stay. But I was thinking about Daniel Weston last night, after you asked if I knew him, and I realized why the name rang a bell. Here.” He held out a magazine, folded open to an inside page.
“What is this?” she asked, taking it from him.
“The Amherst alumni mag from this past summer. For one thing, that’s a picture of Weston there.”
Meg studied the black-and-white photo, which showed a tall, distinguished-looking man, his hair a mix of dark and gray and slightly too long. He was standing in front of a group, lecturing—apparently about something that excited him, if his smile and his expansive gesture, arms flung wide, were any indication. “Good-looking man, isn’t he? Is that what you wanted me to see?”
“No, read on. The article was about this symposium he was organizing to entertain the parents who’re bringing their kids to school, kind of to ease the separation by providing activities for each over that first weekend, and then bringing them back together now and then, before sending the parents home.”
“So?”
“Weston was the keynote speaker and the main coordinator for the event—this year’s is taking place this weekend. It’s kind of a mix of entertainment and serious scholarly stuff—some kind of face-off between the Whitmanites and the Dickinsonophiles about who’s the best nineteenth-century American poet. But my point is, don’t you think it’s odd that he’d pick this week of all weeks to renew contact with your mother? He must have been run off his feet, between the symposium and beginning-of-the-year stuff at the college.”
Meg looked at the picture again. “Maybe he was really well organized? Still, you’re right. He could have gotten together with Mother over the summer, when things were more peaceful. Why now, I wonder?” Because Daddy was away? Meg wondered, then squashed the thought. “I’ll see if I can find out from her. I mean, it’s possible that he’d been trying to set this up for months, and this was the first time Mother agreed, and he didn’t want to miss the opportunity?”
“Maybe,” Seth replied. “Ask her. You’re going to see her?”
“I thought I’d drive over this morning and offer to take her to lunch. If I call first, she might just say no.”
“Don’t worry. She’s probably as eager to patch things up as you are.”
Was she? And “patch” seemed to be an appropriate word: slap some goop over the rift and pretend that nothing had happened. “Well, I promise I’ll try to find out. Thanks for the information anyway. I’ll let you know how things turn out.”
It was nearly ten before Meg headed north to Amherst, after dressing with deliberation. She didn’t want to look too grubby, but neither did she want to seem too dressed up. She wanted to send the message that this was a casual event, no big deal, but at the same time she didn’t want to provoke Elizabeth’s criticism. Whatever she chose, her mother would notice.
As always, Meg admired Rachel Dickinson’s ornate Victorian house turned bed-and-breakfast, looking particularly splendid today against a backdrop of vivid autumn foliage, as she approached it. Her mother’s car was parked around the side, and Meg pulled up beside it and parked. She took a deep breath before making her way around to the kitchen entrance toward the rear of the house. She rapped on the frame of the screen door. “Anybody home?” she called out.
“Meg, is that you?” Rachel emerged from the back of the house. “I was just showing your mother some guide-books on Amherst. Come on in.”
Meg complied. In a low voice Meg said, “How’s the weather?” nodding toward the front room.
“Partly sunny. Don’t worry,” Rachel said in a similarly low voice. “We’ve been having a nice time, but she does seem a bit down. Come on back.” Rachel led the way through the kitchen, and Meg followed dutifully.
Elizabeth looked up when she entered the room. Meg was startled to see that
“What is this?” she asked, taking it from him.
“The Amherst alumni mag from this past summer. For one thing, that’s a picture of Weston there.”
Meg studied the black-and-white photo, which showed a tall, distinguished-looking man, his hair a mix of dark and gray and slightly too long. He was standing in front of a group, lecturing—apparently about something that excited him, if his smile and his expansive gesture, arms flung wide, were any indication. “Good-looking man, isn’t he? Is that what you wanted me to see?”
“No, read on. The article was about this symposium he was organizing to entertain the parents who’re bringing their kids to school, kind of to ease the separation by providing activities for each over that first weekend, and then bringing them back together now and then, before sending the parents home.”
“So?”
“Weston was the keynote speaker and the main coordinator for the event—this year’s is taking place this weekend. It’s kind of a mix of entertainment and serious scholarly stuff—some kind of face-off between the Whitmanites and the Dickinsonophiles about who’s the best nineteenth-century American poet. But my point is, don’t you think it’s odd that he’d pick this week of all weeks to renew contact with your mother? He must have been run off his feet, between the symposium and beginning-of-the-year stuff at the college.”
Meg looked at the picture again. “Maybe he was really well organized? Still, you’re right. He could have gotten together with Mother over the summer, when things were more peaceful. Why now, I wonder?” Because Daddy was away? Meg wondered, then squashed the thought. “I’ll see if I can find out from her. I mean, it’s possible that he’d been trying to set this up for months, and this was the first time Mother agreed, and he didn’t want to miss the opportunity?”
“Maybe,” Seth replied. “Ask her. You’re going to see her?”
“I thought I’d drive over this morning and offer to take her to lunch. If I call first, she might just say no.”
“Don’t worry. She’s probably as eager to patch things up as you are.”
Was she? And “patch” seemed to be an appropriate word: slap some goop over the rift and pretend that nothing had happened. “Well, I promise I’ll try to find out. Thanks for the information anyway. I’ll let you know how things turn out.”
It was nearly ten before Meg headed north to Amherst, after dressing with deliberation. She didn’t want to look too grubby, but neither did she want to seem too dressed up. She wanted to send the message that this was a casual event, no big deal, but at the same time she didn’t want to provoke Elizabeth’s criticism. Whatever she chose, her mother would notice.
As always, Meg admired Rachel Dickinson’s ornate Victorian house turned bed-and-breakfast, looking particularly splendid today against a backdrop of vivid autumn foliage, as she approached it. Her mother’s car was parked around the side, and Meg pulled up beside it and parked. She took a deep breath before making her way around to the kitchen entrance toward the rear of the house. She rapped on the frame of the screen door. “Anybody home?” she called out.
“Meg, is that you?” Rachel emerged from the back of the house. “I was just showing your mother some guide-books on Amherst. Come on in.”
Meg complied. In a low voice Meg said, “How’s the weather?” nodding toward the front room.
“Partly sunny. Don’t worry,” Rachel said in a similarly low voice. “We’ve been having a nice time, but she does seem a bit down. Come on back.” Rachel led the way through the kitchen, and Meg followed dutifully.
Elizabeth looked up when she entered the room. Meg was startled to see that
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