‘We should both go up to Vermont,’ Philip said now, his hand on my arm again. ‘We could learn how to ski. Or snowboard.’
‘Mmm.’ I dove into the bread basket as soon as the waitress placed it on the table. In Vermont, Rosemary worked at an organic plant store/coffee shop; they held folk concerts and poetry slams Sunday nights. My father didn’t do anything for a while, but then began to renovate their farmhouse. He bought how-to books and just started…doing it. My father, who used to fear doing the laundry, now knew how to plumb and do electric work and hang windows. He knew how to frame a door and check if things were level. After he finished the farmhouse, he’d taken a job at an artist colony, repairing the studios and cottages. Apparently, Vermont was full of artist colonies, places where artists went and just…existed. Writers took over run-down barns and cabins. Painters climbed uneven steps to slanted lofts and marveled at the windows and light. My father, the once-dermatologist and cancer researcher, a holder of not one but several advanced degrees, wandered around with his tool belt, making sure the windows opened properly to vent out turpentine fumes.
Now, Steven and Angie stood awkwardly over us, smiling and holding hands. Angie had her purse slung across her chest like a postal worker, and Steven’s hairline was receding, which I still found shocking and funny but also sad. ‘Hey!’ Steven cried.
My father stood up. ‘You’re here!’ He wrapped his arms around Steven. Rosemary hugged Angie, who was petite and Asian and had the smallest teeth I had ever seen. The two of them sat down and shrugged off their jackets and bags. ‘So happy you made it,’ my father beamed. ‘You get in okay?’
‘Oh, sure, for once.’ Angie rubbed her red hands together. She and Steven rolled their eyes in the understanding that frequent travelers had. They both worked at an Internet company in San Francisco. The website, which had something to do with on-line music reviews, was getting bigger and bigger, so they frequently flew around the country, attending events to promote it. This past summer, Steven had scored my father and Rosemary third-row seats to see Dave Brubeck at the Newport Jazz Festival, the musical zenith of my father’s life.
‘Who knows about our return flight, though?’ Steven added. ‘All we’ve heard all day is talk about this snowstorm.’
‘They’re saying three feet,’ Angie said.
My father lowered his eyes, looking distraught. ‘They’re wrong,’ Rosemary assured him.
‘You think?’ my father asked.
‘I’m sure,’ Rosemary said.
‘Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s true,’ I piped up. ‘The meteorologists are usually right about blizzards.’
‘Oh, I have a feeling it won’t,’ Rosemary said.
‘It’s not like you’re God,’ I said. I’d meant it as a joke, but it had come out so harsh and mean, and the whole table paused for a second.
‘I’m Philip.’ He reached across the table and shook Angie’s hand, breaking the silence.
‘You’re here with Summer?’ Steven asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you guys live near each other in Annapolis?’
‘We live together in Annapolis,’ Philip said, slowly, glancing at me.
‘Oh!’ Steven and Angie looked at each other in surprise. Philip kept his eyes on me, twirling a fork around in his fingers.
Steven nodded toward Philip. ‘You look familiar.’
I clenched my butt in my chair. Philip was going to say that he had lived in Cobalt, or Steven was going to ask how we knew each other. I didn’t want to talk about Cobalt now, or ever, not with Steven.
‘Well, I lived in New York,’ Philip said.
Angie snorted. ‘Meaning he’s completely not familiar.’
I began to relax; perhaps the dangerous moment of opportunity had passed. Steven leaned back and regarded our father. ‘So I have to sort through my old room, huh?’
‘That’s right,’ my father answered.
‘I can’t wait to see his high school bedroom,’ Angie giggled maliciously, wiggling her hands like Gargamel about to muzzle a Smurf. She looked at us. ‘Have you guys been by there yet?’
‘Actually, we’re staying there,’ Philip said. ‘In Summer’s bedroom.’
‘You’re staying there?’ My father sounded confused. ‘You didn’t get a hotel?’
I shrugged. ‘My bed’s a double. We can both fit. And we’ll be out of there before the open house. Then we’re going to stay in a hotel.’
My father scratched his thick hair. It was short now, tamed, and his beard was gone. His skin was red with either windburn or sunburn, and he wore a thick, cream-colored wool sweater, dark green corduroy pants, and complicated hiking boots, the kind that probably insulated against Vermont’s snow and ice. ‘And…how long are you going to be in town after the open house?’
I chewed slowly. ‘We’re staying same length of time as Angie and Steven. Until Tuesday. Then we’ll drive home.’
‘Tuesday morning or Tuesday afternoon?’