“Let her go,” Gabe chimed in. He wasn’t ashamed of his daughter, per se, but he didn’t like to invite comparison with the children of their peers. Their friends’ kids were all bound for business school, med school, or law school. They were all accomplished equestrians, swimmers, or fencers. They engaged in pleasant small talk, didn’t rant about issues, didn’t dress like grieving Italian widows. Of course, Manny Dosanjh was a newlywed at forty-eight, and this Judy might be too old to have children. But still . . . it was easier to spin Violet’s creative prowess, her altruistic nature, when she wasn’t skulking around the house.

Violet grabbed her car keys off a hook inside one of the cupboards. Gabe had bought her a BMW for her sixteenth. She’d traded it in for a Prius. She dutifully kissed her mother’s cheek.

“Say hi to Manny and Judy. Whoever they are.”

“Drive safely.”

“And don’t neglect your studies,” Gabe called after her.

“It’s spring break,” she snapped. “But I wouldn’t expect you to know that.”

His wife shot him a look as the door slammed behind their girl. “Don’t put so much pressure on her.”

“What? She needs to keep her grades up if she’s going to Princeton.”

His wife didn’t respond, busying herself with her mise en place.

“What?” He could read her, knew when she was hiding something.

“Violet’s considering a gap year.”

“A gap year?” He set his laptop aside and stood. “To do what?”

“She’d like to do some volunteer work,” Celeste said breezily, chopping fennel. “With a young people’s theater. In Honduras.”

He moved from the seating area to the kitchen island, perching on a barstool. “What about college?”

“It will still be there when she gets back.”

“If she gets back. These do-gooder organizations can brainwash you into devoting your life to them.”

“She’s volunteering to work with children, Gabe, not joining ISIS.”

“Kids in Honduras need fucking plays?” He grabbed a piece of carrot, crunched it. “Don’t they need houses? And food? And human rights?”

“It’s a well-rounded program. She’ll be helping on farms and building houses, too. They just happen to offer a theater program for at-risk youth. She’s excited about it.”

“I spoke to a friend on Princeton’s board. He put a word in for her.”

“His word will still be good next year.”

They took him for granted, his wife and daughter, expected him to roll with their whims, pick up the pieces when it all went wrong. “If she’d stayed at Chapin like I wanted, this wouldn’t be happening.”

“If she’d stayed in the city, she might be an alcoholic. Or a drug addict. Or dead. And she’s loved her time at Fairhaven. It’s a better fit for a girl like her.”

“It’s turned her into an artsy-fartsy weirdo. It’s fostering useless fucking skills like acting and beat poetry and performance art!”

“Gabe . . . ,” Celeste began, but he was already leaving the room, heading for the bathroom.