Page 56 of The Summer We Started Over

William hesitated. “I suppose I’m not happy about the Book Barn.”

Barrett spoke up. “Dad, look around. Haven’t you noticed how much more space there is in the hall now that some books have gone? Before we took them out, we couldn’t put on a coat without knocking over a pile of books. Now we can actually see the table with the bowl where we put the mail.”

“And the mirror, so we can do a last-minute check of our hair,” Eddie added. “Dad,” Eddie said, putting her hand on his. “We won’t ever take out books that are important to you. It’s just that over the years, all of us, Mom and Stearns included, brought books into the house and no one needs them.”

“A lot of them are outdated,” Barrett added. “I miss Mom and Stearns as much as you do, but honestly, Dad, there’s an absolutewallof books in the upstairs hall that are all about coding on computers, and not only can we not code, these books are already obsolete. Stearns would throw them out if he were here.”

Eddie took up the argument. “And the den is still piled with boxes of Mom’s woo-woo séance, Tarot, spiritualist, fortune-telling stuff. She hadthreedifferent Ouija boards! We’ve been checking every single item in her boxes, and honestly, we have no idea why you bothered to bring them here to Nantucket.”

Barrett continued, more softly, “Dad, I’ve met a really nice man. I think you’d like him. I want to bring him home. I’d like to invite him to dinner. But our house still looks cluttered and hoardy. We don’t want to get rid ofallthe books. But maybe thirty percent of what is left.”

Eddie knew how much her father hated statistics. “We’re living in such a beautiful place. You were the one who moved us here. You wanted to start over.”

“I suppose,” he conceded.

“And about Dinah,” Eddie said, sweetening her voice. “Does she make you feel uncomfortable?”

William gave a half-hearted grin. “ ‘Uncomfortable’ isn’t the right word. She’s so—much.”

“She is,” Barrett agreed.

“Our worlds are so different,” William admitted. “People bought so many books of hers and I haven’t even finished writing mine. I can’t compete with her.”

“Dad, you don’t have to compete with her. And you and Dinah are more alike than you realize. You both need time in isolation to write. Plus, you’re strong, Dad, but Dinah’s fragile. This house, our family, are her safe harbor.”

William ran his hand through his thick sandy hair. “I take your point, Eddie, that we do have some things in common. But the truth is, Dinah’ s rich and famous, and I’m a struggling intellectual.”

“Daddy, that’s crazy,” Eddie said. “You two write for different audiences. Plus, you have two fabulous daughters, and a farm—”

Barrett cut in, “And a Duke and a Duchess living on the farm.”

That brought a smile to William’s face. “You’re right. I’ll try to be less…”

“Defensive?” Eddie suggested.

“Attractive?” Barrett said teasingly. She stood up, kissed her father on the forehead, and put her plate in the dishwasher. “I’m exhausted, and tomorrow will be busy. I’m going to bed.”

William stood up and checked his watch. “I’m off to bed, too.”

Eddie said, “I’ll just tidy the kitchen. Good night, family.”

“Good night, Johnboy,” William said.

His daughters glanced at each other. They never had understood why their father said good night to Johnboy. They’d decided it must be something from Wordsworth.

—

Eddie showered, slipped on a clean T-shirt and leggings, and settled herself in bed with both pillows behind her. She lifted her journal from the drawer in her bedside table, chose a pen from the cup holder she’d made in seventh grade, and took a deep breath.

Dinah is so smart. It seems she knows everything. Dad knows almost as much, but he can’t seem to finish his book. A person must need some kind of insane self-confidence to write a book to release out into the world for other people to read.

Dad has the desire to write a book, but maybe not the ability? I worry for him. He puts so much importance on the book that no one has asked for.

That makes me think I could not write a book. I love words. I love stories. I love the rhythm and astonishment of sentences. I’m obsessed with books and one thing I know for certain is that if you have children, it is wrong to care for something more than for the children. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to lose sleep, listen to wailing children, wade through a world of dirty diapers and constant demands. The idea of loving a child terrifies me. My deepest desire is to write, but when I watch Dinah, who seems to summon words from the air like magic, and my father, who tortures himself over words, I fear I don’t have it in me to become a writer.

—

Saturday, Drew flew in from Boston and took Barrett to dinner at the Chanticleer. As they wound along the Polpis road to ’Sconset, Drew set the radio to the big band channel, and Barrett leaned back in the luxuriously soft leather seat and relaxed.

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