Beth had graduated with her associate’s degree in June. They’d had a lovely party in the backyard, and Janine had not been made aware of any new tattoos celebrating the accomplishment, thank goodness. Beth was taking some courses in the fall at the university, but she insisted that it wasn’t necessary to have a bachelor’s degree. What it took to be successful in her field, apparently, was a certain look, a certain resourcefulness and go-getter quality. On days that she left the house for work, Beth wore jewel-colored suits and pumps, even hose. But there were many days that she did not leave the house at all, and wore what were essentially pajamas—thin drawstring pants that dragged the ground, lacy camisoles—as if the effort of dressing up on those other days had exhausted her. She had not once mentioned moving out—and that was fine, completely fine, with Janine, who dreaded the empty nest. She wished sometimes that she could make both of her daughters just two or three or even five years younger.

“I hope by plan ahead you mean you’ll tell someone at work about it,” Janine said. Beth was a part-time receptionist at Channel 6, but she was convinced that if she got a good video, she could soon be on the weather desk, reporting for Storm Team 6. “I don’t want you running off after some storm by yourself.”

Beth selected a neon pink highlighter from her pencil case and made a careful, straight mark inside her book. This was the Gray way of studying, which Janine herself had taught her daughters during a brief stint at homeschooling: highlight, underline, and summarize every text and textbook. The idea was to exhaust the text into being understood. Janine’s summer packet of poems, dense with Creeley, Levertov, and Rich, was by now thoroughly drenched in pink, yellow, and blue highlighter ink.

“So you won’t go by yourself,” Janine repeated. “Tropical storms turn into hurricanes.”

“That’s the idea,” Beth said lightly. She was sitting atop a tall stool at what the real estate agent had called “the bar,” so many years ago, papers and textbooks spread before her, her laptop charging on the stool next to her, its cord stretched all the way to the back wall. Janine thought Beth was a little careless with the laptop—a graduation gift—but she had learned in many years of kitchen bar conversations to keep any instruction or lecturing or corrections limited to a single topic at a time.