Alessandra can’t help but revisit the fraught months that she was sleeping with Duffy’s father. Alessandra had been eighteen, which she thought was old enough, though now, nearly the same number of years later, Alessandra realizes it wasn’t old enough at all. She had been a teenager and Drew a tenured professor in his mid-forties. However, Alessandra can’t call herself a victim, even through the lens of 2022.
She had always loved Drew, crushed on him, idolized him, seeing him as somewhere between an unattainable celebrity and a father figure. The Beechams owned an entire Victorian on Filbert Street that they’d inherited from Mary Lou’s parents. Classical music always spilled from the tantalizing, slightly ajar door to Drew’s study. NPR played on a radio in the kitchen, where Mary Lou made the girls crepes for breakfast; for a weeknight dinner, she’d whip up Dover sole and frisée salad with lardons. Both Beecham parents read copiously; they subscribed to The Economist and the New York Review of Books; they attended the symphony. Alice Waters knew the Beechams by name, and they were always taking trips to Lisbon or Granada, where Drew would lecture. They weren’t wealthy but they were rich—with intellect, with ideas, with experiences.
Duffy, however, shared none of her parents’ interests. She liked Britney Spears and Buffy the Vampire Slayer and she was as much of a troublemaker as Alessandra, if not more so. She was the one who became friends with HB, the guy who met them in the Presidio with a bottle of Don Julio that fateful night. Duffy matched HB shot for shot, but Alessandra tossed her shots over her shoulder because she didn’t like the look of HB and didn’t want to lose control.
When Duffy started vomiting, Alessandra held her hair away from her face. It was ten o’clock p.m. on a raw Friday in March and they were sitting on the damp ground of Crissy Field. Alessandra wanted to leave, but Duffy couldn’t make it three steps without doubling over and retching. Alessandra had no choice but to call Drew.
The Beechams had been in the middle of hosting a dinner party; candles glowed in the dining room, bottles of excellent Napa cabernet sat empty on the table, but the conversation and the laughing quieted when Drew ushered the girls past the dining room and down the hall to the kitchen. Mary Lou stood up from the table, making a joke about teenagers: We all remember those days, right, Barry? But when she saw the state Duffy was in, she flamed with anger, which she aimed at Alessandra （the unparented bad influence） until she realized that Alessandra was sober. For some reason, this served to make her even more livid and she snapped at Drew to get Alessandra “out of my sight.”
Drew drove Alessandra home. She was numb from Mary Lou’s words; she felt like she’d been slapped—until that moment, she had been something of a pet to Mary Lou. Drew tried to apologize; he thanked Alessandra for being a good friend. “You’re a special young woman, Ali,” he said. “You have a savageness to you—I mean that as a compliment. You’ll get what you want out of this life.” The street in front of Alessandra’s building was dark and quiet. Drew shut off the car, which Alessandra found strange.
“Don’t you want to get back to the dinner party?” she asked.
Drew leaned his head back against the seat. “God, those people are so dull!” he said. “Barry Wilson was talking about annuities.” He turned to Alessandra. “When did I become such an…adult?”
“Are you worried about Duff?” Alessandra asked.
“She’ll be fine,” Drew said. “Tequila is its own punishment.”
Alessandra was about to reach for the car door and say, Okay, thanks for the ride, but something about Drew was different. He was staring at her front door. “Your mom’s at work?” he asked.
They both knew the answer was yes. Alessandra nodded.
“Will you be okay by yourself?”
Alessandra had been staying by herself since she was seven years old. She got the crazy idea that he wanted her to invite him inside. She leaned over, rested her hand lightly on his （upper） thigh, and kissed him. The kiss lingered; it was, to this day, the most romantic kiss of Alessandra’s life.
“This is a bad idea,” Drew said, but the next second he was opening his car door and they were heading into her house.
As much as Alessandra wants to dislike Jamie for shaming her into giving them a room upgrade, she has to admit that he seems to be an excellent father, husband, and guest. Zeke let it be known that Jamie tipped him a hundred bucks for babyproofing the suite, and early on their first morning, Jamie comes down to the lobby with the baby so that Duffy can sleep in. Alessandra watches him chat with the other guests; Cabot falls asleep in his arms while Jamie plays Louie in chess. （Louie wins.）