by Abbi Waxman
“Yes, if there is an order. If there isn’t an order, I read them in the order of publication.” The child paused. “Sometimes, of course, the first one I read isn’t the first one they wrote, and then I feel a bit bad.”
Nina laughed. “I’ve met lots of authors at the bookstore, and I’ve never met one who cares which book of theirs you read first. They’re just glad you read one.”
“Really?”
“Definitely.”
“Do you have a favorite book?” Millie plonked herself down on the rug. There was a beanbag that had seen a lot of leaning, and a floppy rabbit that had seen a lot of coreading. Nina suddenly thought of Lili’s daughter Clare, and her dog. Maybe reading alongside someone was more comforting than she’d considered. She thought of her mom, who’d never read with her, and of Lou, who’d read with her every night. She thought of Tom. She stopped thinking.
“I have lots of favorite books, because I have lots of moods and I have a favorite book for every mood.”
“What do you like when you’re happy?”
“I like the Jeeves and Wooster books, by P. G. Wodehouse. Jeeves is a valet, and he works for this guy who’s an idiot. They’re funny.”
“What about when you’re sad?”
“It depends if I want to stay sad or cheer myself up.”
“Cheer up.”
“Mysteries. Everything always works out.”
“My dad liked mysteries, too,” Millie said.
Nina sat down next to Millie and pulled over a pillow for her elbows. “Really?”
Millie shrugged. “Yeah. But he liked all kinds of books.” She paused, then got to her feet. “Come on, I’ll show you his library.”
Millie’s room was one half of the upper story of the house; the other, right next door, was her father’s library. Or office. Or something. Again with the shelves, and a comfy chair overlooking the ocean that was almost more impressive than Nina’s.
Unlike Nina’s, these shelves were not organized.
“I was always asking if I could at least put them in alphabetical order,” said Millie, almost apologetically, as Nina made her way along the books. “But he said he liked to drift along like a cloud and pick something that leaped out at him.”
“Hopefully not literally.”
Millie giggled. “Yeah, and he didn’t really look like a cloud, but that was what he always said.”
It was an extraordinary mix. Austen was there, as was Trollope, and Dickens, and Stephen King, and S. J. Perelman. Dorothy Parker squeezed up next to Joan Didion, and Chinua Achebe made room for John Grisham. Lots of mysteries, and so-called popular fiction, and nonfiction on topics ranging from mountaineering to working at Denny’s. Many she had read; others she hadn’t. She thought of her own shelves and what the titles might tell someone about her, realizing that she now knew more about her late father than she might ever have known, even if she’d met him.
Millie was watching her. “He loved books, like we do.”
Nina nodded.
“You would have liked him.”
Nina ran her fingers along the spines of her father’s books, pausing at a well-worn copy of The Human Comedy, by Saroyan.
She smiled. “Well, I like his books, which is essentially the same thing.”
Millie hugged her, suddenly, and Nina hugged her back.
“I miss my dad all the time,” said the little girl, her voice muffled in Nina’s sweater. “But I’m glad I got to find you.”
“Me too,” said Nina. “Very glad.”
Later, after lunch, Millie wandered off to work on some project involving a tree, a plastic rabbit, and a dollhouse chandelier, and Nina found herself alone with Eliza. She swallowed and asked the question she’d been dying to ask.
“Did you know about me? Before, I mean?” She pushed her hair behind her ears, nervously.
Eliza looked surprised and a little sad. “No, I didn’t. If I had, we would have met years ago.” She drank some water and moved the glass around on the tabletop, making lines of half circles like the tracks of a snake across sand. “It was a shock, because I thought William told me everything.”
Nina looked at her. “Everyone describes him so differently.” She paused, unsure. “He was one guy, but there’s no consensus about what he was like. For Peter’s mom, he was a blowhard who drank too much; for Millie, he was the kindest man in the world who made endless time for her.”
Eliza shrugged. “People change. There’s forty years between the William that Peter’s mom knew and the William that Millie knew. Parents get stuck in the amber of childhood, right? Whenever my parents visit, I feel myself becoming a cranky fourteen-year-old. I saw William through the lens of being his wife; I look at Millie only as her mother . . . You see what I mean?”
“Sure. So I’ll never see my dad properly, only through the filter of other people’s opinions.”
“Or maybe it’ll average out and you’ll be the only one who sees the real him.”
Nina laughed. “Maybe there is no real thing for anyone. Maybe all of us change depending on where we are and who we’re with.”
“And that’s why you like to be alone.” Eliza looked at her and smiled.
“How do you mean?”
“Because you prefer who you are when you’re alone.”
Nina shrugged. “It takes a lot of energy to be with other people. It’s easier to be myself when there’s no one else there.”
“Some people take energy; some people give energy . . . Occasionally, you get lucky and find someone whose energy balances your own and brings you into neutral.” She paused. “My God, I’ve been in Malibu too long. I said that completely without irony.”
Nina laughed. “It was really convincing. I think I even heard a tiny temple bell ringing somewhere . . .”
Eliza made a face at herself. “Your dad used to say being with me was as good as being alone.” Eliza laughed. “I think he meant it as a compliment.” The two women looked at each other. “I think we’re overthinking this,” said Eliza. “More wine?”
Twenty-five
In which the will is read, and is surprising.
The following Monday, it was finally time for William Reynolds’s will to be read. Nina pushed open the heavy glass doors of Sarkassian’s office and saw that the same beautiful receptionist was behind the desk. The woman looked up and smiled.
“Good morning, Miss Hill. The rest of the family is here already. I’ll show you to the conference room.” She didn’t mention the ‘well played, madam’ from the last time, and it was, of course, possible she didn’t even remember it. Nina remembered it, and often thought about it late at night, but let’s assume the best, shall we?
“They’re here?”
The woman nodded, gesturing to Nina to fall in alongside her. “The meeting began at nine thirty.”
Nina shook her head. “No, ten.”
“No, it was nine thirty.”
“Are you sure?”
The woman shot her a glance, and Nina could literally see her remembering their previous interaction and adjusting her tone. “Yes, I’m sure. I put out the bagels.”
“Right.” Nina sighed. Maybe this woman and she could once have become friends, but now Nina was permanently cemented in the other woman’s mind as a total weirdo and tardy to boot. Plus the cinnamon raisin bagels were probably gone already.
As they approached the conference room, Nina could hear raised voices, but the receptionist never broke stride. Maybe there were frequent full-out brawls in this office. Nina suddenly got an image of the conference room doors flying open and fifteen cowboys tumbling out, saloon doors swinging and spurs jingling. She smiled to herself; it was probably too much to hope for that Sarkassian would be inside with a bright red corset on and yellow feathers in his hair. She’d always wondered how saloon madams in the movies kept their silken outfits so clean when there were always clouds of dust and tumbleweeds blowing about. There were no washing machines, no dry cleaners. It had always
bothered her, but then again, so much did.
She and the receptionist did a weirdly awkward thing where she reached for the door handle and so did the receptionist and then they both pulled back to let the other one do it and then both reached forward again, until Nina put her hands up in surrender and the other woman made a noise of triumph and opened the door.
Nina stepped in, and the noise immediately stopped as everyone turned to look at her. No feathers in sight, sadly, although of course Sarkassian could have been wearing anything at all under his suit.
“Good morning, Nina,” said the lawyer.
“Good morning,” she replied, pulling out the nearest chair and sitting down. Crap, she’d sat directly opposite Lydia again. Seriously, Nina, take five seconds to look around for sufficient cover next time.
“Please continue,” said Nina, politely. She’d decided on a strategy on the way over: silence, broken only by monosyllabic words and small smiles. No emotions, no drama, nothing to see. She was going to get out of this room alive and cherry-pick the nice relatives and never see the rest of them ever again. She was totally calm and in control.
Lydia leaned forward. “Hello, you moneygrubbing millennial pretender.”
So much for that plan. “Hello, you crazy, mercenary sea cow,” she replied. Sorry, but you can’t call someone a pretender without expecting resistance. She wasn’t quite sure where the sea cow part had come from.
“Mercenary?” Lydia snorted. The sea cow insult either didn’t register or she didn’t care. “There’s nothing mercenary about getting one’s fair share.” She pointed her stubby finger at Nina. “You never even met my grandfather, so any share you get is completely unfair.”
Sarkassian cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Lydia, but you’re wrong. William chose to leave his estate in his own way, and we have to abide by his choices. Family relationships don’t come into it. He could have left everything to a dog shelter, and there would be nothing you could do about it.”
Eliza laughed. “Besides, I don’t know what other family she could be part of. She loves books and being left alone, which is one hundred percent like her dad and, I might add, her youngest sister, Millie.” She smiled at Nina. “She’s very happy you two are becoming friends.”
Nina smiled back, touched.
Archie added, “Nina’s smart and sarcastic. But at the same time anxious and socially awkward. Quite a lot like me. Plus, of course, the hair.”
Peter said, “She’s open-minded and well read.” He shrugged. “Not to toot my own horn, but . . .”
“And she’s obsessed with facts and trivia, which, I’ll be blunt, Lydia, is like you.” Sarkassian leaned back in his chair. “In fact, she’s a lot like all of you, and whether that’s genetics or coincidence is kind of irrelevant, but there it is.”
Lydia said nothing but fumed.
“So, if no one has any further objections, I think it’s time to go ahead and read the will.” Sarkassian looked slowly around at everyone over his glasses, but no one spoke. Enjoying the moment, he opened a folder and withdrew a long legal document and cleared his throat.
“William Reynolds was a wealthy man, as you all know, and the estate amounts to a little over forty million dollars in stocks and cash, the house in Malibu, an apartment downtown, and the vacation homes in Mammoth and Palm Springs.”
“Holy moly,” said Nina.
“Oh, like you didn’t know,” snapped Lydia.
Sarkassian continued. “Twenty million dollars is to be immediately divided between his four legitimate children, with the adult children receiving their money now and Millie’s share being held in trust. His grandchildren each receive a million dollars. Eliza keeps the remaining money, plus all the properties.”
He stopped. Everyone looked at Nina, who was looking at the lawyer.
“Nina gets nothing?” asked Peter, clearly surprised.
Lydia laughed. “That is perfect. I guess Grandpa had more brain cells left than I thought.”
“No, no, William wrote a very specific section for Nina.” The lawyer turned over a page and began reading.
“To my daughter Nina, who has remained unacknowledged by me until now, I leave the contents of the garage at 2224 Cahuenga Boulevard.” There was muttering around the table, but when Nina looked at everyone, they didn’t appear mad, although Lydia was frowning.
“What’s in the garage?” Nina asked. She got a flash of that show where people bid for the unseen contents of a storage container. What was she getting? Several broken table lamps and a stamp album? A severed head in a big glass jar? Nina realized that was from a movie and started trying to place it.
Sarkassian looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, William was an unusual man, given to somewhat romantic gestures and ideas.”
“The garage is full of chocolate?” Nina was totally down for that. “Champagne?”
“No.”
“Roses?”
“No.”
Nina had a sudden insane surge of hope. “Kittens?” She did realize that wouldn’t work; she just always hoped for kittens.
The lawyer coughed. “No. The garage contains a 1982 Pontiac Trans Am.”
Nina stared at him blankly, then a fact popped into her head. “Wait, like from Knight Rider?”
“Exactly like. A black Pontiac Firebird Trans Am.”
“He left me K.I.T.T.?” Nina immediately flashed back to many happy evenings lying on the floor in front of the TV, listening to Louise murmuring about David Hasselhoff’s leather pants. “Did he think I was a lone crusader in a dangerous world?”
“Good Lord.” Lydia’s tone was incredulous. “He left you a car?”
“You can have it if you want. I don’t want it.” Nina really didn’t. She didn’t care about cars; she barely drove. The movie with the head in a jar was The Silence of the Lambs, by the way; it had come back to her.
Lydia shook her head. She was clearly bothered. “An intelligent car is so much more fun than money.”
Nina looked at her. “It’s not really an intelligent car. It’s just a car.” She turned to Sarkassian. “Unless it comes with an actual com-link wristwatch thingy, in which case I am totally keeping it.”
“I know that,” said Lydia, her voice scornful. “But he only left the rest of us money.”
There was a pause.
“Maybe he thought you only cared about his money,” said Eliza, quietly.
“Well, he would have been wrong. But seeing as he never asked me anything at all about my life, how would he know?” Lydia looked around. “None of you ever ask me anything.”
After another awkward silence, Sarkassian coughed and said, “Well, whether Nina takes the car or not, the will makes it quite clear that she has to go drive it at least once before she chooses to sell it or give it away.”
Nina frowned at him. “What kind of legal provision is that? What is this, Brewster’s Millions?”
Clearly, the lawyer had never enjoyed that brand of Hollywood madcap legal comedy, because he looked at her with a tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows. “I don’t know what that means. I have the keys here. Please be nice to the mechanic who’s been taking excellent care of it for the last twenty years. When I told him about the will, he hoped you would be impossible to find.” He slid the keys across the table, and Nina suddenly had a terrible thought.
“I can’t drive stick.”
He raised his eyebrows, smoothing out that pesky wrinkle. “Well, here’s your chance to learn.”
As Nina sat in the Lyft heading back home, she checked her phone. Nothing. Impulsively, she sent Tom a text.
“Hi there, I just inherited a car.”
No response. Maybe he was working.
“It’s a 1982 Pontiac Firebird. Like K.I.T.T. from Knight Rider.”
Still nothing. Maybe he was busy.
“It doesn’t have William Daniels’s voice, though, so, you know . . .”
Silence. Maybe he was with someone else.
She looked
out of the window, noticing all the couples walking along, holding hands, smiling at each other, or even simply sitting across from each other looking at their phones. She’d always loved the feeling of being separate, of being alone while everyone else clumped together like mold on the inside rim of an old coffee cup. But now she felt lonely.
She leaned forward. “Hey, can I change our destination?”
The driver met her eyes in the mirror. “Sure, but you have to do it in the app.”
“I can’t tell you? You know, verbally?”
He shook his head. “Well, sure, you can tell me, verbally, or in sign language, or on a piece of parchment carried by a pigeon, but for me to alter my course, you also have to change it in the app.” He shrugged, his eyes back on the road. “Despite the fact we’re a scant two feet apart, our relationship requires the intermediation of a computer system housed in a server farm neither of us will ever see. Thus technology further separates us, eroding our trust in one another and leading our species down a path to a future where we only know one another on a screen and can only talk to one another in characters, and where ideas are owned by companies run by algorithms.”
Nina gazed at the back of his head for a moment.
“So . . . on the app then?”
“Yup.”
Twenty-six
In which Nina meets a legendary
Pokémon in human form.
The garage on Cahuenga was part of a larger mechanic’s business, with classic car restoration clearly a specialty. There were several old cars parked outside, including a Mercedes, which was the only hood ornament Nina recognized. She was pretty impressed she even remembered they were called hood ornaments, honestly. Cars all looked more or less the same to her, though she sorted them into broad categories like “fancy” and “regular” or “in her way” or “going too fast in a residential neighborhood.” They all looked the same from the driver’s seat, she reasoned, unless you care about how the people outside the car are looking at you.
The mechanic was an older guy, maybe in his late fifties. Nina couldn’t tell; he was covered in a patina of wrinkles and oil that blurred the edges. She’d tracked him down in his “office,” which appeared to be the car mechanic’s version of the back room at Knight’s. Where they had piles of books, this guy had piles of manuals and little bits and pieces of machines that Nina didn’t recognize. She had introduced herself, and the temperature had gotten noticeably chillier. She felt bad for the topless garage mechanic—well, she was holding a wrench—on the calendar behind him.