogs trailing. I heard the sound of the bathroom tap running, and figured he was washing his face. I went into the kitchen, busying myself with wiping off the counter and rinsing the dishes from lunch.

He hadn’t come out yet by the time I finished, so I sat on the couch and waited for him. Cody took advantage of this time to lie on my lap, splaying paws and purring loudly as I scratched the particular place under his chin that cannot receive enough attention.

Eventually Travis came into the living room. He seated himself on the couch, but as far away from me as possible. Staring at the empty fireplace, he said, “Tell me what you know.”

“About the accident?”

“Whatever you know about-what happened to my parents.”

I began by talking about his father’s death, because he seemed to have known of Arthur’s illness. “I don’t know much,” I said, “only what was on the death certificate.”

“He had cancer,” Travis said quietly.

“Yes, that was listed as the cause of death.”

After a moment, he said, “I guess you know something about that. Mom told me about your mother.”

“My father, too,” I said.

“Really? Patrick died of cancer?” he said, with a kind of mild curiosity, as if I had just told him that we had graduated from the same high school.

“Yes. In fact, the doctor who treated your dad was my dad’s doctor.”

He didn’t react to that. He seemed to be caught up in some distant memory. After a long silence, he said, “Mom used to tell me this story about you. That you held me when I was a baby.”

“Yes,” I said, hoping to God he wouldn’t ask me to talk about it just then.

He seemed to sense that, though, and said, “What happened to my mother?”

I tried to be gentle in the telling, but the facts of the matter were like axes, and couldn’t be used for fine work. After a time he again grew very pale, held up a hand, then murmured, “Excuse me.”

He hurried into the bathroom; I could hear him getting sick.

When Rachel came over a few hours later, exhaustion had led to a truce on both grief and bickering.

“Where is he?” Rachel asked, as she walked into my kitchen bearing a large, foil-covered baking dish.

“Taking a nap out in the Cosmobile,” I said.

“His camper?”

“Yep. He turned down the guest room.”

“You told him about his parents?” she asked.

“Yes. He took it pretty hard. Anyone would.”

“You didn’t have such an easy job, did you? You okay?”

I nodded. She didn’t say anything for a moment, then asked, “Aren’t you afraid he’ll just drive off?”

“He might, but I don’t think he will. He wants to see Aunt Mary and to visit Briana’s grave. But he said he’d like to wait until tomorrow- wasn’t ready for either one today. I don’t blame him. And as for driving off, I suppose he’ll probably bring my cat in first.”