her. “If this will holds up, I’ll give the money he left me to you and Teddy. But I mean to see that it won’t.”
His mother mustered a smile. Then, to his surprise, she said, “You haven’t asked about Jenny.”
Adam shrugged. “She’s not a member of this family. Right now I’m concerned with the people who are.” He stood, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I should spend some time with Teddy.”
Clarice studied his face, her eyes questioning. Adam kissed her on the cheek and left.
Crossing the lawn, he saw a light in the guesthouse. Instinctively, he stopped, for a moment unable to move.
You haven’t asked about Jenny.
Six
With almost cinematic specificity, Adam could still remember the crucial moments of that final summer, most of them centered on Jenny Leigh.
In early June, a week after he finished his first year of law school, Adam and Jenny had pushed off from Sepiessa Point in a double kayak, a picnic cooler between them, headed across the Tisbury Great Pond. A brisk spring wind skidded cirrus clouds across a vivid blue sky, and the whitecapped water was still cool from winter. Determinedly, they paddled toward the green shoreline ahead.
Though three years older than Jenny, Adam had known her for half his life. As a senior at Martha’s Vineyard High School when Jenny had been a freshman, he had admired her poetry in the school newspaper. But it was during the previous summer that Adam had encountered Jenny at a beach party and rediscovered her as a woman he was drawn to.
Both were home from school. But where Adam was set on being a trial lawyer, Jenny had focused on the far more elusive goal of becoming a fiction writer. In Adam’s mind, she seemed to have a poetic temperament—at one moment vibrant and amusing, at others inward and almost elusive, given to long silences that often ended in remarks that were both original and oblique. He had never known anyone quite like her.
For one thing, Jenny had grit. A Vineyard kid whose father had taken off and whose mother seemed barely able to cope, she had taken her future in her own hands, compiling a record of achievement that had gained her a full scholarship to UMass Amherst. But she lived in an aura of mystery that Adam found intriguing—she seldom mentioned her family and said little about her past. When Adam had asked how she imagined her future, she answered simply, “I feel like one of my stories. I’m still creating myself.”
Her willingness to make such delphic remarks was an expression of trust, Adam sensed, the hope that he might understand her and help her better understand herself. When she became moody or aloof, Adam learned to ride it out, knowing that this was not directed at him. But on that sparkling afternoon, as they forged across the choppy waters, the “social Jenny,” talkative and appealing, explained Celebrity Pac-Man and the point system by which the competing stalkers could calculate their ranking. “I’m not sure the famous ones even know they’re playing,” she observed. “They’re way too secure. They’re even nice to people who wait on them, like me—they’ll ask you questions, honestly trying to find out who you are. The rude ones are the wannabes and name-droppers, too busy trying to puff themselves up to notice the help.” She paused and then, as so often, her tenor softened. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental. Being like that must be painful—needing other people’s approval just to convince yourself that you matter.”
Paddling briskly, Adam inquired, “Don’t writers need approval? Not just from readers, but from critics.”
From behind him he heard the silence of thought. “It’s different. You’re not with them while they’re reading your story, or deciding whether or not to buy your book. You never see their faces. So it feels safer to me.”
“That has a certain Jenny-logic,” Adam responded with a smile. “But rejection is still rejection. Every book out, my dad is
His mother mustered a smile. Then, to his surprise, she said, “You haven’t asked about Jenny.”
Adam shrugged. “She’s not a member of this family. Right now I’m concerned with the people who are.” He stood, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I should spend some time with Teddy.”
Clarice studied his face, her eyes questioning. Adam kissed her on the cheek and left.
Crossing the lawn, he saw a light in the guesthouse. Instinctively, he stopped, for a moment unable to move.
You haven’t asked about Jenny.
Six
With almost cinematic specificity, Adam could still remember the crucial moments of that final summer, most of them centered on Jenny Leigh.
In early June, a week after he finished his first year of law school, Adam and Jenny had pushed off from Sepiessa Point in a double kayak, a picnic cooler between them, headed across the Tisbury Great Pond. A brisk spring wind skidded cirrus clouds across a vivid blue sky, and the whitecapped water was still cool from winter. Determinedly, they paddled toward the green shoreline ahead.
Though three years older than Jenny, Adam had known her for half his life. As a senior at Martha’s Vineyard High School when Jenny had been a freshman, he had admired her poetry in the school newspaper. But it was during the previous summer that Adam had encountered Jenny at a beach party and rediscovered her as a woman he was drawn to.
Both were home from school. But where Adam was set on being a trial lawyer, Jenny had focused on the far more elusive goal of becoming a fiction writer. In Adam’s mind, she seemed to have a poetic temperament—at one moment vibrant and amusing, at others inward and almost elusive, given to long silences that often ended in remarks that were both original and oblique. He had never known anyone quite like her.
For one thing, Jenny had grit. A Vineyard kid whose father had taken off and whose mother seemed barely able to cope, she had taken her future in her own hands, compiling a record of achievement that had gained her a full scholarship to UMass Amherst. But she lived in an aura of mystery that Adam found intriguing—she seldom mentioned her family and said little about her past. When Adam had asked how she imagined her future, she answered simply, “I feel like one of my stories. I’m still creating myself.”
Her willingness to make such delphic remarks was an expression of trust, Adam sensed, the hope that he might understand her and help her better understand herself. When she became moody or aloof, Adam learned to ride it out, knowing that this was not directed at him. But on that sparkling afternoon, as they forged across the choppy waters, the “social Jenny,” talkative and appealing, explained Celebrity Pac-Man and the point system by which the competing stalkers could calculate their ranking. “I’m not sure the famous ones even know they’re playing,” she observed. “They’re way too secure. They’re even nice to people who wait on them, like me—they’ll ask you questions, honestly trying to find out who you are. The rude ones are the wannabes and name-droppers, too busy trying to puff themselves up to notice the help.” She paused and then, as so often, her tenor softened. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental. Being like that must be painful—needing other people’s approval just to convince yourself that you matter.”
Paddling briskly, Adam inquired, “Don’t writers need approval? Not just from readers, but from critics.”
From behind him he heard the silence of thought. “It’s different. You’re not with them while they’re reading your story, or deciding whether or not to buy your book. You never see their faces. So it feels safer to me.”
“That has a certain Jenny-logic,” Adam responded with a smile. “But rejection is still rejection. Every book out, my dad is
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