Free Somebody Else's Daughter by Elizabeth Brundage Page A

lawyers, trust fund babies, and entrepreneurs. And we’ve got a handful of Wall Street folks. But people don’t come up here to get in the limelight. It’s just the opposite. They come up here to get out of it.”
    â€œIt’s not just that,” Maggie said. “The people who come up here to live are looking for something they can’t find anywhere else.”
    â€œUtopian longings,” Greer said.
    â€œWhatever it is,” Jack said, “it’s keeping us in business.”
    They drank their coffee and ate the scones and the moon rose full and bright over the lake. Nate decided that Maggie was right: There was something about the Berkshires. They sat out there for another hour, and then Willa’s mother came to pick her up. Nate stayed where he was and watched the mother and daughter from a distance through the French doors. Candace Golding was taller than he remembered her, an equestrian in jeans and paddock boots, a sweater tied with casual perfection around her shoulders. The long black ponytail was gone, as was the bewildered pleasure in her eyes. Now her eyes were clever and sharp and her hair was cut short and blunt at her shoulders. Maggie hurried over to her and handed her a little bag of scones. Willa appeared with her enormous satchel—it seemed to contain the entire contents of her closet—and kissed her mother’s cheek, and all four of them talked a little more. Willa looked out through the glass doors and called out her good-byes. She met his eyes and waved and he raised his hand, like a flag, and waved back. “Good night, Willa!” he called. Sleep tight.

8
    The Squire boy had been assigned to Maggie as an advisee. At first glance, he appeared to be polite, almost reticent, but among his fellow classmates an arrogance surfaced, a slippery bravado that thrilled and charmed the others. Maggie had tried to get to know him during advisee lunch every Tuesday, but he gave her little to work with. When she’d asked if his father would be coming to any of his soccer games—the boy was a capable athlete—his face went sullen and he shook his head. It wasn’t his fault, she supposed. There were issues there, in the genes. The grandfather, for one. According to Berkshire folklore, Eddie Squire’s behavior had been so outrageous he’d been asked to resign his membership in the country club—and that didn’t happen very often, especially when there were deep pockets in the mix. And the boy’s mother—well, Maggie would have to reserve judgment about her. “Give them a chance,” Jack had said in one of his more generous moods. “The boy will come around.” But Maggie knew it was too late for him—it was harsh, perhaps—yes, she knew it was—but it was the truth.
    Experience had taught her that kids showed their true colors in grade school. You could always spot the ones who’d end up at the better colleges—the likelihood presented itself as early as fourth grade—you saw it in a child’s handwriting, in the neat formation of cursive letters, their ability to reason and solve equations, and in the articulation of thoughts and ideas. The children who couldn’t grasp concepts in the early grades generally had some form of a learning difference—that’s what they called it these days— she called it a disability. A small percentage of their students had some form of a learning disability, but they generally made it clear during the admissions process that their school was not suitable for children with disabilities. When parents were adamant that their children could get along all right, Pioneer recommended testing, but the parents interpreted the results the way they wanted to, in some cases claiming that the testing provided only vague parameters of a child’s intelligence—if they tested significantly above average, the parents clung to the numbers as sacred