“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I had a good time.” He tossed me a smile—only a tad hurt pride, mostly genuine. “Have fun on Nantucket.”
And he turned his back and walked away.
I almost yelledCome back!
Instead I stared after him for a long while. Maybe he would have been perfect. Maybe I’d messed up.
But then, I was good at that.
Two
Alone, I took in my first real view of Nantucket.
I laughed in surprise. I couldn’t help myself; the wharf with its shops and crowds took me aback. I’d expected the weathered charm of the Cape, but instead everything looked new and well-kept. A red-brick pedestrian street led away from the dock, lined with wooden signs pointing toward galleries and shops.
“Hi, honey.”
I turned, and there was Dad.
Emotion surged over me, so strong and powerful I almost cracked. Love and relief and resentment and happiness and anger and a deep desire to throw myself into his arms and sayHi, Daddyand cry.
Instead I lifted my chin. “Hey, Dad.”
My father, Mr. Anthony Edelman, was a quiet, almost bashful man, the kind who thought long and hard before saying anything, then said it carefully (and then never stopped talking, if he discovered he had a willing audience). He was the smartest person I knew, and his moral compass always pointed true north.
I worried about him all the time.
“Where’s your luggage?” he said, alarmed, as though I’d perhaps forgotten to pack.
“They should be bringing them out—there.” We headed to the luggage racks a ferry employee pushed out. My beat-up, twenty-year-old suitcases stood out sharply in the middle of rows of designer brands. We dragged them over to a car Dad had parked in the Stop and Shop lot.
“It’s like winning the lottery, getting a spot here,” he said proudly, easing my bags into the trunk.
“You need more exciting lotteries. Where did the car come from?” Bringing a car onto the island cost a ridiculous amount of money, so I knew Dad got around by bike and bus.
“I borrowed it from the Barbanels for the day.”
Of course he had.
I drank in the town as we drove. The buildings were taller and closer together than I’d expected. I’d imagined they’d all be rose-covered cottages with window boxes, like in the pics Dad had sent during his past three summers here. The town was large, too, multiple blocks packed with shops and restaurants. We drove down cobblestone roads, past trees incandescently green in the June sun.
When we left downtown behind, the gray-shingled cottages I’d expected flourished. Roses climbed up trellises and over doorways. I saw whale decals on walls, and pineapples, and old-timey lanterns on porches. Pink and blue hydrangea bushes grew everywhere, alongside rose hips, their bright red fruits gleaming under the sun.
“It’s pretty here.”
“Isn’t it?” Dad sounded grateful to have a conversational gambit to latch onto. “Wait until you see Surfside. And the bluff walk out in ’Sconset, we’ll have to do that.”
“Cool.”
“How did your trip go?” he asked, a cautious note in his voice. “The ferry was okay?”
I shrugged, pushing aside thoughts of Chair Boy. “It was fine.”
“And how are Aunt Lou and Uncle Jerry?”
“They’re good.”
