As she headed out of the dining room, Tess couldn’t wait to get back to the house, scrub off her makeup, wash the curl from her hair, and forget that this night, and Peter Hobart, had ever existed.

  Tess sat before an easel in the studio on the top floor of her parents’ Nob Hill mansion. She wiped the water from her brush on her well-worn blue smock and studied the picture in front of her. Another view of Fisherman’s Wharf. She wasn’t really very good, not nearly as good as her father. She set down the brush and stared at the wash of blues and browns on the canvas. The images were there: the string of restaurants and shops huddled along the water, the dazzling white boats decorated with colorful flags. But unlike her father’s renditions—his little “hobby” that continued to receive critical acclaim and hung in the campiest galleries on the Pacific Coast—Tess’s paintings lacked soul. She felt her talent but couldn’t translate it into watercolors.

  “Here you are,” came her mother’s voice from the doorway. “Why are you hiding up here? You’re only home for a few days. And what happened to those nice clothes we bought before you went back to school?”

  Tess dipped her brush onto the colorful palette.

  Sally Richards walked around the easel and leaned close to her daughter’s face. “And I haven’t seen you apply one dab of makeup since you’ve been home. I don’t understand why you don’t make yourself look more attractive, Tess. You have such a pretty face.”

  Such a pretty face. Tess wanted to stroke the brushful of paint across her mother’s not-so-pretty face.

  Her mother sat on a stool beside Tess. “Tell me about the dates you’ve had this year. About the boys you’ve met.”

  Tess sighed. Her mother just didn’t get it. Her mother couldn’t accept that her daughter was plain and awkward and that guys didn’t ask her out. Her mother couldn’t accept that Tess Richards wasn’t Charlene O’Brien or Princess Marina. She was just Tess Richards and nobody cared.

  She moved her brush toward the canvas, pretending to study the sketch before her. “Well, there was a guy from UMass,” she said, referring to the disastrous night she and Charlie had double-dated last year. Did it count that it had been last year? A look of disappointment crossed her mother’s face. “And a few other guys,” Tess quickly lied. “Nobody special.”

  “What about you-know-who?”

  Tess dabbed at the canvas. “Who?”

  “You are such a tease!” Sally Richards squealed, in that grating way that only Sally Richards could squeal. “Peter! What about Peter Hobart?”

  Tess’s first impulse was not to answer. Then she thought of the criticism she’d get. You’re not trying hard enough. What do you expect? What boy would want you, the way you neglect yourself? Tess smoothed the brush across the clear blue sky. “I’ve seen him,” she blurted out.

  Her mother jumped up. “You’re dating Peter! How wonderful!”

  “We’re just friends, Mother.”

  But Sally Richards nodded, a smirk on her face, as she soaked in the news.

  “We had dinner at the Lord Jeffrey last week,” Tess went on, unable to make herself shut up. “Did you and Daddy ever go there?”

  The smirk widened. “The Lord Jeffrey Inn is where your father proposed.”

  Tess dabbed at the palette again and added black to the sky. Thunderclouds now seemed more appropriate.

  Her mother reached over and patted Tess on the cheek. “Well, I’ve got to get ready,” she said. “Dinner will be at seven o’clock. The Graysons and the Archambaults will be here. I expect you’ll dress properly?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Tess answered.

  Her mother kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a good girl, Tess. But if you’re going to land Peter Hobart, you really must spend more time on yourself and less with your head in the clouds.”

  Tess wore a plain black dress for Thanksgiving dinner, and curled her hair. She was not able to dig out all the paint from under her nails.

  When she entered the chandeliered dining room the guests were already seated. Mr. Grayson and Mr. Archambault stood to greet her, then she walked around the table and gave the expected cheek-kisses to their wives. Her father—still handsome well into his forties—smiled his warm, wonderful smile at Tess.

  It always amazed Tess that such a quiet, gentle man could be so powerful in business, so tolerant of his wife. She wondered—not for the first time—if Joseph Richards had a mistress, a long-haired, full-bodied lover, holed up in some bohemian loft on the wharf where he delivered his watercolors, released the tensions of work and home, and satisfied his manly needs. For his sake, Tess hoped he did.

  She returned her father’s smile, sat in her place, and folded her hands, as girls with pretty faces were supposed to do, girls who did not question their parents or ponder the sex fives of their fathers.

  Her mother swept into the room in a wine-colored, velvet caftan. She was adorned with gold and diamonds and emitted a self-created aura of royalty. Tess thought of Marina—real royalty—sitting back at Morris House, spending Thanksgiving alone with her bodyguard. Part of her felt sorry for the princess. At least no matter how different Tess was from her mother, home was still home, and it was the best place to be.

  The cook delivered the prized turkey to the grandly set table. Tess silently listened to the oohs and ahhs and savored the warmth of home. For all the criticism and pressure her mother dumped on her, Tess knew her mother was trying to help her. Tess supposed she was a good mother. It wasn’t her mother’s fault that Tess couldn’t measure up. So if it pleased her mother for Tess to wear a little makeup and curl her hair, she would. Back at school, she could do as she wanted. She wondered why she’d never thought of that before.

  “What’s your major?” asked Mrs. Archibald, a smiling lady who seemed to grow wider with each passing Thanksgiving.

  “Tess hasn’t decided yet,” her mother answered.

  “Is she going to be an artist like her father?” Mrs. Grayson asked.

  “We hope so,” her father answered.

  “We hope not,” her mother answered.

  Everyone around the table laughed, even Tess.

  “There’s more to life than careers,” Mrs. Archibald asked. “Have you met that special boy yet?”

  Tess hesitated.

  “I met my man in college,” Mrs. Grayson said with a wink toward her husband.

  “Moi aussi,” Tess’s mother said. “We were married at Helen Hills Hills Chapel, you know.”

  Mrs. Archibald laughed again. “Helen Hills Hills. Did the poor woman stutter?”

  “Not exactly. She married her cousin.”

  More laughter.

  “Well, Tess doesn’t have any cousins to marry,” Mrs. Grayson said.

  “No,” her mother said, as she smiled over a glass of port. “But we have other plans.”

  “Plans? Oh, my. Is there a secret we don’t know?”

  Tess’s father scowled at his wife. “Sally, please …”

  “Well,” her mother said, ignoring her father, “there is one special boy who goes to Amherst.”

  “Mother,” Tess said, hoping the heat in her face wasn’t bright red, “I’ve told you, Peter and I are friends. That’s all.”

  “Peter?” Mrs. Archibald said.

  “Peter Hobart.”

  “As in Hobart Textiles?” Mrs. Grayson asked.

  “He’s at Amherst,” her mother said.

  “How convenient. Darling,” Mrs. Archibald said to Tess, “I’m so happy for you.”

  Tess twirled her napkin miserably in her lap. “We’re just friends,” she repeated.

  “Will he take over the firm?” Mr. Archibald asked.

  Tess groaned inwardly. Now even the men were getting into the act. She tuned out the chatter, hoping the subject would change, wishing she could plead a headache and leave the room, wishing she could escape to the studio and lose herself amid the paint. But she stayed seated and made it through dinner, as was expected of the daughter of Joseph and Sally Richards.

  She looked forward to getting back to Smith and returning to what had become normalcy. Tess folded two extra sweatshirts and put them in her suitcase. There would be no need for black knit dresses or polyester pantsuits—Peter Hobart would not be on her list of special engagements. Hopefully by the time she returned at Christmas, her parents would have forgotten about him. As if there was a chance of that.

  Her father came to her door. “All set?”

  “Almost, Daddy.”

  “We should leave for the airport in a few minutes.”

  Tess nodded and closed the lid of the suitcase.

  “Wait,” her father said. “Do you have room for something else?” In his hand he held several bound pages. “It’s the latest review of the Pacific operations. I’d like you to give it to Peter.”

  Tess stared at the pages. “You want me to give that to Peter?”

  “Yes. He needs the information.”

  “Why don’t you mail it?”

  “He should see it right away. You’ll see him tonight, won’t you? Or tomorrow?”

  Tess swallowed. “I … I guess.”

  “Great, honey. I appreciate it.” He handed her the papers, then checked his watch. “Come downstairs as soon as you’re ready.”

  After he left, Tess looked at the binder in her hand. “Hobart Textiles. Pacific Overview—3rd Quarter, 1997,” the cover read.

  You’ll see him tonight, won’t you? Or tomorrow? “No, Daddy,” she should have responded, “In fact, I won’t ever see Peter Hobart again.” She should have explained. She should have told him the truth. Tess opened the lid of her suitcase and lay the papers on top. It looked as though she’d have to see Peter Hobart once again after all. She’d worry about breaking the truth to her parents later.

  “Would you take the bus to Amherst with me?” Tess asked Charlie. It was the next afternoon and they were walking back together.

  “I can’t,” Charlie said. “I have U.S. History at four o’clock.”

  Tess wasn’t sure if she should yell. Or cry. Had Charlie or Marina ever done anything for her? How many times had Tess fielded their phone calls, told them how gorgeous they looked before their dates, or listened to their endless postdate ramblings? What about her feelings? Did they think she had none?

  “Can’t you cut?”

  Charlie looked at Tess. “Cut class?” she asked, as though Tess had just suggested she commit multiple murders.

  She thought about what she was asking. Maybe it was too much. Maybe it was an imposition. Then she thought of Peter, of the way he had told her about Lydia, of the way he had brushed her off. She thought of her mother. Suddenly, unwelcome tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Charlie touched her shoulder. “God, Tess, what’s wrong?”

  Tess couldn’t speak. She couldn’t tell Charlie what Peter had done, how he had shattered her illusion. She couldn’t tell Charlie about her mother’s stupid plan.

  “Tell me, Tess. What happened?”

  She sniffed back tears and tipped her head toward the gray November sky. She wondered if she would ever have a normal life, if anyone would ever love her. She wondered if she would ever stop feeling so humiliated.

  “It’s Peter,” she said quietly. “I broke up with him.”

  “Oh, Tess,” Charlie said sympathetically. “What happened?”

  “He was gone a long time. He changed. We have nothing in common anymore.”

  “So that’s why you’re so upset.”

  Tess shook her head. “No. Peter and I are finished. But it’s my parents. I didn’t have the heart to tell them.” She wiped her tears and began walking briskly again. “My father gave me some papers to deliver to Peter. I’ve got to get them to him today, and I don’t want to go alone. I’m afraid I hurt him terribly, and I don’t want to embarrass him.”

  Charlie was quiet a moment, then said, “Well, I guess I could cut class and go with you.”

  “No, Charlie. You don’t have to. It’s my problem.”

  “Tess,” Charlie said, “You never ask me for anything. This is the least I can do.”

  Tess felt a smile grow inside her. “Great,” she said, as she shifted her books. She decided she wouldn’t bother to put on makeup for the trip.

  “Peter’s in class,” said the student who was standing in the foyer of Peter’s frat house. “He should be back any minute, if you want to wait.”

  Tess glanced at the library off the hall. “May I leave these papers for him?”

  “Do you think you should leave them?” Charlie asked.

  Tess shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “We haven’t had any robberies this semester,” the guy assured them. “This isn’t UMass, you know.”

  Tess looked at the papers in her hand, as though they would hold the answer. “Could you put them in his mailbox?”

  “Our mailboxes are across campus. At our post office.”

  “Can I leave them in his room?”

  “It’s probably locked.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If you want to give them to me, I’ll make sure he gets them. Honest.”

  Tess hesitated. If she left the papers and Peter didn’t get them, her father would be furious. Yet if she left them, she wouldn’t have to face Peter. She saw his face again, his eyes sparkle as he said the name: Lydia.

  She handed the papers over. “Fine. Thanks.” They turned and headed out the door. As they reached the porch, a young man in a camel stadium coat was climbing the steps, two at a time. Tess’s heart sank.

  “Peter,” she said weakly.

  His eyes connected with hers without recognition. Then he blinked. “Hey, Tess.” Brushing back the hair from his forehead, he smiled. “What brings you here?”

  She looked over at Charlie, wondering if Charlie thought this was an odd reaction from a former boyfriend. But Charlie hadn’t seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. “Papers,” Tess said and gestured inside. “From my father. I gave them to a guy …”

  “Great. Thanks.” His gaze shifted to Charlie.

  “Charlie, this is Peter,” Tess said, “Peter, Charlie.” As Peter’s eyes scanned Charlie’s face, Tess saw his cheeks begin to redden. Her heart moved to her toes.

  Peter extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Charlie shook his hand with a nod.

  She loves this, Tess thought. She’s used to making guys blush and she loves it. She nudged Charlie’s arm. “Come on, Charlie, we can get the next bus back.”

  “You came over on the bus?” Peter asked. “I’ll take you back in my car.”

  Tess shook her head. “Thanks anyway, but my friend here loves the bus.”

  Peter laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just had my last class and I could use a break.”

  Tess looked at Charlie, trying to signal her to help come up with an excuse. Charlie wasn’t looking at Tess; she was looking at Peter, and the words that came out of her mouth were “Actually, a ride would be much nicer than the bus.”

  Tess stared out the window on the ride across Route 9 and wondered if it was legal for three people to be scrunched inside a Corvette. Peter and Charlie talked, about Smith, about Amherst, about … all kinds of stuff. It wasn’t surprising. Of course Peter would like Charlie. Everyone liked Charlie. Every guy, anyway. Charlie always knew what to say, how to act, when to talk and when to shut up. It was as though she’d gone to some exclusive girls’ school for training in effective communication with the opposite sex. Surely she’d gotten all A’s.

  Besides that, Charlie was pretty, for godssake. She had long legs that gave off signals that they wanted to be stroked. She had a beautiful smile. And, Christ, she had perky tits. Perky tits. The answer to every Amherst male’s dream. Tess looked down at her own tits. Beneath her jacket, beneath her sweater, she knew they were hardly perky. They were round, fleshy, and probably poking out of either the top or the bottom of her 38C.

  At that moment, Charlie laughed her beautiful laugh at something Peter had said. Then she moved one of those long, sinful legs close to the stick shift, the four-on-the-floor. Peter flashed an appreciative, ga-ga smile.

  Tess wanted to get home, puke, and go to bed. It was the longest ride she ever remembered.

  After dinner that evening, Charlie came to Tess’s room. “Can we talk a minute?” she asked.

  Tess was seated at her desk, pretending to study. “I’m trying to get ready for finals.”

  “Tess, finals aren’t for three more weeks.”

  Tess shrugged. “I like to cram ahead.”

  Charlie pushed aside a heap of clothes and sat on the edge of the bed. “How was your Thanksgiving, anyway? You were so worried about seeing Peter you never mentioned it.”

  “Same old stuff. How about yours?”

  Charlie pulled her feet in underneath her. “Not great. My dad lost his job, you know.”

  Tess turned in her chair. “No. I didn’t know.”

  “He still hasn’t found work. I might not be able to come back next semester.”

  “Not come back to Smith?”

  Charlie shook her head. “I might have to stay in Pittsburgh. Go to work.”

  “Oh, God, how awful.”

  “Yeah. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Tell me about Peter.”

  “Peter?” There was a catch in Tess’s throat.

  “Why did you break up with him? Is he a jerk?”

  Tess turned back to the open book on her desk. “No. I told you. He was gone a long time. He changed. I changed.” She surprised herself that the lies flowed so readily, one melting into another like raindrops into puddles. “I realized our parents wanted us to be together more than we did.”

  “Oh. Well, how do you feel about him?”

  Tess shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s okay, I guess. But like I said, he’s no longer my type.” Even as she said the words, a knot formed in her stomach. She did hate lying to Charlie, yet it was too late to turn back.

  “Are you sure you’re not in love with him?”

  Tess slammed the book and turned around again. “Look, I said he’s not my type. He’s not a jerk, but, no, I’m not in love with Peter Hobart. Why all the questions?”