Blacklist

by Geneva Lee

  I snort at the thought. The MacLaine family has never been connected in the traditional sense. It’s more like a collection of dots. If anyone bothered to draw a line from point to point—person-to-person—it might form a coherent picture. Then again, it might just be a mess. “At least, I know they’ll be cookies afterward.”

  “There’s something else,” he says, handing me another cookie. “I’m not sure how to say this.”

  I take it, realizing my fingers are trembling. There hasn’t been a lot of good news for me lately. If Felix baked cookies to soften whatever he needs to tell me, I imagine it’s not good either.

  “The mortuary called. Your mother’s headstone is in place.” His voice is gentle, but the words scrape against the hollow pit in my stomach. I stare at the cookie in my hand, no longer feeling hungry. It seems that there’s some heartaches even Felix’s cookies can’t cure.

  I trade the comfort of my yoga pants for a trim pair of black capris, a loose, cream-colored cable-knit sweater that drapes off my shoulder, and velvet flats. It’s dressy enough that I won’t get a lecture from daddy about proper evening attire, while still being comfortable. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t eat at dinner. Normally, I love pot roast and mashed potatoes. Tonight I can’t find my appetite. I’ve known it was coming. One of the shocks of burying someone is discovering that it takes weeks for their tombstone to be put in place. One of life’s little jokes. Think you’re ready to move on? Even just a little bit? Well, got you! Get your ass back to the cemetery and feel the pain all over again.

  Ginny is here tonight, talking incessantly about wedding plans. She’s marrying my brother in February, the week of Valentine’s Day. The only thing that could be more cliché would be a June wedding. Still, she isn’t so bad. Her own mother lives on the east coast, so Mom had been helping her with the majority of the preparations. Now that she’s gone, we get to listen to all the drama associated with a high society wedding. There’s a lot. Shakespeare would be impressed. Hell, he’d probably take notes.

  “So, I told them that if Senator MacLaine called the Customs House, we could move the venue in five minutes flat. Suffice it to say, there won’t be a golf tournament at the country club that weekend.” She looks incredibly smug about this turn of events.

  “Good,” Daddy says, not bothering to look up from his phone. There’s always some new message coming in from Washington. I’ve sat down to dinner with this man nearly every night of my life, but we’re rarely in the same room. He’s always elsewhere — his mind focused on other things.

  When Mom was alive she’d say gently, “Angus, come be with your family.”

  “Yes, dear, one more minute.” He’d smile at her like she was the moon and sun and stars and then go right back to his emails and business dealings.

  At least then we’d had Mom to ask us about our lives. She would tell us stories about how her and Daddy met. Or what ridiculous things the local chamber of the Tennessee Historical Society had up their sleeves now. These days it’s just Ginny planning the wedding or total silence. The only other topic of conversation that regularly comes up is Malcolm’s hopes for State Senate. Because of this, he’s on his phone nearly as often. I guess that’s why Ginny only bothers coming around once or twice a week for dinner. In the meantime, she must be saving up all her energy to try to get attention on these nights.

  “Tell me,” she says, turning in my direction, “what do you think of lavender bridesmaid dresses?”

  “I thought it was a Valentine’s Day wedding,” I say. “Shouldn’t we wear pink or something?”

  She waves her hand derisively and laughs, as though it’s a ridiculous thought. “That would be cliché.”

  I want to remind her that she’s the one that insisted on planning a wedding during America’s most cliché Hallmark holiday, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “I guess,” I say with a shrug. I could care less what bridesmaid dresses she chooses. It’s not like I have a choice about being in the wedding. Back when Mom was alive, she made it fun to talk about the wedding plans. It was exciting then. Now it’s just another day to dread. Another day Mom should be present for but won’t. Another day to face the gaping hole she left inside me. “Well, we need to make a decision,” Ginny continues, not noticing that I’m less than interested in the topic. “We should have ordered dresses weeks ago, but we were so busy.”

  “Weeks ago?” I repeat.

  “They take forever to arrive. Your mother and I had an appointment, but…” She trails away, her eyes darting nervously to me.

  I wish I hadn’t taken that moment to attempt a bite of pot roast. It turns to ash in my mouth, and I have to force myself to swallow.

  “I miss her, too,” Ginny says quietly.

  I manage a small, but grateful smile.

  It feels like business as usual for Daddy and Malcolm. Mom’s death is more about damage control than grief most of the time. I know Daddy misses her. I hear him crying in his office with the doors closed. It’s just like him not to let us see him vulnerable. Still, I can’t find the grace to feel sorry for him. Not after what he did to her. Instead, we’re all alone in our grief—locking ourselves in our respective rooms and working our way through the unexpected sorrow alone. But isn’t that how death works? We all go through it alone. I guess it’s preparation for the day our own comes.

  “We could go try some dresses on,” I offer. I’m not the least bit excited to do it, but I have to remember that I’m not the only one hurting. The wedding doesn’t have to be a sad day. It can be what we make it.

  “I’ll set something up.” Her eyes light up, and I know that at least one person at the table is looking forward to the future. Maybe someday I will, too.

  “That reminds me that we need to rebook the photographer for the paper,” she says to Malcolm. “They’ll want do a feature on our engagement.”

  “Do we have to?” he asks.

  “Of course, you have to,” Daddy interjects, reaching for his glass of bourbon. I can’t help but notice he has drank more than he’s eaten this evening. Apparently, he’s on a liquid diet. “Appearances are more important than ever.”

  Of course, that’s why he thinks they should do it. He cares more about what the outside world sees than what any of us feels.

  “Why do we have to?” I can’t stop myself from asking. I’m tired of every moment in my life being a photo op. “I think that people should allow us time to mourn.”

  “And they have,” he says harshly, peering at me over the cut crystal rim. “But that means you can’t get away with doing whatever you want forever.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Adair and I already spoke about her returning to school,” Malcolm interrupts. He’s trying to save me from our father’s interrogation, or at least, maintain some peace at dinner, but it’s too little, too late.

  “Good, because she’s returning to school in January,” Daddy says.

  “About that,” I say. “I’ve been reconsidering staying in Valmont.”

  “You have?” His voice is dangerously calm and I do my best to stay poised.

  “Everyone is so busy with their own lives,” I begin. I’ve been considering how best to broach this. I can’t exactly come right out and say that I want to run screaming from the only home I’ve ever known. “It gets lonely. Plus, I know Mom would want me to go out and see the world.”

  “Your mother would want you to be near family,” he says, adding, “so that we can keep an eye on you.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, abandoning all attempts at eating. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Can you?”

  Malcolm dabs his face with a napkin. “Maybe we can discuss—”

  “Because someone had to drag you home last night,” Daddy continues, ignoring Malcolm.

  “He was just making sure I got home safely!” I let myself get loud so that the heat blooming on my cheeks will look like anger instead of what it really is: guilt.
r />   “Was he?” He doesn’t buy it. “If someone had seen—if someone had gotten a picture—”

  “Who is going to follow me around in Valmont?” I ask. Really, he’s the height of paranoid. Of course, that’s because he knows that he’s skirting a very fine line when it comes to our personal lives. If the family draws too much attention—if someone starts to look into the details regarding my mother’s death—it could be a huge story. The kind that does more than hurt reelection bids.

  “Exactly,” he says triumphantly, and I realize that I’ve wandered into his trap without realizing it. This is why he wants to keep me about in Valmont. We’re safe in our little enclaves. It’s not that none of our neighbors or friends care what we do. It’s that we’ve all arranged to ignore each other’s sins in favor of protecting our own.

  “You let Malcolm go to DC,” I point out.

  “Malcolm needed to go for graduate school and his internship. He’s going to be in the Senate someday.”

  “Maybe I’ll run for the Senate,” I say.

  Both Malcolm and Daddy laugh. Ginny frowns but she doesn’t stick up for me. Feminism only goes so far with this family, and we both know it.

  “There’s not enough room in the Senate for both of us,” Malcolm says as though this explains why that would be impossible. And if there’s only room for one, it’s going to be him.

  “Oh, stop dicking around, it’s because I’m a girl,” I say.

  “Language,” my father warns.

  “That proves my point,” I say, shoving my plate to the middle of the table. The maid appears, avoiding all eye contact and removes my plate. No one says anything about how little I’ve eaten. No one cares. If someone doesn’t catch it and put it on the front page of the paper or on a news ticker, it doesn’t matter. That’s all this family is: photo ops and pretty filters. We keep all of the ugly behind closed doors.

  “Since I have you all here,” Daddy says, ignoring my outburst, “there’s something we need to discuss.”

  It’s downright democratic of him to pretend like any conversation we have as a family is a discussion. “Your mother’s headstone came, and we need to go see it as a family.”

  “Of course, Angus,” Ginny murmurs, placing a hand over Malcolm’s. His gaze turns down as he studies his empty plate.

  “Why do we have to go together?” I ask.

  “It will be a good thing for us to be seen together as a united front,” he says, dropping his napkin on the table as though declaring this last bit is final.

  “Oh my God,” I say, horrified, as I realize what he is up to. “You want it to be a photo op.”

  “It’s important that the public sees how much her death is affecting our family.”

  “Why?” I ask quietly. How can he cry for her one minute and use her like this in the next?

  “You know why,” he says. “Our grief is a private affair.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” I mutter.

  He ignores me. “We owe it to the citizens of Tennessee to share our lives with them, but we have to be selective as to the moments that we share.”

  “You just want them to see you as a grieving widower,” I accuse. Our eyes meet, neither of us flinches at the hatred glaring back from the other.

  “I am a grieving widower, but I’m also a politician.”

  I have a few other words to describe him. I consider hurling them like darts at him now.

  Alcoholic. Con man. Murderer.

  “You will be there,” he says. It’s as much an order as a threat. “They will see this family united in their grief.”

  I get to my feet. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. They bear down until I’m sure I’ll be crushed. “You own the papers. Just tell them what you want them to print. But don’t make us lie.”

  “Where’s the lie?”

  “We’re not a family,” I say. “We’re liars. All of us—and you made us that way.”

  I don’t wait for him to respond, although he yells at me as I flee the room. It doesn’t matter. I’ll go to my mother’s grave. I’ll suffer through another stolen moment. I’ll pretend that anything about the situation is normal. I’ll pretend that her death was an accident. I don’t have another choice. Not while I’m under this roof. Not while my father controls me.

  And he controls all of us.

  I head to the kitchen, ready to cry on Felix’s shoulders, before I remember that he’s gone out for the night. There’s a plate of cookies sitting out for me with a note to eat as many as I like. He’d known how dinner was going to go down. I grab them and shove them in a bag. I need to get out of here. Daddy isn’t going to let me leave Valmont. Everyone thinks having money is liberating. I know the truth. I live in a gilded cage. I don’t have money of my own. I don’t have resources of my own. Nothing here is mine. Not even my free will.

  I take Mom’s Roadster, because it’s my favorite and because it pisses my dad off every time he discovers I’ve taken it out of the garage. Sometimes I tell myself the pretty lie that I’m running away, but the truth is, I know I’m on a leash. I know exactly how far I can go. There’s nothing for me in Nashville. All my friends are at school. Poppy will let me crash at her place.

  But Poppy doesn’t understand. She tries, and I love her for it, but I don’t want to be cheered up. I want to wallow. I want to feel this. I want it to be okay that I’m mad—that I’m furious. I want to feel every bit of this pain without someone trying to take it from me, because it’s the only thing I have left that’s mine.

  And I can only think of one person who will let me do that.

  23

  Adair

  Present Day

  It’s been a long time since I made it downtown. Back when I was a teenager, I would lie and tell my parents I was going to Valmont Gallery shopping center with Poppy. Then we’d drive into Nashville, meet up with the others, and flirt our way into the various clubs before crashing in the pool house of whoever’s parents were out of town that weekend. We’d pick up Hennie’s hot chicken on the way home and stay up all night gossiping about our fellow classmates and our plans for the future—the lives we thought were ahead of us. None of those plans worked out the way we thought they would. And Nashville? As much as things come and go—new restaurants, new honky-tonks, new street artists—for the most part it hasn’t changed, either. It’s still a town of rebels and whiskey, music and dancing, and dreams dashed by reality. These days as many people come to Nashville to try to make it as New York or Los Angeles. The city’s cemented itself in the music scene, but there’s a lot more going on than just country singers and karaoke bars. Although there’s a fair bit of that, too. The memories pull me in the direction of the Barrelhouse. I drive past, noticing a sign declaring it to be under new management. Nothing is sacred.

  I park the Roadster in front of it, trying to catch a glimpse through the dark windows. It’s too early for them to be open for the day. I wonder how much has changed, but before I can look it up on my phone, Shelby from the animal rescue calls. She probably wants me to pick up a shift over the weekend when most of the other volunteers don’t want to work. I never mind. There are more adoptions on the weekend. By the end of Sunday, I feel hope for humanity again. “Hello?”

  “Adair, I’m so glad I reached you!” Shelby always talks fast, as though any minute she expects an emergency. In fairness, she runs the city’s largest no kill animal shelter. That means she oversees a revolving door of abandoned dogs, cats, and everything in between. She’s even gotten a few horses dumped in the parking lot.

  “What’s up?” There’s a flicker of movement inside the Barrelhouse. I crane to see, phone pressed to my ear.

  “The gala raised over one hundred and fifty-thousand dollars!” she squeals. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It wasn’t really me.”

  “It was your friend, and I know you helped.” She’s not having it. I’ve never been comfortable with getting credit for using my connections. It feels wron
g. “We had one person donate an insane amount, and I’m sure you already know this: Zeus found a home.”

  I slump against my bucket seat, pushing up my Givenchy sunglasses to press a finger against my suddenly throbbing temples. “I know.”

  “Oh, don’t be sad, honey! This is good news!”

  If she only knew. I swallow hard against the rawness in my throat. “I know. I’m happy for him. I’ll just miss him.”

  It’s mostly true. I am glad that Zeus found a home, even if it wasn’t with me. I’m just not thrilled about who adopted him. My eyes skip back to the under new management sign in the Barrelhouse window. Sooner or later, you lose everything you don’t fight to keep.

  “I was hoping you could do me a favor,” Shelby says.

  “Sure,” I say absently.

  “I was hoping you could check in on Zeus and his new owner, Mr...” Papers shuffle in the background. “Sterling Ford. I would do it but I thought you might want to see Zeus and things are crazy here.”

  I really need to learn not to commit myself to something before I know all the details. “Oh, I’m not sure…”

  “Honestly, his donation is huge. I’m grateful, but I’d also like to build a bridge there, know what I mean?”

  I want to tell her that I burned the bridge between Sterling and I a long time ago. “I’m not sure I should be the one to build it.”

  “He mentioned you specifically in the adoption papers,” she says. “You must have caught his eye during the auction.”

  “Sure,” I say miserably.

  “Thank you! And cheer up, I’m sure Zeus is going to be loved.”

  “I hope so.” We end the call, Shelby promising to text over the address.

  I’d plan to spend the day popping in to a few favorite shops and working up the courage to visit my unexpected inheritance. Now, stepping foot into Bluebird Press feels like the lesser of two evils if the other is a visit to Sterling. I guess I’ll tally that in the win column. I ignore Shelby’s text for the moment and pull up Bluebird’s address. A few seconds later, GPS directs me to its offices.