."
"But she's had very little experience with the way the world works. I honestly didn't think we were going to have to worry about this yet, but I've been an idiot. She's eighteen. You only have to look at her."
Sydney opens her palms. "I worry because she seems like someone who might be taken advantage of," she says slowly.
"I'll talk to her," he says.
Sydney notes that he does not say, I'll have Anna talk to her.
"She may not remember anything," Sydney says. "Or much of anything."
"She's a good girl," says Mr. Edwards, a man suddenly struggling to control his emotions.
"Oh, she is," Sydney says quickly.
There is a long silence, during which neither of them looks at the other. Sydney puts her hands in her lap and studies the roses. Mr. Edwards appears to be examining the scrub brush that borders the property. To stand up and leave this man seems wrong. Sitting with him, however, is excruciating.
"The roses are really beautiful," Sydney says after a time, her voice sounding thin.
"Do you think so?"
"I do, yes."
"The thing about roses," Mr. Edwards begins but then seems to forget what he was going to say. "The thing about roses. . ."
"Actually," Sydney says, "I was thinking of taking Julie into Portsmouth with me tomorrow to get some art supplies."
Mr. Edwards glances at Sydney, a question in his eyes.
She clears her throat. "I have an idea for her. She's very gifted at. . .for lack of a better word. . .composition. I thought I might get her some drawing pencils, maybe some paints. I won't let it interfere with the tutoring. I'll just--"
But Mr. Edwards waves his hand, as if to suggest that she not worry about the tutoring.
"I think she may have some talent in this direction," Sydney adds. "From what I hear, I guess she comes by it naturally."
Mr. Edwards nods once and smiles, but his eyes, Sydney can see, are elsewhere. He is thinking still about what he will have to say to his daughter. She does not envy him this task.
"We have no idea where she was?" he asks.
"No. She went to a party. That's all I could get out of her."
Mr. Edwards inhales a long breath. He looks noticeably older than he did the night before, and it is not simply the work clothes, the hunched spine, the dirty hands.
"I'm sure she'll be fine," Sydney adds, unable to refrain from delivering this platitude. She wants suddenly for this man not to have to worry about his daughter.
Sydney stands. While they have been talking, dusk has turned into evening. A mosquito bites her ankle. She hears tree frogs, the constant surf. In the house, a light goes on. "Well," she says, "I'd better be getting in."
Mr. Edwards stands as well, making a conscious effort to straighten his spine. "Thank you, Sydney," he says. "I appreciate your coming to me."
His formality is disturbing.
Sydney turns away. When she enters the house and glances back, she sees that Mr. Edwards has not moved away from the bench.
Mrs. Edwards, in her bathrobe, is stretched along one of the white sofas. She smiles perfunctorily when she sees Sydney. Sydney can hear Wendy and Art in the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards and the refrigerator, looking for something to eat. She can't hear their words, but the tone is clearly one of bickering. She imagines they are miffed at not having come back to a meal. Mrs. Edwards seems blissfully unconcerned about her guests, however, as she turns the pages of the novel she is reading.
"Where's Julie?" Sydney asks.
"She was down earlier for some toast," she answers without looking up from her page. "She's got a bug."
"She's okay?" Sydney asks, noticing that the soles of Mrs. Edwards's feet are decidedly not clean.
"Oh, she'll be fine."
Sydney nods. She is hungry as well, but she makes the decision to go up to her room and wait for the squall to pass. As she puts her bare foot on the bottom step, the phone rings. Mrs. Edwards, recumbent, springs into action, even though no one else is making the slightest attempt to get to the phone
"But she's had very little experience with the way the world works. I honestly didn't think we were going to have to worry about this yet, but I've been an idiot. She's eighteen. You only have to look at her."
Sydney opens her palms. "I worry because she seems like someone who might be taken advantage of," she says slowly.
"I'll talk to her," he says.
Sydney notes that he does not say, I'll have Anna talk to her.
"She may not remember anything," Sydney says. "Or much of anything."
"She's a good girl," says Mr. Edwards, a man suddenly struggling to control his emotions.
"Oh, she is," Sydney says quickly.
There is a long silence, during which neither of them looks at the other. Sydney puts her hands in her lap and studies the roses. Mr. Edwards appears to be examining the scrub brush that borders the property. To stand up and leave this man seems wrong. Sitting with him, however, is excruciating.
"The roses are really beautiful," Sydney says after a time, her voice sounding thin.
"Do you think so?"
"I do, yes."
"The thing about roses," Mr. Edwards begins but then seems to forget what he was going to say. "The thing about roses. . ."
"Actually," Sydney says, "I was thinking of taking Julie into Portsmouth with me tomorrow to get some art supplies."
Mr. Edwards glances at Sydney, a question in his eyes.
She clears her throat. "I have an idea for her. She's very gifted at. . .for lack of a better word. . .composition. I thought I might get her some drawing pencils, maybe some paints. I won't let it interfere with the tutoring. I'll just--"
But Mr. Edwards waves his hand, as if to suggest that she not worry about the tutoring.
"I think she may have some talent in this direction," Sydney adds. "From what I hear, I guess she comes by it naturally."
Mr. Edwards nods once and smiles, but his eyes, Sydney can see, are elsewhere. He is thinking still about what he will have to say to his daughter. She does not envy him this task.
"We have no idea where she was?" he asks.
"No. She went to a party. That's all I could get out of her."
Mr. Edwards inhales a long breath. He looks noticeably older than he did the night before, and it is not simply the work clothes, the hunched spine, the dirty hands.
"I'm sure she'll be fine," Sydney adds, unable to refrain from delivering this platitude. She wants suddenly for this man not to have to worry about his daughter.
Sydney stands. While they have been talking, dusk has turned into evening. A mosquito bites her ankle. She hears tree frogs, the constant surf. In the house, a light goes on. "Well," she says, "I'd better be getting in."
Mr. Edwards stands as well, making a conscious effort to straighten his spine. "Thank you, Sydney," he says. "I appreciate your coming to me."
His formality is disturbing.
Sydney turns away. When she enters the house and glances back, she sees that Mr. Edwards has not moved away from the bench.
Mrs. Edwards, in her bathrobe, is stretched along one of the white sofas. She smiles perfunctorily when she sees Sydney. Sydney can hear Wendy and Art in the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards and the refrigerator, looking for something to eat. She can't hear their words, but the tone is clearly one of bickering. She imagines they are miffed at not having come back to a meal. Mrs. Edwards seems blissfully unconcerned about her guests, however, as she turns the pages of the novel she is reading.
"Where's Julie?" Sydney asks.
"She was down earlier for some toast," she answers without looking up from her page. "She's got a bug."
"She's okay?" Sydney asks, noticing that the soles of Mrs. Edwards's feet are decidedly not clean.
"Oh, she'll be fine."
Sydney nods. She is hungry as well, but she makes the decision to go up to her room and wait for the squall to pass. As she puts her bare foot on the bottom step, the phone rings. Mrs. Edwards, recumbent, springs into action, even though no one else is making the slightest attempt to get to the phone
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