else.
And now he had his freedom.
She resigned herself to spending the evening with her father and Earl. It was one of the first warm spring nights of the season, so Earl insisted on bringing over the coq au vin to the patio for dining alfresco. She, her dad and Earl even played the toasting game. They went around the table, taking turns finding one thing to drink to, the goal being to prove to themselves that no matter what else happened in the world, they had something to be grateful for.
“Voice dictation software,” Earl said, raising a glass. “I despise typing.”
“I’m toasting guys who can cook,” Philip said. “Thanks for dinner.” He turned to Olivia. “Your turn.”
“Once-a-month heartworm pills,” she said with a fond glance at Barkis.
Her father regarded her with kindly eyes. “Too bad they don’t make them for humans.”
He and Earl had seen her through this two times before. They knew the drill. And the depressing thing about that was, so did she. She felt…stuck. There was a point in her past that still held her captive. She knew what that moment was. She’d been seventeen, spending her last summer before college at camp, working as a counselor. That had been the only time she’d truly given her heart—fully, fearlessly, without reservation. It had ended badly and she didn’t know it at the time, but she had gotten stuck there, mired in emotional quicksand. She still hadn’t figured out how to move on.
Maybe her grandmother was offering her an opportunity to do that. “You know what?” she said, jumping up from the table. “I don’t have time to sit around and wallow.”
“So we’re practicing speed breakups now?”
“Sorry, but you guys will have to excuse me. I need to pack my bags,” she said, taking Nana’s photo album out of her briefcase. “I’m starting a new project first thing in the morning.” She took a deep breath, surprised to feel a beat of hopeful excitement. “I’m going away for the summer.”
Three
“T his is a bad idea,” said Pamela Bellamy as she opened the door to let Olivia in. The opulent apartment on Fifth Avenue had a museum-like quality, with its polished parquet floors and beautifully displayed art. To Olivia, however, it was simply the place she had grown up. To her, the Renoir in the foyer was no more remarkable than the Tupperware in the kitchen.
Yet even as a child, she’d felt like a visiting alien, out of place amid the Gilded Age elegance of her own home. She preferred cozy things—African violets and overstuffed chairs, Fiestaware and afghans. There was a long history of disconnect between mother and daughter. Olivia had been a lonely child, her parents’ one and only and as such, she’d always felt a certain pressure to be all things to them. She’d applied herself diligently to her studies and her music, hoping that a perfect report card or a music prize would warm the chill that seemed to surround her family for as long as she could remember.
“Hello to you, too, Mom.” Olivia set her bag on the hall table and gave her a hug. Her mother smelled of Chanel No. 5 and of the cigarette she sneaked on the east balcony after breakfast each morning.
“Why on earth would you take on such a project?” her mother demanded.
So far, all Pamela knew was what Olivia had told her on the phone the previous night—that it was over between her and Rand, and that she was going to spend the summer renovating Camp Kioga. “Because Nana asked me to,” she said softly. It was the simplest explanation she could come up with.
“It’s absurd,” Pamela said, straightening the shawl collar of Olivia’s sweater. “You’ll wind up spending the entire summer in the wilderness.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is a bad thing.”
“I tried to tell you and Dad that every summer when I was growing up, but you never listened.”
“I thought you liked going to summer camp.” Her mother held out her hands, palms
And now he had his freedom.
She resigned herself to spending the evening with her father and Earl. It was one of the first warm spring nights of the season, so Earl insisted on bringing over the coq au vin to the patio for dining alfresco. She, her dad and Earl even played the toasting game. They went around the table, taking turns finding one thing to drink to, the goal being to prove to themselves that no matter what else happened in the world, they had something to be grateful for.
“Voice dictation software,” Earl said, raising a glass. “I despise typing.”
“I’m toasting guys who can cook,” Philip said. “Thanks for dinner.” He turned to Olivia. “Your turn.”
“Once-a-month heartworm pills,” she said with a fond glance at Barkis.
Her father regarded her with kindly eyes. “Too bad they don’t make them for humans.”
He and Earl had seen her through this two times before. They knew the drill. And the depressing thing about that was, so did she. She felt…stuck. There was a point in her past that still held her captive. She knew what that moment was. She’d been seventeen, spending her last summer before college at camp, working as a counselor. That had been the only time she’d truly given her heart—fully, fearlessly, without reservation. It had ended badly and she didn’t know it at the time, but she had gotten stuck there, mired in emotional quicksand. She still hadn’t figured out how to move on.
Maybe her grandmother was offering her an opportunity to do that. “You know what?” she said, jumping up from the table. “I don’t have time to sit around and wallow.”
“So we’re practicing speed breakups now?”
“Sorry, but you guys will have to excuse me. I need to pack my bags,” she said, taking Nana’s photo album out of her briefcase. “I’m starting a new project first thing in the morning.” She took a deep breath, surprised to feel a beat of hopeful excitement. “I’m going away for the summer.”
Three
“T his is a bad idea,” said Pamela Bellamy as she opened the door to let Olivia in. The opulent apartment on Fifth Avenue had a museum-like quality, with its polished parquet floors and beautifully displayed art. To Olivia, however, it was simply the place she had grown up. To her, the Renoir in the foyer was no more remarkable than the Tupperware in the kitchen.
Yet even as a child, she’d felt like a visiting alien, out of place amid the Gilded Age elegance of her own home. She preferred cozy things—African violets and overstuffed chairs, Fiestaware and afghans. There was a long history of disconnect between mother and daughter. Olivia had been a lonely child, her parents’ one and only and as such, she’d always felt a certain pressure to be all things to them. She’d applied herself diligently to her studies and her music, hoping that a perfect report card or a music prize would warm the chill that seemed to surround her family for as long as she could remember.
“Hello to you, too, Mom.” Olivia set her bag on the hall table and gave her a hug. Her mother smelled of Chanel No. 5 and of the cigarette she sneaked on the east balcony after breakfast each morning.
“Why on earth would you take on such a project?” her mother demanded.
So far, all Pamela knew was what Olivia had told her on the phone the previous night—that it was over between her and Rand, and that she was going to spend the summer renovating Camp Kioga. “Because Nana asked me to,” she said softly. It was the simplest explanation she could come up with.
“It’s absurd,” Pamela said, straightening the shawl collar of Olivia’s sweater. “You’ll wind up spending the entire summer in the wilderness.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is a bad thing.”
“I tried to tell you and Dad that every summer when I was growing up, but you never listened.”
“I thought you liked going to summer camp.” Her mother held out her hands, palms
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