The Ashford Affair

by Lauren Willig

  If anyone could make it to a hundred and ten, it would be Granny Addie. She’d show death.

  Clemmie knelt by her chair, feeling the close-woven wool of the carpet driving her stockings against her knees. “Granny?” she said softly, resting a hand on the arm of her grandmother’s chair. “Happy birthday, Granny.”

  Granny Addie stirred, blinking. She wore spectacles, thick, unlovely things that seemed too big for her shrunken face. It took a moment for her eyes to focus on Clemmie’s face. Her eyes were filmed, vague, and distant.

  A lump rose in Clemmie’s throat. She forced it down. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I would have been here sooner, but I stupidly wound up walking.”

  Her grandmother frowned down at her, confusion and alarm chasing across her face. She looked, thought Clemmie, so lost. Lost and confused. So utterly unlike herself.

  “I’m so sorry, Granny.” Clemmie took her grandmother’s veined hand in hers. “I’m sorry I haven’t been back sooner. Work has been nuts.”

  As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. It sounded so inadequate. Work. So petty and selfish. It didn’t matter about work. She ought to have made the time for Granny Addie. She just hadn’t realized how frail she had become, how much she had deteriorated in the past months.

  Granny Addie’s throat worked. Her lips moved, producing the barest breath of sound.

  Clemmie leaned forward. “Granny?”

  She could feel her grandmother’s fingers flex, gripping hard at hers. “Bea,” she said.

  TWO

  New York, 1999

  “It’s Clementine, Mother,” Clemmie’s mother said sharply. “Your granddaughter. Clementine.”

  “She’s not really awake yet,” said the nurse soothingly. “She’s had a long day. That lunch party tired her out.”

  Granny Addie looked from Clementine to her mother and back again, giving herself a little shake, like someone coming out of a long sleep.

  “Clem-en-tine,” Granny Addie repeated slowly. She sounded out the syllables like someone repeating a lesson learned by rote a long time ago, only half-remembered. “Clem…?”

  Clemmie nodded vigorously, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Have a sip of water,” said the nurse, and held a glass to Granny Addie’s lips, helping her drink. When the nurse made to pat her lips with a cloth, Granny Addie objected.

  “’s fine,” she slurred, and took the cloth from the nurse in a hand that shook just enough to belie her words. She put the napkin down in her lap and contemplated Clemmie, studying her through her spectacles as though attempting to work out a puzzle.

  Granny Addie’s lips moved. Someone had made an effort to put lipstick on her. It looked unnaturally bright against her pale face, caking in the cracks. “Bobbed,” she said. “You’ve bobbed your hair.”

  Clemmie put her hand self-consciously to the bottom of her bob. “Yes. It kept getting all over the place the old way.”

  Dan always used to say that having her around was worse than keeping a cat. Her hair got everywhere. On the sofa, on his suits. He had been joking, of course.

  At least, she had thought he was.

  “Bea…” Granny Addie’s voice was slurred and unsteady. “What … will … say?”

  “What?” Clemmie looked to her mother for guidance, but she looked away. “Who?”

  “Won’t like it,” Granny Addie mumbled. “Bea…”

  “It’s the new medication,” said the nurse quietly, over Granny Addie’s head. “It doesn’t agree with her.”

  Clemmie stroked her grandmother’s thin hand, feeling the veins, like cording. “I love you, Granny.” As if that could bring her back to herself. “I’ve missed you.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. “Miss…” echoed Granny Addie. “Miss you…” A slow tear rolled down the side of her face, first just one, then another, making a track through the lined and papery skin of her face. She cried soundlessly, her eyes open and her mouth closed.

  “Granny.” Clemmie chafed her hands. “Granny, please don’t cry.”

  The tears continued, soundlessly.

  “Excuse me.” Shifting Clemmie out of the way, the nurse leaned over Granny Addie, efficiently blotting her tears, saying, “There, there. You’re just all tired out, aren’t you? Time for your nap, Mrs. Desborough.”

  “I’ll talk to her doctor tomorrow morning,” said Clemmie’s mother, her voice strained.

  Clemmie stumbled awkwardly to her feet. “Will she be okay?”

  The nurse spared Clemmie a glance over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, miss. It’s just these new pills. It’s not anything you did.” She leaned back over Granny Addie, arranging a pillow behind her, making sure her diamond brooch wouldn’t poke her in the cheek.

  The woman in the wheelchair didn’t look like Granny Addie. Her face was slack in sleep, the skin hanging loosely from the bone. Like laundry, thought Clemmie, laundry left out in a heap, discarded. It was as if Granny Addie, the Granny Addie she knew, had gone away, leaving her body behind like so many old clothes. All the character that had animated her was gone.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Desborough,” said the nurse in a singsong. “You take a nice rest.”

  Clemmie cleared her throat. “Is she like this a lot?”

  The nurse exchanged a glance with Clemmie’s mother. “It’s the first time she’s been this bad,” said the nurse. She put the wheelchair smoothly in gear. “It’s probably just these new pills, nothing to worry about. Don’t worry, we’ll tell her you were here.”

  As Clemmie watched, she wheeled the chair away, through the living room, past the oblivious, chattering guests, Granny Addie asleep now, her face still damp with tears.

  “How long has she been on those pills?” Clemmie demanded.

  “I’m not one of your witnesses, Clementine,” said her mother crossly. “There’s no need to interrogate me.”

  “Sorry,” Clemmie mumbled.

  “I’ll call the doctor tomorrow. She was a little disoriented earlier, but the doctor said it would pass.” Mother clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Clearly, he was wrong.”

  “Why did Granny keep calling me Bea?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Clementine, do you think I know everything? I need to talk to Donna. Get people into the dining room, will you? It’s just a buffet. I thought something like this might happen.”

  Her mother disappeared through the den, in the direction of Granny Addie’s bedroom. It took Clemmie a moment to realize that Donna must be the nurse.

  This was not good.

  Clemmie clung to the nurse’s soothing words, that the day had been too much, that this was just an aberration, nothing to worry about, but, deep in the pit of her stomach, she knew that it wasn’t true. Granny Addie was fading fast. She hadn’t been like this the last time Clemmie had seen her. When had that been? Two months ago? Three? No, more. It had been August. She remembered because she had been complaining about the heat, her shell clinging stickily to her suit jacket. Nearly four months. Clemmie’s conscience smote her. She lived in the same damn city. She really had no excuse.

  Especially since it was Granny Addie, to whom she owed so very much. They had lived here briefly—very briefly—when Clemmie and her mother had moved from California after the divorce. Clemmie had been only four, too young to remember it well, but she did remember the strangeness of it. Her mother had been gone most of the time, and when she was around she was busy studying, cramming for the paralegal course that was meant to be their ticket to independence.

  Grandpa Frederick, long since retired, had taken Clemmie for walks in the park, buying her illicit ice-cream cones from the Mister Softee truck. Granny Addie had been busier, occupied with her boards and committees, but she had still found the time to take Clemmie to the Museum of the City of New York, to the dollhouses, a hundred different households in miniature. Most nights, Clemmie’s mother wouldn’t get home until after bedtime, but Granny Addie was always there to tuck her in, s
ometimes in going-out clothes, petticoats rustling as she sat down on the side of Addie’s bed, bringing with her the scent of expensive powder and old, dried flowers.

  She would, Clemmie thought, have been perfectly happy to have had them stay, but Clemmie’s mother had found a job and an apartment of her own, a tiny apartment in Yorkville, a second-floor walk-up. The only financial help Mother would accept from Granny Addie had been the cost of Clemmie’s private-school tuition. It was arranged between them that in those awkward after-school hours Clemmie would come to the apartment on 85th and 5th. She had done her homework there, had friends over for sleepovers, traded stickers, gossiped on the phone about Buckley boys and Nightingale girls, filled out her college applications at Granny Addie’s kitchen table.

  Clemmie couldn’t imagine a world without Granny Addie in it.

  Clemmie swiped at her hair, pushing it back out of her face. Enough. Mother had told her to start herding. She made her way over to Aunt Anna and one of the assorted family-friend group. Granny’s accountant, maybe? He looked familiar, but she wasn’t sure.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, baring her teeth in a fake social smile. “I’m supposed to be herding people into the dining room. It’s a buffet.”

  “Oh, goody, no place cards,” said Aunt Anna. “I always seem to get stuck next to the biggest bores. You’d think someone was doing it deliberately.”

  And by “someone” she meant Clemmie’s mother.

  “No, no place cards this time,” said Clemmie. “Will you excuse me? I should go herd people.”

  Aunt Anna tapped her companion on the shoulder. “Save me a spot, Phil? I just want a word with my niece.” Having neatly disposed of Phil, Aunt Anna turned back to Clemmie, her perfectly manicured brows drawing together in concern. “You all right, sweetums? You look like someone’s been tap-dancing on your grave.”

  Clemmie could hear her mother’s voice in her head. Don’t tell Aunt Anna anything. You don’t know how she’ll use it. Silly. Aunt Anna was Granny Addie’s daughter, too. And she’d always been sweet to Clemmie. A little phony, yes, but fundamentally okay.

  Clemmie bit her lip, shaking her head. “It’s Granny. She’s … not all there. The nurse says it’s normal, that it’s just because she’s tired, but—”

  Suddenly it was all too much, the day, Dan, Granny Addie. A week ago, everything seemed so firmly in place, fiancé, future, family. And now, poof! Where had it all gone? No fiancé, which meant no family; her mother pissy; her grandmother losing her marbles; everything falling apart all around her. The only thing that was constant was her damn BlackBerry. She hated that BlackBerry.

  Partner, she told herself; she was going to make partner. Her name on the firm letterhead and a brass plaque outside a corner office. That was supposed to make up for it all. At the moment, she couldn’t remember why.

  “She didn’t even know who I was,” Clemmie blurted out. “She called me Bea.”

  Wine sloshed over the top of Aunt Anna’s glass as she juggled to keep her grip. “Fuck,” she cursed, swiping at the splotch on her champagne silk sheath with her cocktail napkin. “I just had this dry-cleaned.”

  “Here.” Clemmie took the wineglass from her as Aunt Anna mopped at the damage. “At least it’s pretty much the same color?”

  “Ha,” said Aunt Anna bitterly, retrieving her glass from Clemmie. She looked, Clemmie thought, much older suddenly. Older and harder. Her eyes weren’t green like Grandpa Frederick’s or brown like Granny Addie’s, but a clear, pale blue. “Your mother hasn’t told you anything, has she?”

  Clemmie’s ears pricked up. “About Granny Addie?” Those pills … She didn’t like this. She didn’t like any of it.

  Aunt Anna’s lips pressed together. “This is so like Marjorie.” Aunt Anna tapped her Prada-shod foot against Granny Addie’s Axminster carpet. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”

  Fear made Clemmie’s skin prickle. “Tell me what?”

  Aunt Anna tapped a nail against her arm. “What time do you go into work?”

  “Nine thirty,” said Clemmie automatically. “Usually. Why?”

  Aunt Anna rolled her eyes. “I suppose I’m just lucky you’re not a banker. All right. Come see me tomorrow morning, around eight. You have the address?”

  “Um, yes, I think so.” Her mother was giving them the fish-eye. If there was something about Granny Addie’s condition, Clemmie wanted to know it now. “But—”

  “Good. We can talk then. Without scrutiny.” She smiled broadly at Clemmie’s mother, giving a little wave for good measure. Mother did not look pleased. “Tomorrow.”

  “Aunt Anna—” But her aunt had already drifted away on a fog of expensive perfume. “Damn.”

  Across the room, Aunt Anna caught Clemmie’s eye. Tomorrow morning, she mouthed.

  And Clemmie nodded “yes.”

  * * *

  Trust Aunt Anna to insist on unnecessary melodrama.

  Clemmie limped her way over to Aunt Anna’s late and annoyed, last night’s blister biting into her heel. Aunt Anna’s apartment was all the way over on East End Avenue, near the Asphalt Green, about as far away from Granny Addie as she could get and still remain on the East Side. Aunt Anna’s was the fifth door down on a long, narrow hallway. Clemmie hit the buzzer harder than she had to.

  The door opened, but it wasn’t Aunt Anna.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Clemmie.

  “Good morning to you, too,” said Jon. He was wearing boxers with snowmen on them and a worn T-shirt with the words YALE UNIVERSITY in cracked blue lettering. His legs were bare, lightly fuzzed with brown hair. Clemmie hadn’t seen this much of Jon since their childhood days swimming at Aunt Anna’s fourth husband’s country house. “Anna is letting me stay until I find an apartment.”

  “Right,” said Clemmie slowly. He’d said last night Caitlin had gotten the house. Clemmie wondered if he had been thrown out. “I forgot. Columbia.”

  “Yep,” said Jon. He made a sweeping gesture, reminiscent of Sir Walter Raleigh. “Would you like to come in, or would you prefer to continue discussing my job prospects here on the stoop?”

  “In,” said Clemmie, squeezing past him. “I wouldn’t want you exposing your unmentionables to the world any longer than necessary.”

  “They’re called snowmen,” said Jon mildly, closing and locking the door behind her. “And there’s nothing unmentionable about them.”

  Clemmie decided to quit while she was arguably ahead. She unwrapped her maroon cashmere scarf from around her throat. “Is Aunt Anna around? I came to see her.”

  Jon raised both brows. “I didn’t think you were here to see my humble self. Or my snowmen.” Clemmie could feel her cheeks heating, the curse of fair skin. Before she could retort, he said, “Anna is still asleep. So you’re stuck with me for the moment.”

  “Oh.” So much for I’ll see you at eight. “Do you think she’ll be long?” There was work piling up back at the office.

  Jon grimaced. “She took a sleeping pill last night. She’s going to be dead to the world for a while.”

  Her mother would tell her it served her right, listening to Aunt Anna. Clemmie felt like an idiot on multiple levels, standing here, in Aunt Anna’s hallway, holding her scarf in her hands with her coat half-unbuttoned. “Look, Jon, if Aunt Anna said anything to you about Granny—”

  “Let me take this,” said Jon, and relieved her of her scarf. He held out the other hand for her coat.

  Clemmie moved back. “I don’t really have time. Aunt Anna was going to be tell me about—”

  “Bea,” said Jon. He took her coat from her and dumped it on a chair, her scarf trailing out below, classic guy hospitality. “I know.”

  “And I suppose you know who this Bea person is?” Clemmie said sharply.

  Jon crossed his arms over his chest, obliterating the lower half of YALE. “What do you know about where your grandmother came from?”

  “She came from England,” said Clemmie
haughtily. She had no idea what this had to do with Granny’s medication, but she certainly wasn’t going to admit that to Jon. Or his snowmen. “By way of Kenya.”

  “That’s it? ‘From England?’”

  “Don’t forget the Kenya bit. Don’t give me that look. You know Granny Addie wasn’t exactly big on the childhood reminiscences.” Clemmie squeezed her eyes shut, hating herself. “I mean isn’t. Crap. Isn’t.”

  Jon raised a brow. “Did you ever ask her anything? About herself? Or her youth?”

  “I am a horrible, self-centered, ungrateful granddaughter and I am going straight to hell,” said Clemmie through her teeth. “Point taken. She’s dying and I suck.”

  “Clemmie—” Jon scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Really.”

  She could feel the tension crackling between them, old rivalries and complications. And, if she was being honest, old attraction. She could feel the ghosts of their old selves between them, twenty-one and fearless.

  That had all been a long time ago. Before Dan. Before Caitlin. Before any of this.

  Clemmie took a safe step back, breathing in through her nose, employing all those tricks she had learned to stay calm during difficult depositons. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just— I really wasn’t prepared for how much she’s changed.”

  “Yeah,” said Jon. “I know what you mean.”

  For a moment, they stood in silence, united by mutual memories. Granny Addie playing grandmother to them both, making sure they did their homework, got their applications in on time.

  “Does Aunt Anna know anything?” Clemmie asked urgently. “About her condition? She said she had something to tell me and I thought—”

  “It’s not that,” said Jon quickly. “Nothing like that.” Clearing his throat, he said, “Would you like some coffee or anything? I know where Anna keeps the good stuff.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll hit the coffee machine at work. It’s not very good, but it’s there.” Clemmie glanced down the hallway. “I should probably get going anyway. Tell Aunt Anna I was here? Honestly, I’m not really sure why I came.”