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grass.
    If she’d been here before, how come she didn’t remember it at all? Shouldn’t there have been some click of recognition, something that seemed familiar, even if it was something she’d experienced when she was young, even before she had words. But everything was strange, this place, this man who was her father.
    Her best friend, Susannah, had a father who lived in Colorado, and Susannah visited him every summer. She was there now, would be there until the middle of August.
    â€œIt’s nice that you get to see him every year,” Clare had once said.
    â€œYou call once a year nice?” Susannah had asked. “I think it sucks big time.”
    â€œWell, I never see my father,” said Clare. “I haven’t seen him in, like, eleven years.” Susannah shut up forthe moment. “Well that’s something,” she finally said.
    Later, when Susannah had heard about Clare’s proposed visit, she was surprised Clare didn’t want to go.
    â€œI don’t even know him,” Clare had said.
    â€œAren’t you curious?” Susannah had asked. “I mean, this guy’s your father. You have his genes.”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean I’ll like him.”
    â€œYou don’t like your mother,” reasoned Susannah, “but aren’t you glad you’ve at least had an opportunity to get to know her?”
    You couldn’t argue with logic like that.

5
    The house was on one end of the island, nestled among the pines. There was a light on outside, by the door, where squadrons of insects had met their demise. The door was unlocked. Richard stepped in and flipped on the light in the kitchen, then started carrying Clare’s stuff in from the car.
    Once the car had been emptied they stood awkwardly for a moment in the kitchen.
    â€œWould you like something to eat now? Something to drink?”
    â€œI’m OK,” said Clare. “I just need to call mymother. I’m supposed to call and let her know I arrived safely.”
    â€œThe phone’s right there,” said Richard, pointing to a table in the corner.
    â€œThat’s OK, I’ve got my cell.”
    â€œNo reception out here,” said Richard. “Closer to the bridge, sometimes you can get something, but right here, we seem to be out of range.”
    Clare called on the kitchen phone, and Richard left the room, as if he thought she might want to have privacy. But he needn’t have; Vera wasn’t answering. Clare got her bright voice-mail message. It ended with “
ciao
”—a leftover from her life with Peter.
    â€œI’m here, Mom,” said Clare. “I made it.” She waited for a moment, then she added quickly. “Have a good time.” Then she hung up the phone. She waited for Richard to return.
    â€œGuess I should show you around,” he said.
    The house was a small cottage that had been expanded over time, wings added in two directions. The kitchen, Richard explained, was the original structure. Walls had been taken down to make one large room out of three. All that was left from the old living roomwas the fireplace. Beyond the kitchen was a bedroom filled with boxes.
    â€œStuff from California,” Richard said. “This house was completely furnished—it’s been rented out all these years—so I didn’t need to unpack much.”
    On the other side of the kitchen there was a living room with a high ceiling. One wall was a bookcase, two stories high, entirely filled with books.
    â€œMy mother, your grandmother, was a high-school English teacher,” said Richard. “She loved books. She had all her literature alphabetized by author,” he said. He went over to a shelf and tilted his head to read the titles. “This is all Henry James,” he said, pointing down the length of the shelf. “Have you read anything by James?”
    â€œ
The Turn of the Screw
,” said Clare.