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presenting them to each other. “Come on, spread out,
everyone. We’ve got to turn Becky into a champ before my father
burns the hot dogs.”
    They began tossing the plastic disc around.
Naturally, Kip and Mark showed off, making dramatic catches when
ordinary ones would do, flinging the disc behind their backs and
catching it between their legs. Becky’s tosses were wobbly, and
more often than not they veered off course, but she managed to
avoid the tree branches.
    Shelley had always been a decent athlete. While
not as flamboyant as Kip and Mark, she threw with an efficient,
accurate snap of her wrist, and she wasn’t afraid to chase down an
errant toss.
    Within a few minutes she was sweating. She
shouted words of encouragement at Becky and derisive remarks at the
two male hot-shots. Occasionally her vision would snag on Diana,
seated by herself under a tree, watching the game. Diana appeared
cool and composed, not a single glossy hair out of place, not a
hint of perspiration on her brow. Her hands were clean, her
fingernails polished. She looked fabulous.
    Back home in Westport, Shelley probably would
have sat out the game, too. She would have been concerned about her
appearance, her demeanor. She would have wanted any boys present to
understand that she was a girl, a breed quite different from them,
someone they should desire from a carefully cultivated distance.
She would not compete athletically with boys, or yell playful
insults at them, or sprint and leap. She would never, never sweat
in front of them.
    But here, the only boy she really cared about
was Kip, and there was no point in acting like a girl with him. He
hadn’t even noticed her female attributes when she’d had on her
string bikini. To him she was just another guy, a pal, someone to
elbow out of the way when they raced each other to catch one of
Becky’s wild tosses. Acting ladylike around him would be a
waste.
    Seated primly on the sidelines, Diana looked
infinitely more attractive than Shelley. But darting around the
lawn, laughing and panting and playing with all her might, Shelley
was having infinitely more fun.
     
     
     

Chapter Three
     
    DEAR SHELLEY,
    I know you’re mad at me, and I
don’t know if writing this letter will help. I wish I could explain
things in a way you’d understand, but I’m not sure that’s
possible.
    I can’t always be with you, even
when I want to be. But you’re growing up, and accepting that fact
is part of becoming an adult. Even though I’m your father, I have a
life separate from you, and sometimes it makes demands on me that I
must act on, whether I want to or not. This is a hard lesson, but
you’re a smart, mature young lady and I think you can handle
it.
    I will again be unable to come to
the island this weekend. There are too many pressing matters here
in Connecticut. But I’m glad you’re spending your summer on the
island, and I hope you’re enjoying it “to the max,” as you might
say.
    I love you, Shelley. I know you’re
disappointed that I’ve missed these weekends with you, but I hope
you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
    Be good--Love, Dad
    Shelley reread the letter again and again. Her
father’s handwriting was atrocious, a slanting, aggressive scrawl.
But she deciphered every scribble, every loop and slash; she let
every word imprint itself in her heart. It was such a rare thing
for her father to send her a letter. That he had, that he’d taken
the time to write and beg her forgiveness, gratified her as nothing
else could—short of seeing him.
    He claimed she was smart and mature, able to
accept disappointment, able to forgive. Because he viewed her with
such respect, she felt compelled her to live up to his praise. She
would stop resenting him, stop pleading with him. She would be the
daughter he loved.
    “What did he write?” her mother asked. She had
already skimmed her own mail and was now looking across the kitchen
table to Shelley, who clung to the single sheet of