I found that I was holding my grandfather’s thumb, same as I had when I was little, back before my mother died, when seeing my grandparents was the happiest thing ever. He gave my hand a squeeze.
“Oh, my gosh, this town is so cute!” Riley said.
And it was. The sky was Maxfield Parrish blue, the lights of the Colonials that lined the streets glowing in what seemed to be a welcome. People were out, walking their dogs. At the library green, some kids tossed a football. As we came onto Water Street, Riley exclaimed over the little shops and restaurants. “There’s a café, Mom! Hooray! Oh, and an ice cream place! Even better!”
I smiled, but my stomach cramped again. It felt like I had never left.
The town hadn’t changed much. Still adorable with its colorful buildings and crooked streets. I caught glimpses of Long Island Sound as we drove, smelled garlic and seafood. Would Genevieve have dinner for us? Would she hug me? I swore if she made Riley feel one iota of shame, we’d be out of Connecticut forever.
Charles turned onto Bleak Point Road, where the most expensive houses in town sat like grand old ladies, weathered and gracious. All had names, which Riley read aloud as we passed.
“Thrush Hill. Summerly. Wisteria Cottage. Cliff View. Pop, we have to name our house when we get back!”
“Name it what? Crabgrass?” Pop asked.
“That’s kind of perfect, actually,” I murmured, having gone to war many times with weeds in our small yard.
“Oh, Sheerwater! We’re here!”
The iron gates (yes, gates) opened, and we turned onto the crushed shell drive. Sheerwater had ten acres of land, the very tip of Bleak Point, and it looked like a park, with beautifully gnarled dogwood trees on either side of the driveway, their intertwined branches making a tunnel of white blossoms. Spring was late this year.
We rounded the gentle curve, and my hands were sweating now.
“Holy guacamole,” my daughter breathed. “It’s even prettier than the pictures!” In the rearview mirror, I saw Charles smile. Beside me, Pop stiffened. He’d never been here, of course.
There it was—my grandmother’s twenty-room cottage, pristine and gracious and lit up like the fires of hell.
CHAPTER 8
Genevieve
I’d been waiting for them to arrive all day, and had busied myself pretending I wasn’t. I reframed this summer as me doing them a favor, welcoming all three of them to Sheerwater, the most beautiful home in Connecticut, or at least in the top ten.
And yes, the three of them. That supercilious Paul was coming, since he didn’t consider me trustworthy, despite the fact that I was the one who’d taken in Emma, thank you very much.
All day long, I’d prepared, dressing carefully, plucking hairs from my chin, taking even more time than usual with my hair and makeup. We’d readied the house; the dogs were impossible to keep up with, their fur everywhere, the occasional clump of vomited grass that had gone undetected, and so we’d requested a bigger cleaning crew than usual. I’d given Donelle the list of things to be done, and she, once a moderately competent domestic, had relayed the information to the various crews. She forgot so many details when giving orders . . . but I’d had another episode the other day, and the idea of my blanking while talking to the help was . . . intolerable.
Oh, it was a small thing. We’d been watching a movie last week, Donelle and I. Unlike Donelle, I didn’t also tap-tap-tap at a computer while watching. Why watch a movie if one really wanted to shop for magnetic eyelashes, her latest and most bizarre online purchase?
At any rate, we were in the den, an oak-paneled room with leather couches and an enormous TV on the wall. Once, Garrison and I read in here in the evenings, back when reading was a given, not something destined to make my eyes strained and tired. Even so, this was usually my favorite time of day—my work, such as it was, finished, dinner over, no one in the house except Helga, Donelle and me. Charles had his own apartment over the garage, and Helga never joined us in the main house, preferring her own living room in the servants’ wing.
Minuet lay in my lap, enjoying the worship I was lavishing upon her. Valkyrie sprawled next to Donelle on the other couch, shedding on the leather. Maximilian, who was a touch senile, was woofing softly at his reflection, confused as to who that other Great Pyrenees–golden retriever mutt was, also afflicted with patchy fur. Allegra, the pug, had found her spot next to the couch and was snoring softly through her poor, tormented airway—her pinched nostrils and elongated palate making her sneeze and gasp like a Channel swimmer. Carmen, the miniature poodle, was sulking in the corner, as I had just raised my voice at her for expressing her anal glands on the carpet.
I wasn’t sure when I’d broken down and acquired so many dogs. One day I’d been asked to speak at a benefit for the Stoningham Animal Shelter, and the next day, I had three dogs—Carmen, Valkyrie and Allegra, none of whom I adored. Maximilian came next. (At the time, he’d been quite beautiful and regal, though regrettably, that didn’t last. His breed aged quickly.)
Minuet was my most recent acquisition, and favorite, I’ll admit. She was flawlessly behaved, unlike the other dogs, and her coat was heaven. Though my wrist was stiff and achy these days, I loved stroking her, her fur impossibly soft against my palm. I paused for just a second, and Minuet raised her tiny head and looked at me with those adorable brown eyes. “Yes, yes,” I murmured, resuming. “Forgive me.” Then I glanced back at the television.
Suddenly, I had no idea what the movie was about. None. Granted, Allegra had just sneezed and coughed again, but it was as if the previous moments were gone, eaten by the brain tumor. There were men on the screen, and they weren’t modern men, it seemed. The African American man and the white man were special friends. They were in one of those . . . My mind reached for the word and kept groping. What was it called? A house? A cellar? A locking house? That was almost right, but not quite.
“Why are they in the lock house?” I asked Donelle. She knew about my diagnosis, of course.
“In jail, you mean? Because they’re murderers. Well, Andy’s innocent, Red isn’t. Still, I like him best.”
Jail. Andy. Red. Red was a famous actor. God. He’d played God in something. His face was very kind. I hoped God looked like him, in fact. I supposed I’d find out soon.
“You having one of your spells?” Donelle asked. Valkyrie let out a long hiss of noxious gas.
“What have you fed that dog?” I snapped. “And yes.” I looked down at Minuet. What if the brain tumor made me forget how to care for my little dog? What if I hurt her somehow?
Donelle came over and sat next to me on the couch, dressed in ridiculous pajamas with monkeys on them. “Don’t worry, Gen. It’ll pass.”
The sting of tears surprised me. Mac woofed at his reflection and pawed the glass, reminding me of what was to come if I let this . . . this tumor get out of control.
“I’d like to practice tomorrow,” I said.
“Sure thing, hon.”
Because Emma was coming soon, and I had to be ready.
The Shawshank Redemption, that’s what this was. Morgan Freeman and what’s-his-name. The one who’d been Susan Sarandon’s common-law husband. Not knowing his name didn’t concern me, since, to be honest, he had peaked early in his career. Not like Paul Newman.
Garrison had had a little Paul Newman about him. Beautiful bone structure.
At any rate, the episode was several days ago. This morning, I’d been a bit dizzy; I hadn’t slept well, and who could blame me, with Emma coming back after all these years? Otherwise, I was fine. Just fine. Now dinner was in the oven, and a local girl was staying to serve and clear, though I had no idea if she knew how. We may have used her at Christmas, but I couldn’t remember.
The cleaning service had scrubbed the carpet where Carmen had relieved herself, and washed all the hardwood floors, scoured the kitchen and put fresh sheets on the beds. New to
wels in the bathrooms. Floral arrangements everywhere—Emma would have her father’s old room; I’d redecorated it in the palest, most feminine yellow to spite him when he didn’t come home for four years running. Also, I was rather known for my home décor. One had to refresh the look every few years.
Only Sheppard’s room remained the same.
And Emma’s, more or less.
I thought the child might like staying in her mother’s old room.
Riley. Not a real name, for heaven’s sake . . . Was there something wrong with Catherine or Elizabeth? I knew Emma’s mother’s maiden name was Riley, of course, but did one really want to saddle a child with the name of a woman who committed suicide? Apparently so.
I’d had my travel agent book their flights so they’d land after dark. The thought of an entire day with Emma and the anticipated accusatory glare was simply too much. It was nearly dark now, the sky that particular shade of heartache blue.
Garrison had died in early June, on an evening such as this.
The Missing gnashed its sharp teeth, ever hungry. Life would have been so different if Garrison were here, a distinguished grandfather in a tweed coat, eager to meet his progeny, smelling of pipe smoke and scotch. I would’ve been a better grandmother, had I not had to do everything alone. Alone, and emotionally hardened all these years.
Garrison had been so much more than my spouse. He was the only other person who had loved Sheppard nearly as much as I did. The only other person who felt the Missing the way I did.
The crunch of a car on the driveway announced their arrival. Unexpectedly, I felt a twinge of nervousness run through me. “Get the door, Donelle, won’t you?” I said. She rolled her eyes and got up. “Not yet!” I snapped. “When they ring the bell.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Donelle said.
“I’m sorry, have I overtaxed you today? Shall I rub your feet and spoon-feed you soup?”
“It’s not that. It’s you being all fake, like you’re not dying to see them.”
“I’m not dying to see them. I’m simply dying.”
Another eye roll. The urge to fire her was strong.
The bell rang, and I picked Minuet up from her cushion and stood in front of the fireplace, suddenly self-conscious. I was wearing a dress by Vivienne Westwood—summer white wool with black checks—and a vintage Tiffany carved jadeite cabochon necklace that had been my mother’s. The Cartier watch with a green leather band. The Stuart Weitzman black pumps. One did have to keep up appearances, and quality items aged well.
It was a pity that Emma hadn’t cared about those things when she was a girl here. Perhaps we could’ve been closer if she’d shown even a little interest in my work. My empire. My solace.
Instead, she’d been only interested in feeling sorry for herself and, later, obsessed with that boy.
They were inside now. The dogs were barking, all except perfect Minuet. Mac ran outside, but Charles would catch him. Besides, Sheerwater was a fenced-in property. The dog would be safe.
They were all in the foyer now. That wretched Paul, Emma, her bastard child. Donelle hugged them, the traitor, rather spoiling the moment, which I’d wanted to be a bit of a power play, to be honest. I set Minuet down on her red velvet pillow, where she curled up in a tiny circle, then looked at the tableau in the foyer.
For a second, my breath stopped, and I felt dizzy, as if I were floating. It must’ve been that brain tumor again, no matter what Dr. Pinco had said in his gentle, too-kind way.
Emma had grown up. She was a woman now, not a girl, and she’d turned out rather . . . well, pretty, if in a common way. She certainly hadn’t dressed to impress and wore jeans and a white oxford shirt. Valkyrie nosed her hand, and she petted her head idly, not looking away from me.
The child standing next to her was tall and lanky, with hair the color of fire. She looked over at me, and raised an eyebrow.
“You must be the famous Genevieve London,” she said, taking a few steps toward me.
“And you must be my great-granddaughter,” I answered. I looked her up and down. Leggings, for heaven’s sake, and a sweatshirt that said DePaul University. Hair in that maddening half ponytail, where the girl seems too lazy to pull her hair all the way through the elastic.
She offered her hand, and I shook it. At least she had a strong grip, and I felt an unexpected . . . connection. She smiled, and then I noticed her eyes.
They were gloriously blue.
Like Sheppard’s. The shape, the color, that pure, perfect blue, proof of God’s mighty hand, eyes into which one could stare for hours, marveling at the beauty and depth of that breathtaking color.
I pulled my hand back and drew in a shaking breath. To cover, I said, “Clearly, we must go shopping. You’re a young woman from an important family. There’s no need to look homeless.”
The child cut a look to Emma. “I’m a young woman from an important family, Mom,” she said.
“Of course you are,” that wretched old man said. “You’re a Riley.”
“And a London,” I said.
“Her important family didn’t care much for her when she was born,” Emma said.
“You resemble my mother,” I murmured for the girl’s ears alone.
Alas, Emma also heard. “And mine,” she couldn’t resist saying. There was the expected accusatory glare. But, yes, April had had red hair, as I recalled.
I looked once again at the girl, who raised an eyebrow at me, a smile playing at her lips. Riley. It might grow on me. Riley London. Her name represented both sides of Emma’s family, and I felt an unwilling twinge of respect for Emma. At least she hadn’t given her daughter the last name of Finlay. Why honor the boy who impregnated you and let you waltz off with your unborn child?
Jason Finlay was a waste of cells.
“If we’re done peeing on the kid to mark ownership,” said Donelle, “would anyone else like a drink? I know I’m ready. Mr. Riley, what will you have, hon?”
He looked at her a minute. “A beer, please.”
“You got it. Shaylee!” she bellowed. “Come out here.”
Shaylee, that was it, the girl from town. Donelle gave her our drink orders. The child was offered soda but asked for water instead, and I was pleased. Better for the complexion, and no calories.
“Shaylee, please take the dogs and put them outside,” I said. “No, not Minuet. She can stay.” Shaylee, silent as a stone, herded the dogs out of the room.
“How many dogs do you have?” the child asked.
“Five. I’m rather a soft touch.”
No one said anything. The point was made. Well. It was time to regain the upper hand.
“Riley, is it?” I asked, as if I hadn’t hired a private investigator a month after Emma left. Riley Olivia London. “It’s very nice to meet you, dear. This is Donelle, my housekeeper.”
“And best friend,” Donelle added.
“My companion,” I said. “And a dear friend.”
“It’s nice to meet you both,” Riley said. “Your home is beautiful.”
I smiled. At least she had good taste.
“So this is Minuet?” she asked. “Hi, cutie! Can I pick her up?”
May I. “Of course, dear. She’s three years old and quite friendly.”
“You’re adorable, Minuet! Mom, look! Isn’t she sweet? You are, little fluff ball.”
Emma glanced over and gave a stiff smile. She and Paul stood there, several steps behind Riley, like the Secret Service, protecting her from my nefarious plans.
“Would you like to wash up, Riley?” I asked. “Brush your hair, change for dinner?”
She smiled at me, clearly catching the hint. “Sure. Which room is mine?”
“I thought you’d enjoy staying in your mother’s old room. Go up the front staircase, take a left and follow the hall all the way down. It’s the pa
le pink room.”
“Thank you.” She put Minuet back on the window seat and left the room. Excellent posture, and none of that stomping so common in girls her age. Quite graceful, in fact, moving in that fluid way of a runway model.
“Does she take ballet?” I asked.
“Soccer,” Emma said.
“I see.” I took a deep breath and, for the first time, looked directly at my granddaughter. “Hello, Emma. You look healthy.”
“As do you, for a woman dying of cancer. How is your health, by the way?”
None of your business, I wanted to say. “I’m doing well, thank you, but let’s not discuss such a personal matter just now. Paul, you’re more than welcome to unpack and refresh yourself in a guest room. A man of your age must be quite tired after the journey.” I was older than he was, but why not go for a dig?
“I got a place in town.”
“Have you?” Thank heavens. “I hope you’ll be quite comfortable there. Charles will be happy to take you to your accommodations after dinner.”
“I don’t need your limousine, Genevieve. I’m only here for the summer to watch out for my girls and make sure you don’t mess with Riley. She’s a great kid, that one, so keep your hooks out of her.”
“Why would I put hooks in anyone? I’m dying, Paul.”
“Get on with it, then.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“I’m not concerned. I’m eager.”
Honestly. The man had hated me since we’d first met, and frankly, the feeling was mutual. He and his wife . . . Betty or Ellen or Joan, something plain . . . had been so smug, so tender with each other. Granted, she’d been in a wheelchair because of her ALS, but even so. They rubbed their coupledom in my face. And the way they talked about their daughter (before her death, granted), how talented and creative she was—she’d wanted to be a chef, I now recalled—how she had ambitions, how Clark should do more than work on his novels (as if Clark had any skills at all). They made it clear, however; April had dreams as well, and Clark should do more to encourage her.
I did think they oversold her talents. April cooked for me a time or two when I visited, and it was decent enough, but hardly Michelin-star quality. How creative did one have to be in order to be a cook? Helga was a cook, and I was quite sure no one ever used the word creative in describing her cuisine.
Life and Other Inconveniences Page 8