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“We’re going to this great new restaurant. Boyles. Have you heard of it?” Wendy asks.
“No.” And unable to stop myself, I grumble, “I didn’t even know there were restaurants in Castlebury. The only place we ever went was the Hamburger Shack.”
“Oh, your father and I go out at least twice a week,” Wendy chirps on, unperturbed.
My father nods in agreement. “We went to a Japanese restaurant. In Hartford.”
“That so,” I say, unimpressed. “There are tons of Japanese restaurants in New York.”
“Bet they’re not as good as the one in Hartford, though,” Walt jokes.
My father gives him a grateful look. “This restaurant really is very special.”
“Well,” I say, just for the hell of it.
We troop down the driveway. Walt gets into his car with a wave of his hand. “Ta-ta, folks. Have fun.”
I watch him go, envious of his freedom.
“So!” Wendy says brightly when we’re in the car. “When do you start at Brown?”
I shrug.
“I’ll bet you can’t wait to get away from New York,” she enthuses. “It’s so dirty. And loud.” She puts her hand on my father’s arm and smiles.
Boyles is a tiny restaurant located in a damp patch off Main Street where our renowned Roaring Brook runs under the road. It’s highfalutin for Castlebury: the main courses are called pasta instead of spaghetti, and there are cloth napkins and a bud vase on each table containing a single rose.
“Very romantic,” my father says approvingly as he escorts Wendy to her chair.
“Your father is such a gentleman,” Wendy says.
“He is?” I can’t help it. He and Wendy are totally creeping me out. I wonder if they have sex. I certainly hope not. My father’s too old for all that groping around.
My father ignores my comment and picks up the menu. “They have the fish again,” he says to Wendy. And to me: “Wendy loves fish.”
“I lived in Los Angeles for five years. They’re much more health-conscious there,” Wendy explains.
“My roommate is in Los Angeles right now,” I say, partly to get the conversation away from Wendy. “She’s staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“I had lunch there once,” Wendy says, with her unflappable cheeriness. “It was so exciting. We sat next to Tom Selleck.”
“You don’t say,” my father replies, as if Wendy’s momentary proximity to a television actor raises her even further in his eyes.
“I met Margie Shephard,” I interject.
“Who’s Margie Shephard?” My father frowns.
Wendy winks at me, as if she and I possess a secret intimacy regarding my father’s lack of knowledge regarding popular culture. “She’s an actress. Up-and-coming. Everyone says she’s beautiful, but I don’t see it. I think she’s very plain.”
“She’s beautiful in person,” I counter. “She sparkles. From within.”
“Like you, Carrie,” Wendy says suddenly.
I’m so surprised by her compliment, I’m temporarily disabled in my subtle attack. “Well,” I say, picking up the menu. “What were you doing in Los Angeles?”
“Wendy was a member of an—” My father looks to Wendy for help.
“Improv group. We did
