I’m not working now, though, so rain is just fine. It’s good actually—keeps traffic from moving too fast. Cruising along to light classical, which Joy loves as much as I do, I have no problem when we hit a third major tie-up. Delaying our arrival is okay by me.

The wipers aren’t as frantic now that we’ve slowed. They’re actually syncing with Handel’s “Water Music,” to which my daughter’s fingers were playing along until two minutes ago, when she stopped to check Waze. We’ve just crossed into Connecticut. The wail of an approaching ambulance confirms an accident ahead, and the app is pushing an alternate route.

“Here, Mom—here it is—turn here,” Joy instructs with enough insistence to make me nostalgic for the days when she sat in the backseat preoccupied with a snack pack of Goldfish. “Follow that car.”

When I don’t, she shoots me a baffled look that only deepens when I smile. But how not to? My daughter is a splash of color—totally, outrageously Joy, impatient face and all. Her hair is piled in an off-center topknot held by a turquoise scrunchie. Her tank top is red-and-white striped and cropped at the midriff, and her jean shorts have the kind of high waist the eighties loved. Ever the optimist, she’s wearing a bathing suit beneath.

“Weather.com says it’ll be nice in Westerly,” she had announced shortly after dawn, wanting to leave then. When I vetoed that, we agreed on nine. Then I got a call from my favorite Sotheby’s broker, and by the time I was done with her edits, it was closer to noon.

Trying to catch the spirit of vacation despite my own private storm, I’m wearing a tee shirt and shorts minus the swimsuit. My hair, a paler brown and less curly than Joy’s, is in a ponytail minus the scrunchie. My flip-flops are plain gray to her orange glitter.

Joy has sunk back in her seat, staring at me hard.

“What,” I say.

“You don’t want to get there.”

“Would I be going if I did not?” I ask, but I’m playing with words. Going home is one thing, wanting to go home another. This trip is largely a concession to my daughter, who is in a rush to reach Bay Bluff. I am not.

I stay on I-95N. Not only does bad traffic put off what I don’t want to do, but it tells Joy that the drive isn’t quite the easy-peasy 137 miles she’s said a gazillion times of late.

Besides, I do love driving, which is why I pay a huge monthly fee for my space. A car comes in handy when I’m photographing houses in Duchess County or Long Island, and on weekends, Joy and I take road trips to explore the art center in Cornwall, hike trails in Stony Brook, or kayak in Smithtown.