Page 41 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

My parents, I’m horrified to realize, aren’t watching Dylan depart. They’re having their own wordless conversation, one in which they’re elbowing each other while looking into the living room, where Dylan’s mattress remains on the floor with its rumpled bedding, and where my grandmother’s fancy rum sits on a side table with two empty glasses, two dead phones, and Cruel Tides. Because it wasn’t annoying enough for my parents to think I was idling away my days here. Now they’ll think I’m having drunk, sexy sleepovers. As if that was ever my style.

“Dylan’s bedroom ceiling caved in when the rain was at its worst,” I explain, and it’s an explanation my parents either accept or ably pretend to accept without prying for details.

“I knew this place was one strong wind from collapsing,” my mom says.

“We saw the state of the carriage house,” my dad adds. “And the back porch. Roof still needs replacing, too. I thought you said you were fixing the place up. Improving its value.”

“It’s a slow process,” I say. “Everything takes time and money.”

My parents exchange one of my least favorite looks. She didn’t do what we told her to, and now look at the mess she’s gotten herself into. It’s approximately 70 percent disapproval, 30 percent gloating, maybe 60/40, though it fades as my mom runs a hand along a curling wallpaper edge.

“There’s only so much you can do with a place like this.” She rubs her fingertips together, frowning at whatever residue coats them, or whatever she thinks coats them. “I told my mother to sell it so many times, to let someone tear it down and build a nice, modern home with big picture windows and proper insulation, maybe even put in some condos to take advantage of the growing rental market, but she was just as stubborn as you are, Philippa.”

My teeth grind at her lack of sympathy for my grandmother’s connection to this house, or my own, and yet, I can’t help but take the comparison to my grandmother as a compliment.

“Did you want to stay and visit?” I ask. “Or do you need to get back to Portland?”

“I’m not sure.” My mom looks to my dad for direction.

He shrugs in reply. “I could use a cup of coffee before hitting the road.”

“Ooh, yes, coffee,” my mom says. “Or a latte if you can whip one up.”

“Excellent idea,” my dad says. “Make that two.”

“The power’s out,” I say. “And neither Dylan nor I drink coffee, so we don’t have any.”

My mom reels at this. “You don’t keep anything around for guests?”

A breath of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. “What guests?”

My parents exchange another look, this one light derision mixed with befuddlement. With their busy social lives, they’ve never understood my quieter lifestyle or my inability to accumulate and maintain close friendships the way they do. Also, I’ve lived here for four months now. My family hasn’t exactly been knocking down my door to come say hi.

“How about a glass of water?” my dad asks.

“With lemon, if you have it,” my mom says. “Lime would do, if you don’t.”

We don’t have any lemons or limes, but I fetch two glasses of water and meet my parents in the living room, where my mom is now complaining about the cold and damp, perched on the edge of the super-creaky armchair as though she doesn’t trust it with her full weight. She’s still wearing her trench coat, likely as a signal I haven’t made my house warm enough or welcoming enough. My dad nudges the mattress out of the way so he can take a seat on the sofa, where he examines a patched joint on the sofa’s woodwork like the master carpenter he isn’t. I let them make themselves as comfortable as possible—though that’s clearly not comfortable at all—while I crumple newspaper to start a fire. The house has three fireplaces, but only this one works, and I haven’t even begun to explore the cost of getting the other chimneys cleaned and repaired.

Once the fire’s going, I grab a third glass of water and sit down between my parents to hear about what the Shermans are up to these days and the potential plans for holding a wedding on their Belfast property. I’ve never met the Shermans or seen their property, but I listen and ask questions, grateful that for a few blessed minutes, we’re not discussing my failures.

“It’s such a large property,” my mom says. “Riley and Emil can invite anyone they want and include all four of you girls in the wedding party. Unless you can’t make it because of your new job?” She asks this like an offhand question. She means it like a direct challenge.

I hear a creak on the second-floor landing. Not a strong one, but one I wouldn’t hear at all unless Dylan was moving around up there, maybe doing some tidying after taking a shower.

“I have two interviews coming up,” I say, a statement I’ll make true as soon as I can access my email and send replies to yesterday’s inquiries. “I have four other applications out, all good possibilities, but I might not know anything for a while.”

My dad’s sandy brows inch up. “Meanwhile, your tenant has to sleep on the floor in the living room, you need a new roof you can’t pay for, your garage is a junk heap, that ridiculous boat is still rotting away down at the dock, and you can’t even spring for a coffeemaker?”

This is where I lose it. The fucking coffeemaker.

“You could help pay for the roof.” I flap a hand at his Ralph Lauren wardrobe, which probably cost more than my entire month’s grocery bill. “A housewarming gift wouldn’t be unheard of, either. Something like a coffeemaker, if that’s an important staple in any kitchen.”

My tone is heated, and I instantly regret my outburst, but before I can apologize, my parents exchange their usual patronizing glances, and my irritation simmers hotter.

“Sweetie.” My mom scoots closer and sets a beautifully manicured hand on my knee. “You know you’re welcome to stay with us while you get back on your feet. And we can loan you the money for a car or some nice interview clothes.” Her eyes skim my appearance, as if she thinks I attend interviews in a fuzzy cardigan and stretched-out bargain knits. Then she gestures broadly at the room around us. “But this? This is not a step forward. It’s a holding pattern. And paying for a new roof for this house would be throwing good money after bad.”

“You’re asking us to enable you,” my dad adds, as though I need a concise summary.