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“Long hours. Horrible pay,” my father continues.
“The same is true for many career paths,” I state. “I think it’s more important to pursue something you’re passionate about.”
“Passion doesn’t pay bills, Caleb.”
Rich, coming from a man who inherited most of his wealth.
“Can I get you two anything to drink?” my mother asks, clearly sensing the fire isn’t the only reason the temperature in the room is rising. My temper is climbing with every comment my father makes. “The St. Jameses should be here any minute. Their flight was supposed to land at six.”
“Great,” I mutter.
“You must have met Sophie, if you’re at Clarkson now,” my father says to Lennon.
“I have,” Lennon replies.
“Her father is an old business school buddy of mine,” he continues. “Quite an eye for investments he’s got.”
Lennon nods. “It’s nice that you two have stayed in touch.”
“I’m grabbing a drink,” I announce. “Do you want anything?” I ask Lennon.
“Just some water,” she replies.
“Okay.” I stand and head into the kitchen.
The fridge is filled with prepared meals and plenty of alcohol. I grab a beer for myself and fill a glass of water for Lennon.
When I approach the couch again, they’re discussing Earl. My grip tightens on the beverages I’m holding.
“—such a loss,” my mother is saying. “Must be especially difficult with the holidays approaching.”
“My grandfather wasn’t one for giving certain days more significance over others,” Lennon replies. “But it’s certainly been difficult, not having him around.”
I return to my seat on the couch and hand Lennon her glass of water, giving her knee a quick squeeze once I have a free hand.
“Caleb said you both came to the service. That was very nice of you.”
“Of course. We were coming to town for the Cup anyway. We wouldn’t have missed it,” my mother replies.
I drown my scoff with a gulp of beer.
“We drove past Matthews Farm while we were there,” my father states. “Quite a chunk of land there. What is it, nine acres? Ten?”
“Fifteen,” Lennon replies. “And it’s not Matthews Farm any longer. I sold it.”
This is news to both of my parents, based on their shocked expressions. I guess enough of their friends in Landry are strictly summer residents who don’t visit or pay attention to what happens there the rest of the year. I hope now that they know about it, neither of them will dig into the sale.
“That’s quite a decision. That farm was in your family for four generations?”
Lennon sips some water. “Five,” she answers quietly. “But things change. I needed to fund my journalism career.”
I never told Lennon how my mom freaked out about the money I gave her. I’m sure my father was angry about it too, but we mostly communicate through my mother when we’re in different places. They both know Lennon didn’t need to sell her farm to afford college, and the fact she did is throwing them both off-kilter.
The doorbell rings, and my mother flies to her feet.
“That must be the St. Jameses!”
My father stands as well. Lennon and I follow suit, trailing after my mother toward the entryway.
