That made her smile, though it was not exactly true. Cara was better. Onstage, charismatic Betsy had always turned stiff and awkward, things she almost never was in life. Bree had been the actor who could make the real world disappear.

He’d gone to see Sense and Sensibility his sophomore year of high school because his English teacher offered extra credit. He’d been in school with Bree since sixth grade, but in the play she’d truly turned into another person, one who was magic and beautiful and twice as alive as any girl he’d ever seen. He’d barely noticed Betsy as the mother.

Later, at the standing weekend keg party by the tracks, he’d caught sight of Bree and another girl near the fire pit, both holding red Solo cups of tepid beer. He drifted over, trying to be cool, desperate to know her better.

It was as if she had a dimmer switch in her, and she’d turned it all the way down the second she stepped off the stage. The other girl? Was Betsy. She’d been around since sixth grade, too, but she’d grown up over the summer. He literally hadn’t recognized her. In real life Bree became background next to Bets. Even Bree seemed to assume that he’d come over for her friend, and within five minutes she was right. Bets was flirty, fun as hell, with a whip-smart sense of humor that never quite got mean.

Cara had her mother’s sharp fox’s face and dark brown eyes, but inside she was more like him. Thoughtful and cautious. She did have Betsy’s light, but like Bree’s it kindled brightest when she was performing.

He meant it when he told her, “You killed up there today.”

“You have to say that. You’re my dad,” she said, but she bumped his shoulder with hers, smiling. “I have my bag. Can you drop me at Yvonne’s? Her mom says we’ll stop for dinner on the drive.”

She was going with a school friend to her family’s lake house all weekend. He’d planned to take her out for burgers, just the two of them, first. Still, he said, “Sure.”

It was hard to find time with Cara these days, but he didn’t want to mess up this nice moment. She was pulling away, growing up, keeping small secrets. In another five years, she’d be off to college. Maybe by then his ancient suits and his southern accent wouldn’t embarrass her, though compared to the way he’d talked when he was her age, he practically sounded like a TV news anchor. Most of the other parents here had no accent, though. Or they had that faint, vowel-rounding burr that said Old Atlanta Money.