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Chapter One
Alexis
The trick to choosing the right dinner option for every wedding, retirement party, or anniversary gala, is to always select the vegetarian dish. The chef knows he can’t rely on the presence of meat to impress, so he’ll work harder to make the meatless meal more flavorful.
It works every time, until it doesn’t, and you end up pushing overcooked penne around your plate, wishing it would transform into a strip steak.
“Have you been down to see the mansions?” asks the woman seated to my left. I don’t recall her name, if she ever mentioned it, but if she’s asking this crowd about the Newport Mansions, she’s either a tourist or a transplant. “My husband and I toured The Breakers last weekend. So much history in those walls.”
My older half-sister, Erica, dismisses the woman’s enthusiasm with a flick of her wrist.
“Ugh, not those gaudy tourist traps,” Erica says. “Dad forced Alexis and me to tour them one summer, just so we could say we’d been. Don’t you remember, Alexis?Alexis.”
“Hmm?” I tip champagne into my mouth and nod, grateful to finally be old enough to drink at social functions.
Erica frowns. “Nice to see the bubbly hasn’t affected your long-term memory.”
My sister is more prickly than usual tonight, and she’s a cactus with legs on a good day. I blame the hormones. She’s seven-months pregnant and constantly sniping at everyone and everything. I feel especially bad for the students who’ve registered for her courses this fall. She was grudging with the A’s before; I doubt having to pee every twenty minutes has made her more amenable.
The hotel banquet hall is abuzz with conversation and the soft clinking of cutlery. All of Providence’s intellectual elite have turned out to welcome the new Chair of the History Department at Brookstone University, Professor Carl Richardson, my dad’s former colleague.
Glancing across the table, I’m pleased to see a genuine smile on my father’s face. He’s back in his element, surrounded by scholars and academics. I know he misses this world, these people—formerlyhispeople. Brookstonians, or so they awkwardly dub themselves.
The first day of my senior year at Brookstone starts tomorrow. I guess that technically makes me a Brookstonian, too, not that I’d ever claim the title.
Professor Richardson straightens his glasses. “Frank, I’m so glad you and the girls decided to come out tonight. It truly means the world to me.”
Dad pats the other man’s shoulder. “It’s nothing, Carl. We’re happy to be here.”
“No, it’s not nothing. If you hadn’t talked me out of taking that job at Stanford twenty years ago, I’d probably still be an adjunct.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Well, it’s true, and I want you to know how thankful I am for every word of encouragement.”
“They couldn’t have chosen a better man for the job.” Dad smooths a hand over his salt-and-pepper goatee to camouflage his strained smile. Professor Richardson and my father were awarded tenure around the same time. If Dad hadn’t retired last year at Mom’s insistence, after his second heart attack, there’s a good chancehe’dbe tonight’s guest of honor.
Sometimes I think he would happily trade his health and his time with us for the chance to be Professor Frank Kelley again, renowned scholar of US History and the American Revolution.
Put off by the regret in his gaze, I excuse myself from the table and make my way over to where my mom is holding court by the bar.
Brookstone’s most ravenous art enthusiasts have formed a halo around my mom, the famed sculptor, Rachael Kelley. She could take or leave the celebrity. For her, it’s all about the art, though she’s admitted that she takes special pleasure in being recognized in front of my father. Before she made a name for herself, he placated her creative impulses, relegating them to a cute but not serious hobby.
Now she brings in more money from a single sculpture than he ever made in a semester of teaching. They replaced all the flooring in the house on her dime earlier this year.
Mom winks at me as I sidle up to the bar. She’s twisted her shoulder-length hair—the same ash-brown color as mine—into a carefully curated tangle at the back of her head. Aside from her hair, and her defined cupid’s bow, I inherited most of my appearance from Dad’s side. My heart-shaped face and coffee-colored eyes, framed by dense brows that would kiss like fated lovers at the center of my forehead if I let them grow wild.
“What can I get you,” the bartender asks me. I need something stronger than champagne if I’m going to make it through another second of this gathering.
“An old fashioned, please.” I hand the bartender my ID. She confirms my birthdate and passes the card back. As I wait for my drink, I smooth out the front of my black-lace dress with beige backing. It’s a bit too formal, and probably way too short for an event like this, which Erica readily pointed out, but it was clean and I was in a hurry.
I pay for my drink and leave my mother to her adoring public. Rather than return to watch my dad reminisce about the glory days, I skirt a cluster of tables and head outside to the balcony.
The sky glows pale blue between the tall brick buildings, fading to deep navy overhead. It’s a warm September evening, and I’m a little resentful that this boring party has forced me to miss the sunset.
Gazing out over Providence, I can see the Brookstone University stadium, as well as the library’s signature spires.
You’d think after three years, I would feel something more than exhaustion toward my college campus. But the truth is, my time here has only ever felt like a sentence, a punishment to be endured.
