The truth was, I never got to know April very well before she died. Afterward, it was difficult to sympathize with someone who’d abandoned her child, especially when my child had been stolen from me. I knew depression was a legitimate illness; it was simply hard to imagine committing suicide when one had an eight-year-old.
I hadn’t. I’d wanted to and I hadn’t.
Once I had custody of Emma, Paul became quite the authority on raising children, when look how his had turned out. That didn’t stop him from lecturing me on what Emma needed, a child I had never asked to care for, a child they were more than happy to let me take. The advice, as if I needed parenting guidance. Hadn’t I been Sheppard’s mother, after all? And then there was the pain, their grief, dripping out of them for all the world to see. You aren’t the only ones who’ve ever lost a child! I wanted to scream. At least mine didn’t throw away her life!
But, of course, those things went unsaid. Clark wanted me to take Emma; Paul’s wife—what was her name?—had that horrible Lou Gehrig’s disease and was wasting away, the poor thing. She, at least, hadn’t been hateful. Naive and poorly educated, but that was hardly her fault.
“We gonna stand here all day?” Paul asked.
“Emma?” I asked. “Would you care to freshen up? I’ve put you in your father’s old room, the one overlooking the wisteria bower.”
“I’m fine,” she said. We eyed each other a moment, and I kept my face neutral. So did she. Where was that drink?
“Is it strange to be back?” Donelle asked.
“It’s like I never left,” she said.
“Sorry to hear that,” Paul said.
Shayla or whatever her name was finally brought me a martini. I sipped it and suppressed a sigh. No lemon. Young people today and their ridiculous drinks. I’d have to speak to her later.
“Just to remind you again, Genevieve,” Emma said quietly, “I don’t want you speaking to Riley about any possible inheritance.”
Donelle sputtered. I ignored her.
“Of course not. That would be entirely too crass,” I said.
“I wanted to be clear,” Emma said. She stared at me, and there was something very different about her. A hardness. No, a strength. Oh, she might despise me for showing her the door all those years ago, but she had been too soft, too easily manipulated back then. Too much like her father. If she hadn’t been, she never would’ve gotten pregnant in the first place.
Sometimes, a firm kick in the pants is what someone needs, whether they know it or not.
Riley came downstairs again, wearing a cheap knit black dress that was far too short. At least she had tried. I’d take her shopping. She was a London, and she should look like one. We’d visit the headquarters and she could have her pick from the showroom, Beverly Jane be damned. Riley’s hair was brushed and gleaming, and my fingers itched to pull it back into a bun. She had a lovely neck.
“Mom, you should see my bathroom,” she said. Then she laughed. “Oh, wait, I guess you have! I love the tub. It’s huge. And there’s a shower and the closet is practically bigger than my room at home. The bed is the size of a boat.” She cut a glance at her grandfather. “Not that I need a bigger bed, Pop. You know I love mine.”
He smiled the faintest bit, and I gathered there was a story attached to the bed. I imagined he’d made it for her, carving it like Joseph making a cradle for the baby Jesus, since martyrdom did seem to run in their side of the family.
“I’m glad you like it, dear,” I said. “I’ll give you a full tour of the house tomorrow, so you can appreciate its history.”
Emma was quiet, looking at me. I drank more of my lemon-free martini. Thank God for gin. “Tell me about yourself, Riley,” I said.
“Well,” she answered blithely, “I’m the bastard child of a teen mother, as you know.”
Donelle snorted; Emma and Paul smiled. Personally, I was not amused. “Do go on.”
“I’ll be a senior this fall, I’m an honors student, I play soccer and like to read.”
“We have a library here. Just down the center hall on the left.”
“Cool. Tell me about yourself, um . . . Genevieve.”
How utterly refreshing! A child—a teenager, no less—asking an adult about herself! “I’m the founder and CEO of a design company, as I hope you know.”
“Retired CEO,” Donelle said. I cut her a look.
“I definitely do know,” said Riley. “All my friends love your stuff.”
As they should. “I also like to read, and I graduated summa cum laude from both Foxcroft Academy and Barnard. Are you planning to attend college, dear?”
“I am. I’m hoping to go to Notre Dame.”
A pity. If she had the grades to get into Notre Dame, she could get into an Ivy League school. “Have you been raised Catholic, then?”
“Mm-hm.”
I suppressed a sigh. A deliberate slap in my face, of course. Emma had not been raised Catholic. She’d been nothing till she got here, though her mother had been “technically Catholic.” I had taken Emma to the United Methodist church every Sunday she’d lived with me.
“Are we ever gonna eat?” Paul said.
“How gracious of you to ask, Paul. Of course. Please, into the dining room. Helga made us something very special.” What that was, I couldn’t remember, though I knew I’d given her very specific instructions. Ah, well, it was sure to be an unpleasant evening, whatever was being served.
“Does this something special have arsenic in it?” Emma asked, confirming my prediction.
“Just the gruel and stale bread you grew up on,” I answered pleasantly. “I knew you’d want your favorites.”
“Interesting that you could get rid of your grandchild but not an incompetent cook.” She pulled out a dining room chair and sat down hard. Paul blew his nose in a napkin, and Donelle was already half in the bag.
From the backyard, I could hear Mac howling. I knew exactly how he felt.
CHAPTER 9
Emma
Much to my surprise, I slept like the dead my first night at Sheerwater, waking when the sun hit my face. I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Too early. If her schedule hadn’t changed, Genevieve slept till eight thirty every day like it was a commandment. She did not appreciate noise before she had her café au lait.
I sat up and looked around. Last night, I’d been too tired and tense to take in any details, aside from the half dozen dogs running around, farting, scooting their butts on the carpet, wrestling, snarling.
I had nothing against dogs. I loved dogs. In fact, I’d begged for a dog when I lived here, and guess what? The answer had been no. Sheerwater was far too impressive a home to allow dogs to ravage the place. Now, Genevieve had five. Five.
Everything she did felt like a slap in the face. Then again, why would that be any different now?
I’d been put in what had been my father’s room, but Genevieve had changed it at some point in the past seventeen years. Whereas I remembered it being hunter green with white wainscoting, it was now the palest yellow, the window seat cushion upholstered in green, yellow and blue floral fabric, throw pillows in pastel shades. All my father’s things—his model airplanes and Hardy Boys books, knickknacks, Yankees pennant and an old musket from the Revolutionary War—were gone.
To be fair, he’d told me he never read the books. Funny that I’d remember that. In the ten years I’d lived with Genevieve, my father had visited only ten times: every Christmas Day. And while the house looked like a movie set, the holiday itself was always chilly.
I’d called Clark and told him I was coming here. Told him his mother was sick, which he hadn’t known. He didn’t seem all that concerned. “Guess everyone dies someday,” he’d said, which was about on par for my father’s depth. I’d long since stopped hoping he and I would bond, but it would’ve been nice to
have an ally, the both of us united against Genevieve in some way. I reminded him that Genevieve was Hope’s guardian, and he’d grunted. Nothing more.
“Is it okay with you if I become Hope’s guardian?” I asked.
“I guess,” he said, and I gritted my teeth and said a terse goodbye.
I didn’t know why his lack of interest surprised me. He’d always been an absentee father. I wondered if he knew he was being cut out of Gigi’s will . . . or if in fact he was being cut. Gigi had never liked her second son, but she was a stickler for tradition.
Genevieve. Not Gigi. Gigi sounded fun and lively, like a young-for-her-age grandmother who’d play hide-and-seek or make a fort on a snowy winter day.
I wondered how she was with Hope, if she cuddled her and read her books, or if she just looked on, her mouth a razor slash of disapproval. Well. Hope had me, and I’d be visiting her later today.
I went into the adjoining bathroom (Sheerwater had eight full bathrooms). Mine had been updated—maybe they all had been, and it was now a lesson in fabulosity—all white marble and tile, plus white towels, tiger maple cabinets and a deep soaking tub where I could sit and look out over the Sound. There was a glass shower, towel warmer, indented shelves on which sat potted white orchids and a copy of Genevieve’s coffee-table book, Life with Genevieve. Ha. I should write a lurid tell-all. She was a cold bitch, really. I don’t remember a single hug.
At least I’d be comfortable here. Physically, anyway. Maybe later I’d take a bath, but first, I wanted to check on my daughter.
That view, though. That was a good view. The sky was pure blue, the Sound behind it smooth as glass. The grass was emerald and lush, cut on a diagonal by Genevieve’s gardener or yard service. Beneath me, the wisteria bloomed in what Genevieve called the bower—a huge trellis that sheltered an outdoor sitting area. I used to read there, curled into one of the wicker chairs, the smell of the blooms so sweet. If Genevieve found me, I’d get a lecture on posture and sitting with ankles crossed.
Sheerwater sat on the end of Bleak Point, jutting out into Long Island Sound. The lawn was probably at least a couple of acres, and the seawall was stone. There was a private dock, too. To the south of the lawn was the rose garden, set in a circle with rows extending like rays of the sun, and past that, a little forest of pine and oak trees. I used to be afraid of those woods, convinced someone would take me the way my uncle Sheppard had been taken. Or murdered.
I looked a little closer. Someone was out there. A man. He stared out at the water, hands stuffed in his pockets.
That was Genevieve’s land, and she wasn’t the sharing type. Could it be Jason? Was he here to see Riley? If so, he was early; we were meeting for lunch.
My phone chimed. A text from a patient, asking if we could reschedule.
When I looked back out at the forest, the man was gone. I’d ask Genevieve. Or Donelle, who actually seemed happy to see me yesterday. If he was a trespasser, someone should know, especially now that Riley was here.
I went down the hall. To think that my kid might inherit this place was overwhelming. This was Kardashian-level money. Well, not that, maybe, but a lot of money. The artwork in here had to be worth a ton in itself. The Turkish carpets (despite whatever dog secretions they were infused with), the signed first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird, the furniture, both the new and the antiques.
I almost hoped it wouldn’t go to Riley. Money had a tendency to ruin people, to alienate them and isolate them and make them wretched and alone or, worse, surrounded by people who only wanted a piece.
Well, as Pop had said, Genevieve’s true intentions wouldn’t be clear until she was dead and the will was read. For a woman with a brain tumor, she sure looked healthy. Three martinis last night, and not a wobble in her step. I’d asked Calista for info and read up on her condition, but Genevieve would need to tell me the stage, the location, the plan of treatment. I planned to go to her doctor’s appointments with her.
If nothing else, Riley would have a memorable summer of privilege. A summer away from those abruptly nasty girls.
For a second, I stood in front of my old room. When I’d first come here, a heartbroken eight-year-old, I’d had a lot of hope. After all, orphans fared okay, right? Annie of the brain-worm songs about tomorrow? Anne of Green Gables? Surely my grandmother would love me just as much as Anne and Annie had been loved.
I’d been wrong about that.
I opened the door. Riley was sprawled like a starfish on her back, sound asleep, and I crawled into the king-size bed and looked at her. Those perfect lips, so red and curved, open a little, as she was a mouth-breather when sleeping. The space between her front teeth I loved so much. Her freckles . . . When she was little and they began to pop up, I’d kiss each new little speck and tell her it tasted like cinnamon or chocolate. I loved the smell of her, a little salt, a little morning breath, her citrusy shampoo.
Dinner last night had been endless. The table was set with full pomp, a low flower arrangement of hyacinths, roses and ivy (the color scheme matching the china and dining room décor, naturally). A twentysomething woman had served without speaking as Helga, my grandmother’s cook, brooded in the kitchen. Helga nodded when she saw me. That was all, which was exactly how I remembered her—silent, morose, a terrible cook, able to drain the flavor from every food group, every time. The server may have been under orders not to speak, or, knowing both Genevieve and Helga, mute. They’d prefer it that way.
Donelle had been lively, Pop grumpy, Genevieve and I warily staring at each other, or not staring at each other. Riley had been oddly at ease, asking both Genevieve and Donelle questions about the house, Connecticut, the town.
And Genevieve asked questions as well, each of them a veiled insult.
Do you have a beau, Riley? Your mother was quite precocious that way. Lest my daughter forget I was in high school when she was conceived. No blame for Jason, of course. It was as if I’d gotten myself pregnant.
You don’t mind playing such a masculine sport? Concussion rates are quite high in soccer, I hear. That was directed at me, implying I didn’t know how to keep my child safe. Ironic, coming from a woman who’d lost her child. Literally lost him. I raised an eyebrow a centimeter, just to let her know what I was thinking, and she’d looked away, coming back with another question for Riley.
And the one that got to me the most: Do you mind having red hair? No? Good for you.
My mother had had red hair, and I’m sure Genevieve remembered that. The implication was, Hopefully that’s all you inherited from her.
Genevieve and I had a language all our own.
“Her hair is beautiful,” Pop growled. “People stop her on the street to tell her so.”
“Of course they do,” Genevieve murmured. “It’s quite distinctive.”
My death grip on my fork tightened, and I stabbed my tasteless roast beef with gusto, wishing it were my grandmother’s petrified heart.
But Riley answered blithely. Didn’t want a boyfriend yet. Loved having red hair. Never had a concussion, knock on wood, and had started playing varsity her sophomore year.
I knew my daughter. She’d want Genevieve to like her, and Genevieve would like her just enough to stab her with disapproval as soon as Riley thought she was in. It had been the pattern of my life here.
Riley stirred now, groaning a little. Her thick red-gold lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes a crack, smiled, then rolled against me. “Hi, Mama,” she said.
Mama. The word nestled against my heart, warm and precious. “Good morning, angel. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, but this creepy stalker lady was lying in my bed when I woke up.”
I smiled. “I’ll tell her to get a life and leave you alone.”
Riley stretched and yawned. “This bed is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in,” she said. “Don’t tell Pop.”
Pop had made her bed himself. It was a twin, not like this king-size monster.
“Nothing but the best for Genevieve,” I said.
“It’s like the nicest hotel in the world.”
“Want me to show you around before Genevieve gives you the historical importance tour?” I asked.
“Okay!” She bounced out of bed.
“We have to be quiet, though,” I said, getting up as well. “Genevieve will be asleep for another hour and a half, and Donelle longer than that.”
“Where are their rooms?”
“Donelle’s on the first floor. Genevieve has the master wing up here on the western side.”
“Of course she does.” Riley went into the bathroom, then poked her head out. “This bathroom is worth the whole trip, Mom.”
A minute later, we went down the hall, whispering, our bare feet silent against the walnut floor and soft runners. “This is a Toulouse-Lautrec,” I said, pointing to a sketch.
“That sounds very expensive,” Riley murmured, and I smiled. She knew who the artist was, and the relief that she was being herself again—happy, cheeky, sweet enough to get out of bed to spend time with her mother—filled me with gratitude.
I had to hand it to Genevieve—she really did have excellent taste. Nothing was garish, nothing shouted money, not like the Newport houses with their solid brass chairs and ceilings painted with gold leaf. . . . the “I have more!” school of decorating. No, Genevieve was old Yankee money. Every piece of furniture was beautifully made but functional as well, with clean lines and the best materials. She’d updated the look since I left, bought some new pieces, renovated here and there.
It was still the loveliest home I’d ever seen, comfortable and welcoming (unlike its owner) . . . a true home and not a showplace.
Life and Other Inconveniences Page 9