she gets on her feet, so I’ll take care of it.”
Sophie knew what he wanted. He wanted her to say it was fine to waive the rent. And of course, it was. Margie was family. The hotel was Bram’s as much as it was Sophie’s, so discussing it with her, asking her permission, was just a formality. Still, Sophie had the distinct sense of being railroaded. She felt as if the whole situation had been manipulated by Margie for Margie, that it had nothing to do with spending more time with her father. On the other hand, Sophie couldn’t think of a good reason to say no.
“You’re family, honey,” said Sophie. “You stay here as long as you want. When you get your business up and running, we can talk about rent then. The apartment will have to be cleaned and painted before you move in. Actually, I think maintenance was scheduled to start on it next week.”
“Could I pick out the paint colors?” she asked, drawing one last time on the cigarette, then flipping it over the rail.
“Sure you can,” said Bram. “Anything you want.”
“Fabulous! Oh, Dad, thank you so much.”
“Thank Sophie, too.”
“Thanks to both of you. Really. This is totally amazing. Wait until Carrie sees this place. It’ll blow her away.”
“Where is she staying?” asked Sophie.
“With her boyfriend, Kevin. He drove up last week and rented them a town house out by Southdale. Kevin’s in banking. He’s already got a job up here—at Wells Fargo. I’m boyfriendless at the moment.” She shrugged. “Which is fine with me.”
Bram reached over and took hold of Sophie’s hand. He looked almost as happy as his daughter. Sophie felt guilty now for entertaining negative thoughts about Margie. For good or ill, she was home to stay. Sophie hoped that, in time, she and Margie could become family not just in name but in fact.
6
For some deeply complicated, possibly even masochistic reason, Danny Veelund planned to board a jet tomorrow morning and fly back to Minnesota. His home was in Manhattan, a three-level brownstone on the Upper East Side, where he’d lived with his wife, Ruth, and his two daughters, Zoe and Abbie, for the past sixteen years. Abbie was in film school now in California, and Zoe had just started her junior year at Brown, so Danny and Ruth were empty nesters, which had its good and bad points.
The good was that Danny’s writing day was no longer interrupted by teenage angst of one form or another, though for the last few years the interruptions didn’t matter because he hadn’t written anything but dreck. The bad points all revolved around missing his kids. He might be accused of favoritism, but his two girls were the brightest, most beautiful, funniest, and kindest young women he’d ever met. If Danny’s father had taught him anything, it was to love your children. Perhaps that’s why, more than anything else, he had to return to Minnesota, to the family home where his mother still lived.
Daniel Reed Veelund was a moderately well known literary novelist who had written a series of books in the mid-1980s that had catapulted him to a modicum of literary fame and fortune. The fortune was pretty well gone now, though people continued to read the books. He’d struggled to write two more books in the nineties, but neither had been as successful as he or his publisher had wished. Still, because he was a colorful character in his own Midwestern sort of way, he was often invited to speak at colleges and universities, trotted out for the odd commencement ceremony, the occasional TV show. He always accepted because these public appearances made him feel alive in a way his writing rarely did anymore.
Danny knew he should be doing a dozen different things right now in order to prepare for his trip, but instead he sat before the computer in his study, leaning back in his chair, feet thrust out in front of him, hands bunched into fists inside the pockets of his corduroy pants, staring at a list of infinitely dispiriting stock
Sophie knew what he wanted. He wanted her to say it was fine to waive the rent. And of course, it was. Margie was family. The hotel was Bram’s as much as it was Sophie’s, so discussing it with her, asking her permission, was just a formality. Still, Sophie had the distinct sense of being railroaded. She felt as if the whole situation had been manipulated by Margie for Margie, that it had nothing to do with spending more time with her father. On the other hand, Sophie couldn’t think of a good reason to say no.
“You’re family, honey,” said Sophie. “You stay here as long as you want. When you get your business up and running, we can talk about rent then. The apartment will have to be cleaned and painted before you move in. Actually, I think maintenance was scheduled to start on it next week.”
“Could I pick out the paint colors?” she asked, drawing one last time on the cigarette, then flipping it over the rail.
“Sure you can,” said Bram. “Anything you want.”
“Fabulous! Oh, Dad, thank you so much.”
“Thank Sophie, too.”
“Thanks to both of you. Really. This is totally amazing. Wait until Carrie sees this place. It’ll blow her away.”
“Where is she staying?” asked Sophie.
“With her boyfriend, Kevin. He drove up last week and rented them a town house out by Southdale. Kevin’s in banking. He’s already got a job up here—at Wells Fargo. I’m boyfriendless at the moment.” She shrugged. “Which is fine with me.”
Bram reached over and took hold of Sophie’s hand. He looked almost as happy as his daughter. Sophie felt guilty now for entertaining negative thoughts about Margie. For good or ill, she was home to stay. Sophie hoped that, in time, she and Margie could become family not just in name but in fact.
6
For some deeply complicated, possibly even masochistic reason, Danny Veelund planned to board a jet tomorrow morning and fly back to Minnesota. His home was in Manhattan, a three-level brownstone on the Upper East Side, where he’d lived with his wife, Ruth, and his two daughters, Zoe and Abbie, for the past sixteen years. Abbie was in film school now in California, and Zoe had just started her junior year at Brown, so Danny and Ruth were empty nesters, which had its good and bad points.
The good was that Danny’s writing day was no longer interrupted by teenage angst of one form or another, though for the last few years the interruptions didn’t matter because he hadn’t written anything but dreck. The bad points all revolved around missing his kids. He might be accused of favoritism, but his two girls were the brightest, most beautiful, funniest, and kindest young women he’d ever met. If Danny’s father had taught him anything, it was to love your children. Perhaps that’s why, more than anything else, he had to return to Minnesota, to the family home where his mother still lived.
Daniel Reed Veelund was a moderately well known literary novelist who had written a series of books in the mid-1980s that had catapulted him to a modicum of literary fame and fortune. The fortune was pretty well gone now, though people continued to read the books. He’d struggled to write two more books in the nineties, but neither had been as successful as he or his publisher had wished. Still, because he was a colorful character in his own Midwestern sort of way, he was often invited to speak at colleges and universities, trotted out for the odd commencement ceremony, the occasional TV show. He always accepted because these public appearances made him feel alive in a way his writing rarely did anymore.
Danny knew he should be doing a dozen different things right now in order to prepare for his trip, but instead he sat before the computer in his study, leaning back in his chair, feet thrust out in front of him, hands bunched into fists inside the pockets of his corduroy pants, staring at a list of infinitely dispiriting stock
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