“Hello.”
Rochelle was there, shockingly, in the kitchen doorway, one hand on the doorframe, the other holding that bottle of wine they’d bought in Vineyard Haven. Sally was dumbstruck to see her. For a blessed moment, in exercising her generous loathing for Harrison, she’d forgotten all about Rochelle.
“Hello,” Sally heard Harrison say. “And you would be the roommate.”
“And you would be … I’m guessing here … the brother?”
“I am that,” Harrison said. “Most assuredly.”
“Then I, most assuredly, am the roommate. Rochelle Steiner.”
Harrison took a step toward her. He had always been the taller of the boys, by a significant margin, but now, with Rochelle as the yardstick, Sally suddenly realized that Lewyn had surpassed him. Harrison wouldn’t like that. “A pleasure,” said Harrison, extending his hand.
She watched the two of them shake hands. It was surreal, but not, she supposed, as surreal as it might be about to get.
“I guess you’re ready for this,” said Rochelle, holding up her bottle and nodding at the pair of wineglasses Johanna had left on the countertop.
“I’m always ready for good wine,” said Harrison, sounding like a complete git.
“Actually, there’s Champagne,” said Sally. “We just didn’t have enough flutes, apparently. Would you like something now?”
Rochelle shook her head. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she told Harrison. “I can’t say I’ve heard too much about you. I just know the basics. You go to college in New Hampshire, right? I don’t know the name of it.”
“It’s called Roarke. For another year, yes,” said Harrison. “Then I transfer to Harvard.”
Rochelle’s eyes widened. She herself, Sally knew, had applied to and been rejected by Harvard. But who hadn’t?
Harrison hadn’t. And leave it to him to insist on saying so.
“That’s very exciting. You know that already?”
“Most of us know where we’re going after Roarke. A couple of the others are also heading to Harvard.”
Sally watched her as she attempted to process this: a two-year college sending multiple graduates to Harvard? It did not compute, obviously.
“A few to Yale and Stanford. And,” Harrison smiled, with deeply disingenuous rapport, “other Ivy League schools. A couple.”
“That’s quite the student body,” Rochelle said. “What do you study there, nuclear physics and advanced game theory?”
He shrugged. “Well, you can study whatever you want. I’m doing a fairly strong core curriculum, but I’m mainly interested in economic and political philosophy. Also, I’m in charge of the chickens, so I’ve learned a good deal about poultry in general.”
Rochelle looked at Sally. It was hard to tell whether she was angry or merely mystified.
“Roarke? That’s the name of your school?”
“Yes. I’m not surprised you don’t know it. It’s all male, and somewhat off the radar.”
She nodded. “I see.”
And now you know why I never talked about him, Sally nearly said. But that hadn’t been why she’d never talked about him.
“Our mom’s gone down to the cookout,” she told Rochelle. “We could go, too, if you’re ready.”
“Don’t forget Dad,” her brother said.
“Oh. Dad.” She weighed her options. She didn’t really want to leave these two alone in the kitchen, not even for as long as it took to go upstairs. “Would you do it?”