A Palm Beach Scandal--A Novel

by Susannah Marren

  “I guess she doesn’t have to,” I agree. “We’re hers.”

  Again the clock ticks, interrupting us. There is this density between us—we’ve uncovered a principle that both divides us and makes us whole. Elodie is shakier than I am.

  “It’s okay,” I say as she stops to pick up the Boat Basin photograph. She turns it around in her hands.

  “Besides, we look similar.” I keep talking. “We both have long legs, a good profile. Mom talks about our widow’s peaks.”

  “Not exactly the same. You have voluminous hair,” Elodie says. “Your nose isn’t quite like mine and you’re longer-waisted.”

  “I didn’t say we’re twins, I meant we are alike. You have straighter teeth. You score higher on standardized testing,” I say.

  Elodie is pacing. “There’s a lot more to know.”

  “Aren’t you … aren’t you slightly angry?” I say. “I mean, no one told us, we’ve been told nothing.”

  “Slightly? I’m enraged.”

  I nod. “At least we have each other, we’re in it together.”

  We stand, not believing what we know or what we imagine. There is a vague scent to the room—like a man inhabits it. It is fragrance free and almost fresh.

  “Can we close up and, I don’t know, take a few days, collect our thoughts?” I ask.

  Elodie gathers everything together. Next she reorganizes the files—she could be a professional thief. She closes the safe door, twists the lock.

  “We need to talk with Mom,” she says.

  “We will,” I say. “It’s just making me so sad. And what have we found? We could wait a little before…”

  A bile begins in my stomach and burns through my throat until I throw up. It lands on Dad’s desk, the wood floor, and Elodie’s Gucci mules. I’d like to apologize, I can’t stop. I keep on—as if the entire hour is being reenacted through my body as vomit.

  “Oh my God! Aubrey!” Elodie holds her hands over her face. “Oh God! Run to the bathroom!”

  “Too late.” I slow down. “I’m sorry.”

  I wipe my mouth with my hand. Elodie pushes Dad’s tooled-leather wastebasket toward me, but I’m finished. She plows through her bag to come up with a small pack of tissues. As she pats my face and mouth, I’m afraid I might start vomiting again. I still feel wretched. My sister puts her cool hand on the back of my neck.

  “All right, we should clean up and get out, if you’re okay—if you’re finished.”

  “We need Clorox wipes and I’ll wash up.”

  “The office, we have to fumigate it.” Elodie checks the floor. “Before anything else.”

  * * *

  After the scrubbing and Lysol spraying, we’re both terribly late. While she texts James to blow off the first stop, I’m panicked about how the room will smell tomorrow morning. I start spraying more Lysol, wiping over and over again the spots that were hit the hardest.

  “Dad will know,” I say.

  “We’ve scrubbed that room five ways. Please, don’t worry.”

  The vomit that left my body has cleared my head. It would be unfortunate if our father were to intuit that someone had invaded his inner sanctum. I swat the thought away.

  “Are you well enough to get into an Uber?” Elodie asks. “You could stay with me or with Veronica and Simon.”

  “I’m okay, and Tyler is waiting.” I do feel better than I’ve felt in days. I can pull it off.

  Elodie is near me, a sign that my quick shower and change of clothing has helped.

  “Tomorrow. Tomorrow we should try to see Mom,” she says.

  “Except this South Beach–Palm Beach commute would sicken someone who doesn’t have unending morning sickness.”

  Elodie listens to me for a moment, but she’s keyed up. “Aubrey, we have to speak with her.”

  I nod, praying I’ll feel well tomorrow.

  “Fuck their lies and pretenses,” Elodie says.

  I hold my head higher than usual, in need of fresh air. We leave our parents’ house together.

  CHAPTER 20

  ELODIE

  Around our parents’ pool at seven in the morning, it’s the chirp of the whippoorwills that bothers me, a playlist gone wrong—that is, too strident. There isn’t much moisture in the air, more like Santa Monica or Bermuda than Palm Beach. Or maybe the climate in those far-off places includes morning dew and dampness. Places we went as a family on spring breaks that seem far off and slippery, too long ago to recall vividly.

  My mother and Aubrey are at the steps; Veronica is dipping her toes, delighted that it’s the three of us. If she is suspicious, if she knows that we were in Dad’s office and Aubrey left a vomit trail, she isn’t revealing it. Aubrey’s pregnancy—that has to be the topic for her, the baby-to-be. Isn’t that enough spectacle for one family?

  Veronica points to the round McKinnon and Harris table, where she’s placed raspberries and blueberries, cashews and walnuts.

  “Let’s sit at the table. I have cold brew.” She is proud that she’s gotten it right. “Will that be okay for you, Aubrey? I’m not certain about caffeine and I can’t honestly remember what the rule was back in my day.”

  “I’m fine,” Aubrey says sweetly.

  I wrap my sweatshirt around my waist while Aubrey pulls up her hoodie.

  “We could go inside, where it’s sheltered. The wind—honestly, the house is better. Dad has to leave soon,” Veronica says.

  Dad is inside.

  “We’re happy outdoors.” I point to the periwinkle curved outdoor sofa.”We can sit there.”

  “Exactly,” Aubrey agrees. The bougainvillea and ivy rustle in the wind. I look around for a spot where there are no squalls, then plop down on the left side of the half circle.

  “Good idea, Elodie.” Aubrey smiles brightly. “That’ll do.”

  Our hands brush as we settle in close to each other. My sister tugs on my palm for a second, squeezes, and I squeeze back. Our mother sits in the middle; we flank her. I realize that she’s holding something.

  “Girls, I bought these yesterday, for both of you.” She takes out two copies of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. “It’s the bible.”

  Aubrey and I do not trade a glance. Veronica, satisfied with her endeavor, hands them over.

  “Thank you, Mom.” Aubrey’s voice is very low.

  I put mine on the ground.

  “Did you want to meet to talk about if it’s a girl or a boy? Do you know yet?” Veronica asks.

  Aubrey smiles less brightly. “Well, Mom, we could talk about that.”

  “Aubrey.” I stop her. “Mom, we want to tell you something.”

  “Yes?” Veronica squints at me. “Is everything good? Is the baby okay?”

  “Yes, yes, the baby is fine,” Aubrey says.

  “Then I’d like to talk about how to present this baby.” Veronica sighs.

  “Present?” Aubrey asks.

  “Women, you know, friends and those who are not quite friends, are talking already,” Veronica says. “About Aubrey. Is she pregnant? Is she married? Mimi hears it, too.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone come right out and ask?” I say.

  “Well, that’s not how it’s done, Elodie, you know that better than most people. Look at your job, how nuanced every move is. The delicacy of situations.”

  “There has to be a party line,” Aubrey says. “Why can’t it be the truth?”

  Veronica looks very troubled. “How would that sound? Would I disclose how my daughters and James made a decision?”

  “Yes, Mom, that would work,” I say. The wind blows my ponytail around my face. I cover my ears for a second. “That’s a good idea.”

  “Fine.” Veronica sounds annoyed or disappointed. We have failed her at coming up with a brilliant strategy that would change the circumstances.

  I walk to the table and bring back the macadamia nuts, holding out the dish to Veronica and Aubrey. Veronica waves them away, while Aubrey takes a few. I sit back down.

&n
bsp; “There is something else.” I’m staring at my sister.

  More gulls circle, caw at us. “I’m sorry?” Veronica says. “If you girls have time before you head out to work, that’s fine with me.”

  “There is time, Mom.” Aubrey’s voice sounds foreign, wrapped in bubble wrap.

  Aubrey and I lean in toward our mother. She redistributes her weight, coughs a Miss Havisham from Great Expectations sort of cough.

  “Did I tell you that at Tiffany’s shower, right before her wedding, they gave out 23andMe kits?” Aubrey asks.

  “23andMe kits? What are those?” Veronica’s mouth moves very little when she speaks.

  “They’re this popular DNA test,” Aubrey says.

  “Ah, yes, I do know.” Mom runs her tongue across her front teeth.

  “Well, I took an extra box that day to give Elodie. We decided to take the test.”

  “The results came in,” I say. “That’s what we wanted to talk about.”

  “What Elodie and I have in common as sisters,” Aubrey says.

  Now Mom rotates her head on her neck like she’s been planted on Mars; if she looks out to the west or the east, she’ll be saved. I know she feels ambushed and not courageous. “I see,” she says.

  Aubrey is stiff, lifeless, reminding me of how she was at the Academy before her exams.

  “We’ll show you, Mom,” I say.

  Choreographed, actors in a melodrama, we both reach into our bags and hold up our iPhones at the same moment.

  “So how it works is that they send you the results, the findings.” I scroll to the 23andMe website, log in.

  Our mother is pale—paler than she used to be winters in New York City before Aubrey was born. Her sunglasses hide half her face; she’s immobile.

  “What we learned is that we, Elodie and I, aren’t full sisters, we’re half sisters.” Aubrey pushes her screen toward Veronica. “You can read the percentages. Half sisters.”

  Veronica is unable to acknowledge Aubrey’s iPhone. I hold mine out to her. “Here, on my phone, Mom. It’s the same information, same website. I’m on my account.”

  She won’t take it; instead, she swishes her hand at us. “That makes no sense, girls. There must be some kind of mistake. Misinformation.”

  “There is no mistake.” My voice is soft, but I feel like shouting.

  “I have no idea what you mean.” Veronica smooths her hair back and lifts her shoulders. She doesn’t want to hear a morsel of what is about to be said. She speaks as if we’re delivering news of someone’s poor behavior, a disappointing fund drive for Mothers and Children, a quasi-toxic acquaintance around town. As if all that lurks beneath in Palm Beach is known to her. She is aware that no woman is ever blissfully married, totally satisfied. That women make do, we are acrobats. That’s all.

  I’d like to bellow, This is about a paternity lie. Yours and Dad’s fucking lie. Instead, I say in my civilized Literary Society workday voice, “Mom, please, stop. Look at my screen. Or look at Aubrey’s.”

  “Mom.” Aubrey comes near; their heads practically tap each other’s. Their necks both crane, that scooped-out hollow we all have between our collarbones is obvious. “Please tell us. What is it?”

  More of our almost identical profiles, jawlines, cheekbones—how can that be?—the three of us are some variation of Aubrey’s desperate plea. Different flavors and methods of sadness. Mostly we have trapped our mother, which doesn’t seem possible. It’s nightmarish how alone she is with us. Except Aubrey and I have to know: our mother matters less than stripping her artifice.

  The alligator float that my parents keep in the pool to stave off the birds starts to bob wildly. Veronica hugs her arms around her waist and says nothing. A siren goes off—unusual for Palm Beach at this hour. Perhaps someone is in an ambulance, unexpectedly ill, being rushed to South Palm. The seagulls come in for another round, flying overhead, nose-diving in the wind.

  “We have to know,” I say.

  “Elodie.” Aubrey’s voice is sharp. “Please.”

  “No, no, it’s okay, Aubrey,” Veronica says.

  She is very quiet; we tuck our heads to hear her. “No one was going to know, to learn anything, ever.” She sucks in the air, smiles like she always does before she makes an announcement. “And yet here we are.”

  “Know what?” I ask.

  Aubrey puts her hand on my wrist, squeezes hard. Stop, she mouths without speaking. Stop, leave her.

  “About this.” Veronica’s posture, how stiff she has become, is concerning.

  “Mom, it’s okay.” Aubrey puts her head against Mom’s shoulder. “You don’t have to tell us.”

  “No, let Mom tell us, Aubrey, that’s the whole idea,” I say.

  Aubrey gives me a look—I am the bad sister who drives the bargain, needs the information.

  The gulls start dropping shells on the patio, which always annoys our parents, especially Dad. Clumps of cumulus clouds blow overhead and off to the north.

  “Mom?” I say.

  “About Dad. Dad is … Dad couldn’t…” Veronica puts her hands over her mouth. Aubrey and I squeeze nearer.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I don’t want to upset Dad.” Veronica straightens up, pulls away from us. “That is requisite—a must.”

  “Sure, of course,” Aubrey says. “Elodie?”

  I pause. “Dad? Is he that fragile? What about us?”

  “In some ways, yes, Dad isn’t strong, He’s been shortchanged, cheated. I have always kept this secret for Dad’s sake and for yours. I didn’t want Dad to feel less, to feel diminished. It’s that he couldn’t have children of his own.” Our mother wrings her hands. “We might have adopted—I don’t know. I wanted to be pregnant. I made this deal with him. I didn’t want to miss out. My friends were having babies.”

  Veronica’s eyes fall on me. “Elodie, I know you understand that part, how it should be your child—somehow. In a marriage, the idea that a baby would be related to at least one of the parents.”

  “I don’t understand,” Aubrey says. “Why couldn’t Dad have children?”

  Veronica frowns. “I have thought about Dad’s situation—especially when you miscarried and when you girls made your plan.”

  Your plan. I ignore how she is choosing to frame it.

  I ask, “What went on?”

  “When Dad was in Vietnam, he was exposed to Agent Orange, a chemical. Or some element, a toxin. There have been studies—it turns out that it may cause sterility. Servicemen came home who were exposed to something and found out they’d been affected. No one knows for sure exactly when, where, or what caused it.”

  Our father, secretly maimed? Someone who stands tall, who commands people in his company and wins at every game. While he is one half of the Veronica and Simon Show, he seems the heftier half. When she carries on about opening dances, kickoff balls, what echelon of giving they must be at, how “the Cutlers” are listed, he decides. When someone, be it the Snefts, Bettins, or Chases, trade up their nine-million-dollar home for an eighteen-million-dollar home—or higher—he is Zen-like, disinterested in her social ambition. He has said, “This is what we have, Veronica, this is how it will be.” He who owns the gold rules, Palm Beach l0l. Isn’t that it?

  I’m going to choke. I swallow, take out my iPhone, and start googling Agent Orange. An article on CNN’s website pops up first. Aubrey is bending over as if she is nauseous again. I watch, feeling detached and entrenched—just as Simon must have watched Veronica when she was pregnant. Suddenly our struggles, our ambivalences dovetail.

  “Dad and I are alike,” I say. “About this—about having a baby. He must have identified with what I went through—how could he not? He was lobbying for us, he was antisurrogacy. Then we find out he’s not our biological father.”

  “He is our father, he raised us,” Aubrey says.

  “How many times have you been with Dad alone?” I ask her. “How many times has he held you? I mean, it isn’t like it happens
very much for me.”

  “Elodie, stop, please.” I don’t think Aubrey notices how she’s smoothing her hand over her stomach in this round motion.

  “No, Aubrey, tell me.”

  “You mean overall, since I was young?” Aubrey asks. “Including those summers at the Bridgehampton Candy Kitchen for ice cream? Well, if you count…”

  “I can tell you how it was for me. Mostly it was before you were was born or when you were little. Horseback riding at Wellington—that went on until I left for college—a fourth-grade tennis clinic at Longreens, or once waiting for him at the Cricket Club, sitting in the clubhouse reading Great Expectations. I graduated summa from Princeton and he didn’t say much. It keeps going—sometimes it’s like I’m not in the room.”

  “He does it how he does,” Aubrey says. “He’s our father.”

  The Simon piece of the Veronica and Simon Show is hurting both our hearts. Our father standing tall, fractured within.

  “The game has been changed,” Veronica says. “These kits, these companies. Stories of lost, then found half siblings, full siblings, children given up for adoption. Dad and I didn’t dare discuss it. I could feel it, I know he could, too. We’ve been worried.”

  “Kind of like Sleeping Beauty and the spinning wheel. As long as there’s no wheel, there’s no problem,” I say.

  Aubrey considers this. “Like that, yes. But why didn’t you tell us, Mom? I mean, you had to realize that more and more people are using donor sperm, a donor egg, that Elodie needed help.”

  Veronica ought to say something mollifying, but she doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Do you know how painful this is for Dad? That’s why.”

  Again, a defense of Simon. Aubrey reaches for our mother’s shoulder and Veronica pulls back. My sister looks at me, perplexed. I reach for her hands, cool, smooth, comforting. I imagine Dad on his private beach—as I saw him last weekend when I was jogging. He thought he was alone; he was hunched over, his back humped a little.

  “You found a sperm donor,” I say.