“Here’s good,” she said, guiding Gin to a spot next to her. “And when your father gets here, he’ll go—oh look, there are the Madigans.”
Old Mr. Madigan, who could always be counted on to buy a glass of lemonade from the stand Lily and Gin set up in front of the house, shuffled toward them on his cane. Mr. Madigan always told Lily she was as pretty as a princess as she poured the lemonade into a paper cup, while Gin felt invisible next to her, manning their cigar-box cash register.
She breathed deeply and reminded herself that she could get through this.
***
Forty minutes later, the room was filled almost to overflowing. Gin recognized some people immediately, and others after she’d dug through her memories and accounted for the passage of nearly two decades. A girl she’d been in band with came with three little girls in matching dresses. One of the nurses who’d worked with her father had lost at least fifty pounds.
But more than half of the mourners were unfamiliar to Gin. Everyone seemed to know who she was; they pressed her hand between their cool ones and bent close to murmur their sympathies, their sorrow. Despite their kindness, each encounter felt like an invasion.
After she’d been stiffly greeting people for half an hour, Gin caught a glimpse of charcoal linen, a wide silver cuff, the glint of sun off strawberry-blonde highlights. The woman heading her way trailed two appealing children, their pale hair and clear green eyes making them a matched set. Only when the woman was upon her did Gin realize who it was.
“Christine!” she gasped, as her oldest friend in the world scooped up her hands in hers and squeezed. Then they fell into a hug, Gin breathing in the powdery scent of Christine’s subtle perfume.
“Oh, Gin, I don’t even know what to say,” Christine said when she finally pulled away. Her eyes shone brightly with tears, but she brushed them away impatiently with a handkerchief.
“Are these your children?” Gin asked. The pair waited patiently, wearing appropriately solemn expressions. The girl appeared to be about thirteen or fourteen, and was on the gangly awkward cusp of growing into her features; in a few years, she would be stunning. The boy had managed to smudge his otherwise immaculate blue button-down shirt and one of the tails hung out over his trousers, but his hair had been slicked smooth and his tie was expertly knotted.
“Oh, yes. This is Olive, she’s going into high school this fall, and Austen, who is going to be in Miss Krane’s fourth-grade class next year, if you can believe it.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Gin said. “Your mother and I . . .”
Her voice trailed away as she realized how unprepared she was to finish that sentence. What would Christine have told her children about her? How would she explain away the silence, the fact that Gin never called when she was in town, that she hadn’t sent holiday cards despite the fact that Christine never missed a year—even two years ago when Brandon’s absence from the family photo was the only indication that they’d divorced.
“Miss Sullivan and I were inseparable,” Christine said, rescuing her.
“Oh, please call me Gin.”
“What does ‘inseparable’ mean?” Austen said. He’d shaken Gin’s hand dutifully, and now he shoved his hands into his pockets like a young version of his uncle.
Olive tossed her long, shiny hair impatiently. “Austen. Think about it. As in, separate? Can’t be separated?”
“Olive,” Christine said, a mild rebuke.
Gin couldn’t help smiling at this first reprieve of the day. Christine’s children—bossy older sister, pesky younger brother—reminded her of the dynamic between her and Lily. She’d so often felt plain and prissy next to her willful, beautiful sister, but in truth, she’d also missed few opportunities to belittle and nag Lily.
“Did you really get the Gault Scholarship?” Olive asked.
It took Gin a moment to place what the girl was talking about. When the steel baron’s daughter had grown up, she had bequeathed a scholarship to be awarded each year to a female graduate of Trumbull High School for the furthering of her studies at a time when college had been a questionable goal even for wealthy and privileged young women. When seventeen-year-old Gin won, unaware that in a few months her life would change forever, she’d mocked the prize and its small cash award, and been roundly rebuked by her mother, who had been its recipient twenty-eight years earlier.
“Yes, it’s true,” she said, smiling.
“Lydia Gault is kind of my hero,” Olive said, her face turning pink with embarrassment. “Did you know she was the first woman to have a front-page byline in the Examiner? I’m going to be a journalist, too.”
“That’s our Olive,” Christine said forcefully, putting her manicured hand on the girl’s shoulder and propelling her forward. “And Austen is going to be a professional soccer player.”
“Mom!” he wailed in protest as he was ushered along. “I’m not either!”
“Please excuse us,” Christine said. “I don’t want to hold up the line now, but I’d really love to catch up.”
“Me, too,” Gin said, surprising herself by how deeply she meant it. “As soon as I can get away, I’ll come find you, okay?”
Moments later, when the line had finally died down and all the mourners were gathered around the photo boards and the tables laden with quiches and bagels, Madeleine turned to Virginia. The change in her expression was instant, her shoulders slumped and worry lines around her tight grimace. “I just can’t understand what happened to them.”
Gin had already tried her father’s phone twice, with no answer, and she wondered if her father was dawdling for the same reason she’d been dreading the memorial—having to face all the people. “I’m sure that—”
That was as far as she got; before she could come up with some soothing reassurance for her mother, she heard the crunch of footfalls outside, and her father’s raised voice.
“—no goddamn good reason why you have to come here and—”
Another voice cut in, low and murmuring, attempting to placate. Then her father’s angry response, his words incomprehensible as he tried too late to keep his voice down.
Gin took two steps toward the doors, putting herself between her mother and the commotion outside. Three people stood on the sidewalk: her father in his navy blazer and the gold cuff links her mother had given him on their wedding day; Grammy, supported by her son with an arm slung around her shoulder; and on the other side, with Grammy clinging to his arm, Jake.
“I’ll go,” Gin said to no one in particular; her mother was already stalking over to the long table where the servers were loading coffee urns and restocking sandwich platters. Madeleine, an accomplished delegator, was undoubtedly about to dispatch some helpless waiter to “help” with Grammy, in order to get Richard away from Jake.
“Dad,” Gin called as she strode outside. Jake turned in her direction, raising his hand halfway before letting it drop at his side.
She couldn’t look at him, not here, not now. For a moment she felt some of her mother’s indignation, the complex swirl of emotions from seeing him again yesterday giving way to irritation that he’d upset her family. “Grammy,” she said deliberately, bending to be at eye level with the old woman. “Oh my, it’s so good to see you.”
But the old woman showed no recognition as she patted the hem of her acrylic cardigan nervously. Grammy had been a prickly, hostile woman, a very occasional presence in their lives when she’d been healthy; now she was a fragile, feather-light, mute doll. She was trying ineffectually to break out of her son’s grip, but her feet merely shuffled in place as he held on.
Grammy eyed Gin and pointed vaguely in the direction of Jake. “He, he,” she said, spittle flying delicately from her wrinkled lips. Someone had made sure her hair was done for the occasion, and it curled crisply to her head, a dignified note that belied the slightly haphazard nature of her outfit: a skirt that didn’t match her blouse; pale, thin knee socks; brown slip-on loafers. Who, Gin wondered,
had helped the old woman dress this morning? And following that thought, the inevitable guilt chaser that trailed every memory of Gin’s past: what kind of granddaughter lets three years go by without a visit?
“Dad, Mom’s been worried,” she said, slipping between them and taking her grandmother’s arm. The old woman batted weakly at her hands, and Jake caught her around the waist to help keep her balance.
“Keep your hands off her,” Richard snapped. Grammy pulled away from Jake and stumbled over her own feet in their ugly footwear, pitching dangerously forward before Gin caught her. She was shockingly light, little more than a leathery wraith with a chemical hospital smell rising from her processed hair.
“Dad, he’s only trying to help,” Gin said.
“Yeah, well, we don’t need his help, Virginia. We talked about this.”
“You talked about it.”
“Look, I’ll be on my way,” Jake said. He sounded genuinely remorseful. “I never would have come if I thought—”
“You didn’t think, though, did you,” Richard said bitterly. “That’s just it with you. You don’t think.”
Jake held the older man’s gaze, the muscles in his jaw working. “I mean no disrespect,” he said quietly. Gin could tell how much effort he was putting into staying calm. “I loved Lily, too.”
“That’s enough!” Richard practically shouted, lunging for him.
“Dad!” Gin was shocked, but she couldn’t let go of her grandmother or the old woman would fall. She reached for her father’s arm and managed to hold onto his sleeve. “Please. Mom needs you. I’ll take care of Grammy.”
Richard glared at Jake for a moment more, then turned on his heel and stomped up the steps.
“I’m sorry,” Jake said. The change in him was immediate; the defiance left his face, his body slumped. “I was hoping—I mean, I see now that it was a stupid idea. I just thought . . .” He stared at the ground and shook his head angrily. “I thought you might need the support.”
“I’m fine,” Gin muttered, but she was taken aback by his words. He’d come . . . for her? “Look . . . I need to go.”
“How long are you going to be here?”
For a moment, she thought he was asking about the service—how long she could endure the murmured platitudes, the egg-breath questions from the old busybodies, the awkward greetings of people she’d left behind. How long it would take before she bolted—the one thing she could always be counted on to do.
Then she realized that Jake was asking her how long she would be in town. “To be honest, I’m not exactly sure,” she said. “I thought I would try to find out where they are with the investigation. See if . . . if there’s a place for me to pitch in.”
He looked at her in surprise. “But I thought they’d already done the autopsy.”
“Not yet,” she said. “They’re still lining up experts. It’s not like the physical evidence is at risk of further damage after all this time.”
She didn’t add that it would be highly unorthodox for her to be chosen as one of those experts, considering that she was related to the victim—especially since she herself would have been considered a suspect if she hadn’t had an airtight alibi, having been at freshman orientation a couple hundred miles away.
“I’ll be here for at least a week,” she amended. “I’m going to take some time off from my job.”
“I’ll call you tonight,” Jake said. Not a question—a promise. He was already backing away, toward the parking lot jammed with cars. “And Gin—I’m so sorry. Really. I wish I could make today easier.”
She watched him go, standing at the doors hidden behind tall brass planters full of wisteria. He crossed the street to his truck parked on the opposite side, got in, and rolled down the windows. For a moment, he sat motionless, staring out at nothing, his hands loose on the wheel, until he finally shook his head and turned the key. Seconds later, he was gone.
11
Gin sat with her grandmother, keeping a careful eye on her parents, who seemed to have resolved the matter of Richard’s tardiness without rancor. Gin held a paper cup of punch to her grandmother’s lips, wrapping her hands around her grandmother’s trembling, waxy fingers. In truth, she was grateful for the distraction, the excuse not to mingle.
“Hi, Mrs. Sullivan. Hi, Gin.”
Olive stood in front of them, smiling shyly.
“Olive, it’s so nice to see you. But I’m not sure my grandmother can understand you. I’m sorry, honey.”
“Oh, I know that. I just like to say hello anyway.”
“You’ve met each other before?” Gin was surprised; until Grammy’s move to assisted living several years ago, she’d been famously private, eschewing the garden and bridge clubs and senior-center bus trips that the other seniors in town enjoyed.
Olive nodded. “I interviewed her for a class project on Trumbull history when I was in fourth grade. She was really nice.”
“I . . . I’m glad,” Gin said. Yet another thing that was not as she remembered.
Picking up on her surprise, Olive shrugged. “I’ve heard people say that she used be, you know, kind of mean. But my dad says some people have trouble showing their nice side, but it’s still there.”
“Your dad sounds like a smart man,” she said gently, wondering if it had been Christine herself that he had been talking about. It made her sad to think that Olive might find her own mother aloof, but Christine had always been the most reserved among them, a counterpoint to Lily’s unbridled and uncensored moods. “Would you like to join us?”
“Sure.” Olive sat primly, tucking her skirt under her. “These shoes hurt my feet. They’re new.”
Gin admired the shiny, black platform sandals, and imagined the argument mother and daughter must have had over the heels. She repressed a smile, remembering how Lily had clomped up and down the stairs in the high-heeled clogs she bought with her babysitting money.
“Would you care for a cookie?” Gin offered Olive the plate she had filled for her grandmother.
Olive helped herself and took a dainty bite. “Were you and my mom really best friends?”
Gin was caught off guard, unsure how to answer. Certainly it had once been true, but would Christine still see it that way? There had always been a distance between the two of them, one that waxed and waned depending on how Gin and Lily were getting along and, later, Lily and Tom. “We were very close,” she settled on saying.
“I’ve seen your picture,” Olive said. Her eyes darted nervously up and back to her lap. “You were so pretty. I mean, you’re still pretty.”
“Oh, honey, that’s very kind of you,” Gin said, embarrassed by the girl’s clumsy compliment. “It was a long time ago.”
“Uncle Tom says you were the smartest kid in the whole school. He says I take after you.”
“Really?” Gin smiled. “You know, he and your mom were pretty smart themselves.”
“Yeah, but Uncle Tom says you could have done anything you wanted. He says I shouldn’t go into writing, because print’s dead. But if I do, he says I will find a way to succeed, just like you did.” She peeped up under long, luxurious lashes. “What I’m going to do is write, for like, online media.”
“That’s—that’s a great goal,” Gin said, wondering when kids had stopped reading newspapers. “I bet your mom’s proud.”
“I guess. I mean, Austen’s a lot of trouble.”
Again Gin found herself suppressing a smile. Many of her colleagues in Chicago had kids, adorable little toddlers who careened around the few barbecues and birthday parties that Gin was invited to. But she didn’t know any teenagers, and she was surprised at how much she liked this one. “Your brother’s a pain, huh?”
“Oh my God. He’s like totally ADD and he has no respect for boundaries.” Olive sighed dramatically. “Four more years.”
“Until you go to college?”
“Until I can get away from him.” Olive flashed a small, conspiratorial smile. “And this stupid, boring town.�
�
“You don’t like it here?”
“Did you?”
Gin laughed out loud. “Okay, you got me there.” She had been dreaming about leaving since her first memory of visiting Pittsburgh, of the skyline looming in the distance as they drove up through the Mon Valley. “So you’re not a small-town girl, huh?”
Olive shook her head adamantly. “Mom’s taking me to New York City next year for spring break. Dad’s going to take Austen to spring training, so it’s only fair. They’re crazy about the Padres.” Another weary sigh. “I don’t care for sports.”
Gin was getting a sense of this girl: bookish and serious, like she herself had been, but without the crushing self-doubt that plagued her. Good for Christine, for raising her daughter to be confident.
“Well, I’d better get going,” Olive said, so much like her mother that Gin felt a pang in her heart. “Are you coming to my birthday?”
“Your birthday?”
“My party? I’m pretty sure you’re invited. I mean, I can invite you, can’t I?”
“Why—sure,” Gin stammered. “Although I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town.”
“It’s next weekend,” Olive said. “We’re having make-your-own sundaes. You’ll still be here then, won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best,” Gin promised, as one more invisible thread wrapped around her, pulling her back into the shadow land of her past.
12
“Help me with these, will you?” Madeleine asked, when they arrived home to find a collection of neatly labeled Pyrex pans in shopping bags on the porch, defrosting in pools of water. Small-town condolences were expressed with covered dishes meant to sustain the family through their difficult times. Madeleine herself had made countless lasagnas for new mothers and shut-ins, labeling them neatly with masking tape and tucking them into Kauffman’s-department-store bags.
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