“What kind of serious?”

“Very heavy winds. Lots of rain.”

He remembered what Cassie had said the day before about the weather at home.

“I hope your father gets in safely. I’ll just send him a text to let us know when he’s arrived.” She tapped at the screen and then looked up at Anthony. “Anthony? I was thinking we could talk. Maybe inside?” She carried her coffee into the living room and took a seat on the couch.

Anthony followed her, confused. His mother had been in his cottage for nearly a week now. They had exhausted nearly every one of Block Island’s sights, and most of their topics of conversation, to boot.

“Talk?” he said.

“About your father,” she added. “We haven’t really talked about your father.”

What was there to say? He took a comb to his mind. His father hadn’t spoken to him since the Times article. His father was so disappointed in Anthony that he couldn’t even stomach a short conversation with his only son. Then he thought of one thing he hadn’t told his mother. He said, “Shelly Salazar thinks I could get my career back on track if I did a photo shoot with Dad.”

Dorothy picked at a thread in the worn-out sofa. “Who on earth is Shelly Salazar?”

“That publicist Cassie hired. Before—before all of the rest of it. She wants me to do a photo shoot with Dad, something big and splashy. She’s talking about getting Annie Leibovitz to do it!” For the first time since Shelly Salazar had mentioned Annie Leibovitz, Anthony added an exclamation point to the thought.

“Heavens.” Dorothy bit her lip. “Don’t you think we should ask your father if he’s interested? Do you think it would help you?”

“Probably. But he won’t be interested, Mom. He wants nothing to do with me. I think he might hate me.”

“Nonsense! Of course he doesn’t hate you.”

“Then why hasn’t he talked to me since February? Why hasn’t he tried to get in touch at all? You called me. You checked up on me. You answered if I called. But he never did.”

Dorothy waited a long time before answering. When she spoke, her voice was clear and steady, authoritative, as though she were speaking to a roomful of Anthonys and not just one.

“It was more complicated for your father than it was for me.”

“Why?”

“He was envious of you, Anthony. He has been, ever since he first read your writing. I don’t think he liked that part of him, the part that could envy his own flesh and blood, but it was there, and it was tenacious.”

“No—”

“Yes, Anthony. Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Well, I think it started when you brought that story home from Dartmouth.” She nodded. “Yes, it started there for certain. He was really taken aback by how good that story was.”

“But he encouraged me . . .”

“He did. Of course he did. But he was always conflicted about your career. Always.”