“That’s OK,” said the recruiter, a young woman in a business suit and cornrows. “We’re marketing Flemington to whites. We’re aiming to sell them on the novelty aspect: what it feels like to be a minority.” The young woman gave her a business card. “Please have any students interested in something different give me a call—but be sure their grades and scores are up to par. We don’t have affirmative action.”
Across the gym, a large cluster of students stood around the Columbia rep. Columbia was always represented at Fenimore’s fall fair, since all they had to do was to put someone on the commuter train. In this instance, the rep, a nerdy-looking young man who appeared to be basking in attention that he did not otherwise get, was intoning that Columbia was “very, very selective,” a statement that appeared to fan the flames of the students’ desire. “Are 2200 SATs good enough?” asked a pretty blond-haired girl. The rep, who had been rejected by more girls who looked like this than he could count, seemed to relish the idea that he might, metaphorically at least, reject this girl. “Take them again,” he said smugly.
Most of the students at Fenimore were ambivalent about Columbia. It had prestige, but it was also right next door. This had the drawback and advantage of placing them within the proximity of their parents, who would be on hand to nag and swoop down unexpectedly, but who could also be used in a pinch to do laundry and take them out to dinner.
On the other side of the gym, the Stanford rep, who had been in the area to visit an ailing aunt, had a collection of students gathered around him. They had heard that Stanford was the Harvard of the West and thus worth considering, at least as a safety school. Since those who went to school in California never came back, an observer might have viewed the recruiter as a kind of pied piper in deep cover, luring unsuspecting students to a faraway place where they would rarely see their parents again.
Many of the booths were manned by local alumni, who enjoyed the idea of representing their alma maters but knew next to nothing about the college application process and almost as little about the schools themselves. Quite a number of these were retirees, who tended to be hard of hearing, dim of sight, and imbued with ancient tastes and prejudices.
“How many SAT IIs do you have to have?” asked a student of an elderly man wearing a Boston College cap and blazer, who looked like he had gone there when the Jesuits founded the place.
“SAT IIs?” said the man, befuddled.
“That’s what they call the Achievement tests now,” said the Denison rep helpfully, looking up from The Sound and the Fury.
“Ah!” said the alumnus, who clearly couldn’t recall the Achievement tests either. “It’s all in the brochure,” he assured the student. “Great school, BC. Good Catholic school. Great football team. You ever heard of Doug Flutie?” The student, looking frightened, fled the table.
Another alum in green plaid pants and a green blazer was expounding loudly to a collection of students about the merits of Yale. Many of these students had thought they wanted to go to Yale until meeting up with this alumnus.
“Those road trips to Holyoke, let me tell you; we had a grand old time. You should look into Mount Holyoke,” he said to a girl in the group.
“Yale is co-ed,” said the girl.
“So it is,” said the alum. “But Mount Holyoke is a damn good school too. My wife went there.”
On the other side of the room, a very old Williams alumnus was talking to Jeffrey Hopgood, who, having graduated only twenty-five years ago, was more knowledgeable about the place and was filling him in. Trevor had slunk off to the corner with his iPod, while Mrs. Hopgood was showing a polite interest in the materials of the nearby Vanderbilt rep, a young woman with a perky disposition that seemed to cheer her up.
“Has your son considered Vanderbilt?” asked the Vanderbilt rep.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hopgood, eyeing Trevor and wondering if she should try putting this question to him. “We’re thinking of Williams at the moment.”
“Excellent school,” said the young woman, “but cold. Does your son like the cold?”
Mrs. Hopgood did not know the answer to this question either and glanced over at Trevor, wondering if she ought to probe him on the subject of temperature.
“Warm weather would be nice,” said Mrs. Hopgood wistfully. “I would have liked to go south to school.”
“Never too late,” said the rep. “Where did you go?”
“SUNY at Oneonta.” Mrs. Hopgood sighed. “Very cold.”
“Well, you might consider a graduate degree. What field are you in?”
Mrs. Hopgood appeared to consider this question for a moment. “I was a psychology major,” she finally said.
“We have a great clinical psych program,” chirped the girl. “Take a brochure.” Mrs. Hopgood took a brochure.
A large gaggle of students stood around the University of Pennsylvania table, where the mother of one of the more popular senior girls was manning the booth. She was trying to convince them to consider Penn. “It’s my first choice, Mrs. Steinberg, after Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Dartmouth,” said a girl in an Abercrombie & Fitch miniskirt.
“I think Philadelphia is awesome,” said another girl.
“It’s the cradle of our country,” said Mrs. Steinberg, who took her recruiting position very seriously.
“My mom went to Penn State,” said another girl, known to be the least swift of the group.
“That’s not the same thing,” said Mrs. Steinberg.
“You’re so lucky you’re a legacy,” said the girl in the Abercrombie skirt to Hilary Steinberg, Mrs. Steinberg’s daughter. “At least you have a good chance of getting in.”
“I know,” said Hilary, “but I really want to go to Duke.” She glanced furtively over at the group around the Duke rep. “Don’t tell my mother.”
Anne walked through the gym, taking brochures from some of the schools and chatting for a few minutes with the lonelier-looking reps.
“Hello, Miss Ehrlich,” said the SUNY Binghamton rep, an ancient alum, who liked to drop by the guidance office on a weekly basis. He had a way of popping up just as Anne was about to do something important, wanting to fill her in on new developments at the university. He read the college newspaper on the Internet and thus always came prepared with some small nugget of information (the student cafeteria had added a salad bar, the student union would be closed for a week for renovation, Professor Simkus—whoever he was—had not gotten tenure, etc., etc.). What he really came to talk about was his blood pressure medicine and his deceased wife. It was, Anne realized, an important therapeutic part of his week and she tried not to begrudge him, though given the frequency of his visits, she wondered if she ought to be paid a social service fee on top of her salary.
“See you next week,” he called out. “Have some interesting new developments to tell you about the interlibrary loan policy.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Crane,” responded Anne as she made her getaway.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHE WAS WALKING BRISKLY DOWN THE STAIRS OF THE GYM, WODERING what inconvenient time next week Mr. Crane would show up, when she saw Ben Cutler walking toward her. He looked older—which of course he was—but he also looked the same. It was the familiar lanky figure: tall, the body a bit more substantial than it had been, but with the same slight slope to the shoulders and the same dark hair, now flecked here and there with gray. The hair was cut more stylishly than she remembered, but it was still thick and a bit unruly, curling unevenly at the bottom.
He was walking up the steps with a heavyset woman and a boy of about seventeen who looked uncomfortable in their company, the way boys of seventeen tend to do. The woman looked cheerful and was talking animatedly, while the boy was making every effort to lag behind.
Ben Cutler’s expression was pleasant. Anne could understand why Daphne had made a point of saying he was nice; he had not lost the look of optimism and goodwill that had always characterized him, despite a less-than
-privileged upbringing. It was that quality that should have given her confidence in his future, had she had more confidence in herself.
What was markedly different about him now was his dress. The jeans and sweatshirt had been replaced by what Anne could tell was a very good if casual suit and the kind of soft, expensive loafers that she associated with European men. It occurred to her that, having spent a good many years abroad writing his cultural guides, he would have developed cosmopolitan tastes. The woman beside him, whom Anne guessed was his sister, was dressed expensively too, though rather garishly in a pink wool suit with a large pin and a good deal of makeup.
They had arrived within a few feet of each other on the steps. She could tell that he had seen her a few moments earlier, since he had stopped talking to his sister and was looking straight ahead.
“Anne—” he said, stepping forward and shaking her hand. She felt the warmth of his palm in hers, a feeling that sent a familiar shiver through her body. Had it really been thirteen years since she had had his hand in hers?
She tried to maintain her composure and speak casually. “I heard that your nephew had enrolled at Fenimore. It’s quite a coincidence.”
“It is,” he said. She felt he was looking at her for what seemed like a long time, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. “I didn’t know you worked here, of course,” he finally said.
He said “of course,” she thought, because, had he known, he would never have come to the area.
“That amusing woman I met at the school told me that you were head of guidance,” he continued. “It wasn’t the career I would have imagined you’d go into.”
Anne supposed he had expected her to pursue a more glamorous and high-powered career, given her family’s wealth and status at the time. And suddenly she knew what he was thinking: that if he had never imagined her as a high-school guidance counselor, she had never imagined him as a successful businessman. She had not trusted him to do something with his life, and he had proven her wrong.
She saw his face flush slightly as the thought passed through his mind, but then he turned away quickly and began making introductions. “This is my sister, Pauline,” he said, motioning to the woman in the pink suit. “And this is my nephew, Jonathan.” He put his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Anne Ehrlich.” He gestured stiffly toward Anne. “I knew her years ago. It turns out she’s head of guidance here at Fenimore.”
Pauline put out her hand cordially. “I always say it’s a small world,” she declared in the manner of someone who never suspects more than what is said. “How nice that you’re in guidance. Jonathan needs guidance.”
Ben gave a short laugh. “Pauline doesn’t beat around the bush. It’s true that we’ve dragged Jonathan with us around the world, and he’s retaliated by paying no attention to us.” He glanced over at the boy, who had moved off to the side and begun reading a book. Ben’s face registered concern, and Anne imagined that he felt responsible for his nephew and perhaps guilty for any difficulties the boy may have suffered as a result of their moving so much.
“I’m sure he gained a lot from traveling,” said Anne quietly. “He may not realize it now, but later he will.”
Ben nodded slightly, as if he thought so too. “I hope your family is well,” he said suddenly in a low voice.
“Everyone is fine,” she replied, trying for a cheerful tone. “My grandmother had a minor stroke a few months ago, so I’m staying with her, but she’s recovering nicely. And my father and sister are the same.”
“That’s good,” said Ben without inflection.
Anne turned to the boy to cover her discomfort. “I hope you’re going to like Fenimore,” she said. “I know you’re only here for your senior year, but it’s not a bad place, all things considered. I hope you’ll feel free to drop by my office if you have questions—or even if you don’t.”
“Sure,” said the boy, looking up from his book indifferently.
“Mrs. Ehrlich knows Uncle Ben, so maybe she’ll give you special attention,” said Pauline in that clueless parental way that Anne knew tended to drive kids crazy—though Jonathan appeared to take the practical tack of ignoring her.
“It’s Ms. Ehrlich,” corrected Anne.
“Miss Ehrlich,” said Pauline, nodding. But Jonathan had returned to his book and did not look up. “Jonathan, sweetie, it’s not nice to read in front of people,” she said, then turned to Anne apologetically, since he was not paying attention. “What can you do? Even Ben can’t get him to say much, and if Bennie can’t, well . . .”
Anne thought that in that line alone she saw the entire dynamic of the family. She could tell by the way Pauline spoke of Ben that she not only relied on his help but saw him as the font of all wisdom.
“I’ve never been particularly good at convincing people to do things they don’t want to do,” noted Ben wryly. She could feel his eyes on her face, looking at her closely now, perhaps noting how she had changed. She recalled how he had looked at her with so much undisguised admiration the first time they met. How different from the clinical assessment she felt in his gaze now.
“It’s nice that Jonathan likes to read,” Anne said, trying to hide her embarrassment.
“Yes, but he reads all the time,” complained Pauline. “We want him to stop reading a little bit and start paying attention to what’s going on around him. I don’t think he noticed half the places we lived. He might as well have been in Queens, right, Ben?” She looked to her brother, as Anne surmised she often did, to elaborate on what she had said.
But before he could respond, a tall blond woman in a colorful silk dress came running up the steps. She was very pretty, with the air that only a few lucky women have of looking at once impeccably put-together and entirely natural. “I’m awfully sorry I’m late, my darling,” she said in a breathless, slightly accented voice. She gave Jonathan a peck on the cheek and hugged Pauline quickly, then lifted her head to kiss Ben lightly on the mouth. “I had to stand in line for an hour, but I got the theater tickets you wanted for this weekend. Aren’t you pleased?” The woman then turned to look at Anne with curiosity.
“Kirsten is my editorial director—and my fiancée,” said Ben quickly.
“Not in that order, I hope.” The woman addressed Anne with a laugh. “I am resigned to coming second to his sister and his dear nephew, but I insist on coming before his business. It would not bode well for the impending nuptials.”
Anne tried to smile, but felt a painful tightening in her chest. So there it was. Ben was engaged to someone who looked like a fashion model and was not without a sense of humor.
The woman put out her hand. “I’m Kirsten Knudsen. I met this motley crew in Copenhagen a year ago, and I’ve been tagging along ever since.”
Anne tried to keep her voice steady. “I’m Anne Ehrlich,” she said, then hesitated as she tried to clear her head and find the right words to present herself. “I’m Jonathan’s guidance counselor, though I knew his uncle years ago,” she finally added.
“Ah,” said Kirsten, as though, unlike Pauline, she was extremely gifted at understanding what wasn’t said. “Jonathan is a lucky boy!” Anne saw Ben’s eyes flicker.
There was a moment of awkward silence. “I don’t want to keep you from the college fair”—Anne began to speak, hardly knowing what was coming out of her mouth. “I’m not sure why they call it a fair—I think of ferris wheels and cotton candy. Though you can pick up some pens and refrigerator magnets with college logos, and the Home and School Committee did make brownies. . . .” She was babbling, she realized, and she stopped herself. “It was so nice to meet you all”—she nodded to Pauline and Kirsten (Jonathan wasn’t paying attention)—“and to see you again,” she added as her eyes grazed Ben’s face. She forced herself to smile, and then, holding herself very straight, she walked briskly down the stairs of the gym without looking back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THEIR FIRST DATE FIAD BEEN AT A COFFEE SHOP
ON BROADWAY. AFTER Ben had booked her trip to Italy, he had said he had something she should read before she went; he would bring it if she’d meet him for lunch the next day. Noon: that’s when he had his lunch break. She had had to leave her Western Civilization class early, though she hadn’t told him that.
When she arrived at the coffee shop, he was already there, and as she walked toward the back where he was sitting, she saw his face brighten. It was the sort of pleasure that people rarely show, but Ben Cutler had never been inclined to hide his feelings. Whether it was pleasure or, later, disappointment, it took over his face completely. In this case, his obvious pleasure in seeing her made her feel free to express hers in seeing him. She smiled back and her whole face and even her body seemed to relax. So much of her growing up had been about masking or repressing feeling. Even her grandmother, who had loved her unequivocally, had been guarded—unwilling to let on how much the loss of Anne’s mother had meant to her, and not wanting Anne to feel that loss too strongly.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, as if admitting that he had worried that she wouldn’t.
“Of course I came,” Anne said. “I always keep my promises. Besides, you said you had a book I should read to prepare for my trip.”
Ben laughed. “I knew you were the self-improving type.” He said this as though she had passed some sort of secret test—not only of showing up but of wanting whatever it was he had to give. “Order something,” he said. “It’s on me. Next time, it can be on you.” It had made her exceptionally happy to hear him refer to a next time. Then, he took a paperback out of his pocket and handed it to her.
“Italian Hours by Henry James. Heavy stuff,” said Anne, examining the book. It was tattered, as though it had been carried along in a hip pocket and read in subways and probably in coffee shops like this.
“Not really,” said Ben. “It’s more an appreciation than a dissertation—a lot of gushing about beautiful places. But it seems to me that when you travel you want to go all out and admit that the stuff is beautiful. I’ve never been anywhere, but when I finally go, I want to do it the way James did, with enthusiasm—and reverence.”
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