all been doing down there in the big city. Come on; enlighten your old man.”
Meg’s heart thundered at the question; she was unsure of how to answer. After his tailspin over her wine comment, the truth was out of the question. Just the week before she’d come here, Wiley and Emma had opened Wiley’s parents’ liquor cabinet after school and made them all Cosmos. Meg had downed three and then sneaked Ty Anderson back into her room at midnight, where he’d stayed until five the next morning.
She reached absently for the last two Nilla wafers beside her plate and sandwiched them. “There’s nothing to tell,” she said. “We do the same things as we did last year. Go to the movies a lot. Go shopping. You know. The usual.”
Her phone chimed on the counter. Owen glanced at it, frowning. “What’s your mom want now?”
Did it never occur to her father that it might be someone else trying to reach her? “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Meg said, glancing longingly at the phone, wondering what Ty had written back to her earlier text.
“Mom said you’re looking at Barnard.”
“
She
is,” Meg said, aware of how despondent her answer had sounded. The truth was that lately, and unbeknownst to either one of her parents, Meg had been scanning the Web sites of colleges much farther away, University of New Mexico and UCLA.
“You still want to take a day to see Tufts this summer, don’t you?” Owen asked, and his expression was so bright and hopeful that Meg didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d let her mother talk her out of applying to Tufts last month.
“You bet,” she said instead.
“And maybe we could go to the aquarium. See the penguins.” He reached for another slice. “God, you haven’t been there since you were in middle school.”
Meg nodded agreeably. “Sounds great, Dad.”
• • •
T he first time Owen saw George Schneider—which was at the art council’s fifty-dollars-a- head reception at the Osprey House—his immediate thought was that the visiting artist looked nothing like Heather had described him.
In the weeks leading up to the big event, Heather had been buzzing about the arrival of the painter she’d worked tirelessly to bring up from New York, the man whom the art council, of which Heather was vice president, had commissioned to create the mural in the library’s newly built wing. She’d said he was forty-five; he looked easily five years younger. She’d suggested he was heavy; he wasn’t, a fact made glaringly apparent by the snug knit shirt and tailored pants he’d arrived in. “You should know that George is terribly reclusive,” Heather had explained, prepping Owen on the drive over to the reception as if George Schneider were the Dalai Lama. Another lie: the man was as gregarious as a game-show host, greeting Harrisport residents like old friends, particularly the women, Owen noticed on more than one occasion—an observation that had been met with an irrational degree of outrage from his wife. “George isn’t like that,” Heather had claimed on the ride home. “And how would you know? You hardly spent two minutes with him. I was counting on you to be my escort, and you spent the whole time holed up with Keith Poole talking business!”
A clever tactic, Owen had thought bitterly in the days after Heather had announced her love for Schneider: turning the tables so that Owen would think he’d failed her on some level that night. As if his antisocial behavior were an offense equal to her infidelity.
Owen had lost a wife so Harrisport could gain a mural. Was it any wonder he never visited the library anymore?
Now climbing the stairs after shutting down the house for the night, Owen paused to glance at his daughter’s door at the very end of the hall. He was lucky; he knew that. Plenty of teenage girls spent their summers goofing around on the beach, mixing with boys who were too old and too reckless, wanting to grow up too fast. Despite the
Meg’s heart thundered at the question; she was unsure of how to answer. After his tailspin over her wine comment, the truth was out of the question. Just the week before she’d come here, Wiley and Emma had opened Wiley’s parents’ liquor cabinet after school and made them all Cosmos. Meg had downed three and then sneaked Ty Anderson back into her room at midnight, where he’d stayed until five the next morning.
She reached absently for the last two Nilla wafers beside her plate and sandwiched them. “There’s nothing to tell,” she said. “We do the same things as we did last year. Go to the movies a lot. Go shopping. You know. The usual.”
Her phone chimed on the counter. Owen glanced at it, frowning. “What’s your mom want now?”
Did it never occur to her father that it might be someone else trying to reach her? “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Meg said, glancing longingly at the phone, wondering what Ty had written back to her earlier text.
“Mom said you’re looking at Barnard.”
“
She
is,” Meg said, aware of how despondent her answer had sounded. The truth was that lately, and unbeknownst to either one of her parents, Meg had been scanning the Web sites of colleges much farther away, University of New Mexico and UCLA.
“You still want to take a day to see Tufts this summer, don’t you?” Owen asked, and his expression was so bright and hopeful that Meg didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d let her mother talk her out of applying to Tufts last month.
“You bet,” she said instead.
“And maybe we could go to the aquarium. See the penguins.” He reached for another slice. “God, you haven’t been there since you were in middle school.”
Meg nodded agreeably. “Sounds great, Dad.”
• • •
T he first time Owen saw George Schneider—which was at the art council’s fifty-dollars-a- head reception at the Osprey House—his immediate thought was that the visiting artist looked nothing like Heather had described him.
In the weeks leading up to the big event, Heather had been buzzing about the arrival of the painter she’d worked tirelessly to bring up from New York, the man whom the art council, of which Heather was vice president, had commissioned to create the mural in the library’s newly built wing. She’d said he was forty-five; he looked easily five years younger. She’d suggested he was heavy; he wasn’t, a fact made glaringly apparent by the snug knit shirt and tailored pants he’d arrived in. “You should know that George is terribly reclusive,” Heather had explained, prepping Owen on the drive over to the reception as if George Schneider were the Dalai Lama. Another lie: the man was as gregarious as a game-show host, greeting Harrisport residents like old friends, particularly the women, Owen noticed on more than one occasion—an observation that had been met with an irrational degree of outrage from his wife. “George isn’t like that,” Heather had claimed on the ride home. “And how would you know? You hardly spent two minutes with him. I was counting on you to be my escort, and you spent the whole time holed up with Keith Poole talking business!”
A clever tactic, Owen had thought bitterly in the days after Heather had announced her love for Schneider: turning the tables so that Owen would think he’d failed her on some level that night. As if his antisocial behavior were an offense equal to her infidelity.
Owen had lost a wife so Harrisport could gain a mural. Was it any wonder he never visited the library anymore?
Now climbing the stairs after shutting down the house for the night, Owen paused to glance at his daughter’s door at the very end of the hall. He was lucky; he knew that. Plenty of teenage girls spent their summers goofing around on the beach, mixing with boys who were too old and too reckless, wanting to grow up too fast. Despite the
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