Leonard was thinking about the past, too, because he said, “Was it really that bad for you?”

“I don't think about it much.”

“Mom does.” Leonard checked for a reaction, but Seeley's eyes were fixed on the horizon. Leonard's last Christmas card reported that their mother had moved to a retirement home in Palo Alto, not far from where Leonard and his wife lived in Atherton. Other than at Leonard's wedding, Seeley hadn't talked to her since he left home.

Leonard said, “She still feels sorry about your leaving.”

If that was true, his mother had changed. “Feel” and “sorry” had never been part of her vocabulary.

Finally, Seeley said, “Some wounds can't heal.”

“I'm a doctor, Mike. I like to think they can.”

An iron railing and a narrow strip filled with concrete picnic tables separated the Hatch from the lake. The squat cinder-block structure was locked and shuttered, closed for the season. The tables were empty, except for one at which three ancient, animated black women, dressed as if for church, were holding on to their hats against the gusts coming off the lake, shooing the gulls that swooped over the tall thermos and sandwiches from their picnic basket.

The brothers leaned on the railing, looking out at the water. Seeley knew he had no good reason to ask, but he did anyway. “When does your case go to trial?”

“October twenty-sixth. Two weeks from today.”

“You're kidding, right?” Except that, for all his smiles, Leonard rarely joked.

“The case is in shape to go to trial tomorrow. Our law firm has a whole team working on it. It's a purring engine, just waiting for you to shift it into drive.”

“Who's your firm?”

“Heilbrun, Hardy.”

Heilbrun, Hardy and Crockett had roots in post-gold rush San Francisco and was known for its strong litigation practice. Seeley said, “Pearsall must have had a second chair. Why can't he take over?”