doesnât.â
âI think it because itâs true,â Chloe said. âIt has stunning architecture. Art. History. Culture.â
âYou think we donât have architecture?â Jimmy bellowed.
âHouses are not the same as architecture, Dad!â
âDonât yell! Since when do you care about architecture? Itâs the first time in my life Iâve heard you use that word. Now you want to go halfway around the globe to learn more about house design?â
Chloe found it difficult to speak through a clenched mouth. âArt. Culture. History.â
âSo go visit Boston,â Lang said, pushing away from the table. âThereâs a big city for you. It has Art. Culture. History. It has architecture .â
âMaine has history, too.â Jimmy tried not to sound defensive about his beloved and beautiful home state. âWhat about the Red Paint People?â
âDad, okay, history is not why I want to go to Europe.â
âIf not for history, what for, then?â
Brief inhale to traverse the unbridgeable chasm between parents and children.
Perhaps not so unbridgeable.
âI bet itâs to lie on the beach all day,â said Lang.
âAnd whatâs wrong with the beach?â
âYou can lie on a beach in Maine!â Jimmy said.
âChloe! Look what you did. Youâve upset your father. Jimmy, shh.â Walking over, Lang put a quieting hand on her husband.
Taking hold of Langâs hand, Jimmy continued. âWhat about York Beach?â he said. They both stood a few feet away from Chloe, near the sink, united in their flummoxed anxiety for their only child. Chloe continued to sit and stare into her cold, half-eaten chop. âWeâve got five hundred miles of spectacular sandy coastline. How many miles does Barcelona have?â
âIs it warm?â said Chloe. âIs it beachy? Is it Mediterranean?â
âDo you see?â Lang said. âShe doesnât even know where Barcelona is. Itâs on the Balearic Sea, for your information.â
Chloe couldnât help herself. She groaned. Clearly, in between grilling swine and grilling her daughter, Lang had opened an encyclopedia and was now using some arcane knowledge to . . . Chloe didnât know what. âMom,â Chloesaid, so slowly it came out as mommmmmmmmm . A raw grunt left her throat. âThe Balearic Sea is part of the Mediterranean. Look it up on a map. Donât do this.â
Undeterred, her mother continued. âThey didnât even have any beaches fifteen years ago. They built them for the Olympic Games. Thatâs your history right there. Donât pretend youâre all about the Barcelona sand. Maine has had beaches for five hundred years.â
Chloe blinked at her mother. Lang blinked back defiantly. âMom, so what? What does that have to do with anything? What does that have to do with me going or not going?â
âSo if itâs not for the beach or for history, why do you want to go? Do you want to prove something?â
âI donât want to prove anything,â Chloe said through closed teeth. âI. Just. Want. To. Go. Itâs Barcelona! You want to know why Barcelona and not Rome or Athens or some other place? Okay, Iâll tell you. Because while you were gallivanting through the glens of Kilkenny and I stayed with Hannah and her mom, Blake bought me a magazine.â
âOh, well, if Blake bought you a magazine . . .â
âA National Geographic, â Chloe continued through the sarcasm. âIt had an article about Barcelona. It sounded nice. So Hannah and I said to each other weâd go when we graduated.â She wanted to scream. âWe fell in love with it when we were kids.â I fell in love with it, she wanted to say. âWe thought it would be fun to go when we grew up. And here we are. All grown-up. Her mother is letting her go. Her mother is treating her like an
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