chair. My father appraised me sternly.
“How’s work?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Work?” I shrugged. “Good as ever, I guess.”
He leaned forward. “And how’s life?”
My eyes lowered. “Fine, Dad.”
“Is that why you’re making time with the Bendetti boy?”
My mouth fell open. My father could see through obsidian. I should have known better than to try to fool him.
“Don’t bother denying it. You know where that guy has been the last few years? What are you thinking getting mixed up with a punk like that?”
I was starting to feel a sort of surreal detachment from this conversation. It was really an exchange which I should have had with my father ten years ago. Except there wasn’t any reason for it back then.
My face flushed and I felt obliged to remind him of something. “I’m an adult, Dad.”
“Then please act like it.”
I stood, my hands on my hips. “ Dammit, I’m responsible for my own decisions.”
He sighed, looking suddenly tired. “And your own mistakes.”
“If need be.”
My father looked at me sadly. “All you ever wanted was to get out of here.”
“I am out of here.”
He shook his head slowly, then rose to his feet, glaring at me. “You tell that asshole if he wants to see my daughter he’d better get over here and shake my hand and look me in the eye.”
“I’m not telling him that.”
He started to head out the front door. “Got to get back to the store. You know your mother doesn’t have a head for counting and if I leave her to it much longer my inventory numbers will be all off.” His hand was on the brass doorknob. “Invite him for dinner. Your mother’s making meatloaf and even I can’t stop her.”
“Dad!”
“Six o’clock, Angela.”
He slammed the front door.
I felt miserable. It had taken me nearly twenty five years but I had finally utterly disappointed my father.
The idea depressed me to the point of exhaustion so I did the reasonable thing and returned to my bedroom, peeling back the bedspread and sinking between the covers, letting the blissful oblivion of sleep overtake me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grace Franco and Alan Durant had been born in Cross Point Village and so of course they knew one another long before the first wisps of adolescence.
I’d grown up looking at grainy photos of high school dances, mountain picnics and the nauseatingly shiny radiance of a young couple in love. It didn’t even have to be said; my parents were the fairy tale. The first kiss, for them, was the forever kiss. And when I was old enough to recognize the rarity I would shake my head, thinking “My God they were lucky.” They never knew the futility of the search, the sting of one heartbreak after another until it seemed impossible the world could hold your other half.
I, on the other hand, knew all about it.
The guy I lost my virginity to was named Matthew Moriarity. Amherst was a small college and it wasn’t difficult to float in similar circles with nearly everyone at some point.
It was senior year, the final spring break, and I reluctantly tagged along with my roommate, Judith. Judith was prissy as a cat and engaged to a fellow undergrad named Fred.
Fred was big and blonde and got off with more grunting than a feral pig. He and Judith would pretend to chastely fall asleep across the room on top of Judith’s covers until they figured I had nodded off and then they would hammer away like a pair of jackrabbits.
But Fred, bless him, had legions of hot friends and on the eve of my departure from college life I was damned determined to find the collegiate action so fabled and yet so lost to me.
Oh, there had been a few awkward outings co mplete with some tongues and boob rubbing. And then junior year a three week relationship got me into a pants-off position which seemed promising until Brad (I forgot his last name) ejaculated all over my left thigh and then
“How’s work?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Work?” I shrugged. “Good as ever, I guess.”
He leaned forward. “And how’s life?”
My eyes lowered. “Fine, Dad.”
“Is that why you’re making time with the Bendetti boy?”
My mouth fell open. My father could see through obsidian. I should have known better than to try to fool him.
“Don’t bother denying it. You know where that guy has been the last few years? What are you thinking getting mixed up with a punk like that?”
I was starting to feel a sort of surreal detachment from this conversation. It was really an exchange which I should have had with my father ten years ago. Except there wasn’t any reason for it back then.
My face flushed and I felt obliged to remind him of something. “I’m an adult, Dad.”
“Then please act like it.”
I stood, my hands on my hips. “ Dammit, I’m responsible for my own decisions.”
He sighed, looking suddenly tired. “And your own mistakes.”
“If need be.”
My father looked at me sadly. “All you ever wanted was to get out of here.”
“I am out of here.”
He shook his head slowly, then rose to his feet, glaring at me. “You tell that asshole if he wants to see my daughter he’d better get over here and shake my hand and look me in the eye.”
“I’m not telling him that.”
He started to head out the front door. “Got to get back to the store. You know your mother doesn’t have a head for counting and if I leave her to it much longer my inventory numbers will be all off.” His hand was on the brass doorknob. “Invite him for dinner. Your mother’s making meatloaf and even I can’t stop her.”
“Dad!”
“Six o’clock, Angela.”
He slammed the front door.
I felt miserable. It had taken me nearly twenty five years but I had finally utterly disappointed my father.
The idea depressed me to the point of exhaustion so I did the reasonable thing and returned to my bedroom, peeling back the bedspread and sinking between the covers, letting the blissful oblivion of sleep overtake me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grace Franco and Alan Durant had been born in Cross Point Village and so of course they knew one another long before the first wisps of adolescence.
I’d grown up looking at grainy photos of high school dances, mountain picnics and the nauseatingly shiny radiance of a young couple in love. It didn’t even have to be said; my parents were the fairy tale. The first kiss, for them, was the forever kiss. And when I was old enough to recognize the rarity I would shake my head, thinking “My God they were lucky.” They never knew the futility of the search, the sting of one heartbreak after another until it seemed impossible the world could hold your other half.
I, on the other hand, knew all about it.
The guy I lost my virginity to was named Matthew Moriarity. Amherst was a small college and it wasn’t difficult to float in similar circles with nearly everyone at some point.
It was senior year, the final spring break, and I reluctantly tagged along with my roommate, Judith. Judith was prissy as a cat and engaged to a fellow undergrad named Fred.
Fred was big and blonde and got off with more grunting than a feral pig. He and Judith would pretend to chastely fall asleep across the room on top of Judith’s covers until they figured I had nodded off and then they would hammer away like a pair of jackrabbits.
But Fred, bless him, had legions of hot friends and on the eve of my departure from college life I was damned determined to find the collegiate action so fabled and yet so lost to me.
Oh, there had been a few awkward outings co mplete with some tongues and boob rubbing. And then junior year a three week relationship got me into a pants-off position which seemed promising until Brad (I forgot his last name) ejaculated all over my left thigh and then
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