Talia had never blamed one parent more than the other for kicking her out. They were a team. They’d rejected her. And maybe Grammy hadn’t been the best mother in the world. She’d been widowed, she’d worked, she’d left her daughter to fend for herself. Then she’d remarried and started a new life with Grandpa Lou, and Talia’s mother had resented her for that.
Whatever the dysfunctional dynamic between Grammy and her daughter, Grammy had been a better mother to Talia than Talia’s own mother had been, and she’d been a wonderful great-grandmother to Wendy. So much more sensible than Cory’s mother. So much more grounded. She’d believed pot was something you cooked soup in, and grass was something you mowed.
“And the winner of the math award is—”
“Not Wendy,” Cory murmured.
Talia grinned again. Wendy had already warned them she would not be winning the math award. She’d survived her year with Bozo the Clown, but math had never been her strong suit.
The announcement of each award was greeted with applause, a few cheers, some good-natured catcalls from classmates, and an occasional parent leaping to his or her feet with a cell phone raised to snap a photo. Talia pulled her phone from her purse, just to be ready. Sooner or later, Wendy’s name would be called. Not now, with the math, computer science, and chemistry awards being distributed. Wendy did well enough in the sciences to get accepted into a highly selective college—but she excelled in the humanities and social science courses—writing, literature, history, psychology. Talia predicted her award would be in one of those subjects.
“And here’s Howard Sturgess, the director of music programs at our school, to give out the music awards,” the principal said, waving a beefy middle-aged man in a rumpled shirt and wrinkled khakis over to the podium.
“Our girl is a shoo-in for the violin award,” Cory whispered.
Talia laughed.
Singers’ names were called. Instrumentalists’ names were called. The students who’d starred in the school’s production of “Grease” won theater awards. Someone won an award for oral presentation, whatever that was. Someone won an award for robotics. Wendy’s boyfriend Anthony won the history award. Her friend Pam Kaplan won the English award. Wendy should have won that award. Talia decided she didn’t like pretty, blond Ms. Benoit anymore.
“And now for our athletic awards,” the principal announced.
“Do they have an award for volleyball?” Cory asked.
Talia shrugged. If Wendy won a volleyball award, Talia would be proud of her. If she didn’t win any awards, Talia would still be proud of her. But they’d sat through forty-five minutes of tedious speeches just to see Wendy win something. She’d worked so hard for her grades. She ought to be recognized for something more than her ability to set and spike a ball.
She was a co-captain of the team, and sure enough, that was what her award was. Every senior co-captain of every varsity team—football, baseball, softball, boys’ and girls’ lacrosse, boys’ and girls’ soccer, boys’ and girls’ basketball, track, swimming, field hockey, ice hockey, and—yes—volleyball, was named and received a certificate.
Talia snapped a picture with her cell phone, but she was seated so far back in the auditorium, Wendy looked like little more than a blob on the vast stage. Beside Talia, Cory clapped hard. He looked so happy for Wendy, Talia felt guilty for not being more thrilled.
“I was hoping she’d get one of the academic awards,” she whispered to Cory as the four football co-captains lumbered onto the stage to collect their certificates.
“An award is an award,” Cory whispered back. He was grinning as if his daughter had just been granted the Nobel Peace Prize.
It occurred to Talia that he’d missed out on far too many other big moments in Wendy’s life. He’d never gotten attend one of her volleyball games. He’d never seen her, Pam, and three other friends perform their rhythmic dance in the school’s annual talent show, a performance filled with synchronized clapping and stomping and kicking and an abundance of glee. He’d never seen her in a stained apron, serving dinner with her friends at the soup kitchen in the basement of First Parish the second Sunday of every month. He’d never heard her show Wednesday nights on the school’s radio station—“Today I’m playing only girl rockers, because you know what? Girls rock!”
For him, to witness his daughter being handed a piece of paper in a navy blue folder was a thrill, even if all that paper did was recognize her contributions to the volleyball team.
The principal returned to the podium. Talia hoped he wouldn’t turn his farewell remarks into a marathon. She wanted to go home and crunch numbers, and check in with her workers. As soon as the principal tied things up, she’d give Wendy a quick hug—assuming Wendy would allow her to do that in front of her friends—and go home. And not invite Cory to dinner, because last night had been a mistake.
But the principal wasn’t done. “Now we have some scholarships to give out,” he said, “starting with the John. P. Archibald Memorial Scholarship, named after the late John P. Archibald, who founded Brogan Point High School’s debate team when he taught here fifty years ago.” The scholarship went to a student who, Talia assumed, was a talented debater.
Wonderful. How many more scholarships would the principal distribute?
Apparently many, each one named after someone who had to be identified at length: a retired art teacher, an alumnus who’d died in the Iraq War, someone’s parents, someone’s child. The local Chamber of Commerce provided a scholarship for a student aiming for a business career. The local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution provided a scholarship to a girl who helped organize the town’s annual Fourth of July parade. A scholarship donated by a regional chain of seafood restaurants went to a kid whose father ran one of the local trawlers. There were token scholarships for the three students who had managed not to miss a single day of school all year.
“You get an award for being healthy?” Cory muttered to Talia.
“Who says they were healthy? They probably came to school with the flu and spread their germs far and wide,” she shot back.
“And finally,” the principal intoned, “we have what we call the Brogan’s Point High School High Point Scholarships, for the boy and girl who have excelled in a broad variety of endeavors. They’ve received stellar grades. They’ve participated in sports and clubs. They’ve done community service. They may not be the best in any one thing, but they’re pretty darned good at a whole lot of things. In a world filled with specialists, the high school likes to honor its outstanding generalists, too. This year’s winners are Matthew Sonnenberg and Wendy Malone.”
The applause nearly drowned out Talia’s shriek. She leaped to her feet as Wendy climbed back onto the stage with her classmate Matt. After the principal handed each of them an envelope, they raised their fists, then flung their arms around each other in a celebratory hug.
Suddenly, Cory’s arms were around Talia, as if mirroring the two winners on the stage. She hugged him back. They swayed back and forth in the narrow space between their seats and the row in front of them. As ecstatic as she was about Wendy’s huge honor, Talia was equally ecstatic that Cory was there to bask in the moment with her. This was too big, too grand for her to experience alone.
They embraced. They clung to each other and bounced up and down. Her squeal was muffled by his shoulder, but she heard him whisper, “That’s our girl!” into her hair.
Our girl. Wendy was their girl. Their baby. Their daughter. Their brilliant creation.
The applause began to die down. Cory loosened his hold on Talia, then pressed his lips to the crown of her head. Tears filmed her eyes—tears not just of happiness for her daughter but of…romance. To be with Cory, basking in the glow of their daughter’s honor, receiving such a sweet, joyful kiss, was the most romantic moment Talia could ever recall experiencing.
“Remember to get here by five o’clock to board the buses down to Boston,” the principal shouted into the microphone
, his words half-buried beneath the exuberant chatter of the students as they swarmed out of their seats and clogged the auditorium’s aisles.
Talia noted Cory’s puzzled expression. “Tonight is the class’s harbor cruise,” she reminded him.
“They live in a seaport town, and they have to bus down to Boston to take a boat trip?”
“The boat cruises around Boston Harbor,” she explained, nudging him to sidle down the row to the aisle.
“So we can’t take her out to dinner to celebrate her award?”
“Not tonight. Keep moving—let’s see if we can catch her before she races off with her friends.”
The aisle was mobbed. “Talia!” Pam’s mother Janice called out as she edged toward the aisle two rows in front of Talia and Cory. “Hey! Congratulations!”
“Congratulations to Pam, too,” Talia shouted. “If Talia wasn’t going to get the English award, I’m so glad Pam got it.”
“But that scholarship Wendy got—high-point-high-school—what? How many ‘high’s’ did it have in its name?”
“I lost count.” Talia grinned, then noticed that Janice was eyeing Cory curiously. “Janice, this is Wendy’s father, Cory Malone. Cory, Janice Kaplan, the mother of Wendy’s friend who won the English award.”
They’d reached the aisle, and Cory stretched his arm to shake Janice’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Congratulations.”
“It’s great that you could be here to see this,” Janice said.
“You think we’ll be able to find our girls in this mob?” Talia asked. All she saw were students in T-shirts and shorts, chattering and hugging. Once again, the big, hulking boys obscured her view of petite girls like Wendy.
Fortunately, Wendy found her. Or, more accurately, she found Cory, who was as tall as most of the male students. She wiggled her way through the crush of kids until she reached her father and flung her arms around him. One hand clutched the envelope the principal had handed her, and the other the blue folder with her volleyball certificate. “Is this cool, or what?” she shrieked, releasing Cory to hug Talia. “Five thousand dollars, Mom! It’s a check for five thousand dollars!”
“Wow! That’s fabulous!” Talia gave Wendy a squeeze; evidently, a public display of affection with one’s parents was permitted in this context. Wendy’s hair was as soft against Talia’s cheek as it had been when Wendy was just a baby. She smelled of talcum powder and peppermint, a gloriously familiar scent. God, Talia would miss her when she left for college. She’d miss this smell, her daughter’s soft skin and chirpy voice, her ebullience.
Wendy released Talia and took a small step back. “So I can contribute this to my Tufts tuition, okay?” She gestured with the envelope.
“No,” Talia and Cory said in unison. They exchanged a look, Cory apparently as surprised as Talia that they had the same thought.
“That’s your money,” Cory said. “You earned it.”
“But it’s a scholarship,” Wendy argued.
“And you can use it for school expenses,” Talia said. “Books, supplies, stuff for your dorm room.”
“Beer,” Cory said, then grinned sheepishly, no doubt sensing Talia’s disapproval. “No, not beer. Snacks. Nothing illegal.”
“Let me take the check home,” Talia offered, plucking the envelope from Wendy’s hand. “I can take your volleyball award home, too. But especially the check. You don’t want it getting lost.”
“Okay. Yeah.” Wendy handed over her certificate. “Did you see Anthony won the history award? Isn’t that cool?”
“Congratulate him for us,” Talia said, but Wendy was already working way back into the crowd, vanishing within the forest of tall, hunky boys.
Talia and Cory inched away from the crowd, back into the unlit rear of the auditorium. “I can’t believe you told her she should buy beer.”
“She’s going to college. She’s going to drink,” he said with a shrug. “I’m glad you agreed that the money is hers, though.”
“Of course it’s hers.” Paying for college wouldn’t be easy. Talia wasn’t rich. Cory was doing well—his graphic arts company seemed to be thriving. But the private university Wendy would be attending was staggeringly expensive. Fortunately, Wendy had received some financial aid from the school. And if Cory could afford that hot little car he’d driven up to Brogan’s Point, Talia supposed he could afford his share of the school bill. She hadn’t questioned him when he’d told her he would cover the bulk of Wendy’s college expenses. Amazing that, as pitiful as their start had been—broke teenagers, bunking with his mother, arguing, Talia working for the minimum wage as a store clerk—they’d managed to claw their way into a comfortable middle-class life. And they’d managed to do so without arguing over money.
Actually, they’d pretty much stopped arguing once Talia left. What was there to argue about, once they were divorced? Cory had paid child support. Talia had made sure he remained an essential part of Wendy’s life, despite the distance that separated them. For a couple of kids too stupid to know that you weren’t supposed to reuse a condom, they’d done all right.
Better than all right. Their daughter had won the High-High-Point-Point scholarship.
“So,” Cory said as they made their slow way down the aisle toward an exit. “Since Wendy can’t join us for a celebratory dinner, how about you and I have dinner and celebrate without her?”
Talia hesitated. She didn’t want Cory coming to her house. She didn’t want him seducing her—not that she’d stocked up on contraceptives since yesterday—and walking out and leaving her bewildered and troubled once more. She didn’t want them to indulge in a few scorching-hot minutes of fun, after which she’d wind up alone, scrubbing the dishes while he went off and did whatever the hell he wanted.
“I’ll take you out. The restaurant at the inn where I’m staying is supposed to be really good. Why don’t we try that?”
“The Ocean Bluff Inn?” That was tempting. In the fifteen years she’d lived in Brogan’s Point, she had never once dined there. She’d heard the food was superb, but the prices were too steep for her. She was doing all right, but not so all right that she could afford to splurge on the sorts of eateries that charged eighty dollars for a bottle of wine.
“We should do something special. Our daughter just was named her high school’s top generalissimo.”
“Generalist,” Talia said, chuckling.
“So…do you want me to pick you up? Or you can just meet me there. How is—” he pulled out his cell phone and woke it to check the time “—six thirty? I’ve got some things to take care of this afternoon.”
She had things to take care of, too, but she couldn’t help wondering what items were on Cory’s to-do list. She didn’t want to be curious about how he was spending his time while here in Brogan’s Point. For all she knew, the things he had to take care of involved donning a swimsuit and heading down to the beach for a couple of hours. Or phoning all his friends back in Brooklyn to brag about his daughter’s lofty achievement.
Still, it was nice that he wanted to celebrate that lofty achievement. Talia wanted to celebrate it, too—and she didn’t want to celebrate it by herself. Meeting him for dinner at the Ocean Bluff Inn seemed safe enough. She would drive herself there, and drive herself back home afterward. No problem.
“Six-thirty,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”
Chapter Twelve
Cory had spent the morning with Shirley, checking out a few more possible locations for Tek-Palette’s Massachusetts branch. She’d driven him to a complex of old mill buildings being converted to high-tech office space in Watertown, a bustling town west of Boston. Not as close to Tufts University as the Somerville site she’d taken Cory to yesterday, but the rental spaces were roomy and not prohibitively expensive. A Boston address might carry prestige, but Cory thought some of the suburban locations Shirley had shown him might suit his company better.
He’d made it back to Brogan’s Point with ten minutes to spare, and headed straight
for the high school rather than returning to his room at the inn to decompress. Now he had much more to decompress from—and he didn’t want to decompress. He wanted to stay just as he was—inflated, pumped, swollen with pride.
His daughter was a superstar.
Who would have thought? At Wendy’s age, Cory had been a glorified graffiti artist; only his talent had differentiated him from the average street punk. He’d been the son of a woman who’d left her head somewhere in the 1960’s, and of a man who’d died too young. Cory had been seven when the construction accident had occurred. He scarcely remembered his father. And his mother… Thank God for the annuity. If the insurance company had given her the settlement in a lump sum, who knew what she would have done with it? Handed it over to street people. Bought more wind chimes. Blown it on pot.
She was a good person, just a silly person. She’d raised him, but he wasn’t evidence that she had particularly strong mothering skills. He sure hadn’t learned how to be a good parent from her.
Yet his daughter was amazing. Fabulous. Smart and skilled and diligent. Well balanced enough to win a scholarship.
Talia deserved all the credit.
So he would fete his daughter’s mother tonight. No need to think about post-dinner sex. No need to expect, or assume, that the evening would end with them naked. But just to be safe, he detoured to a drug store.
Back in his room, he shed the clothing he’d been wearing since meeting with Shirley that morning and took a long shower—his second of the day, but this one was for Talia, not for some real estate broker in the city. Once he was suitably clean, he phoned downstairs to make a reservation in the inn’s main dining room, then settled at the antique-looking writing table near the window, opened his laptop, and Skyped the New York office. His colleagues there listened while he described the Watertown venue, holding up a floor plan he’d sketched so they could see it, and showing them how he thought the space could be arranged.
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