When the man sees us, he snaps the notebook closed. “I’m sure we can work something out,” he says to Theresa. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Wonderful, thank you,” Theresa says, backtracking to open the door for him. They converse briefly in low tones, and when she returns, she smiles brightly at us. “Your grandmother is considering divesting some of her art collection.”
Divesting. That’s a word I recently learned when Mom berated me into studying for the ACT; it means rid oneself of something that one no longer wants or requires. That painting Mildred is about to divest might be on the smaller scale of Twombly’s works, but it would still pay for all of our college tuitions at Ivy League prices.
Not that I could get into the Ivy League. But still.
The bitter thought distracts me until Theresa leads us through a set of glass French doors. We step onto an expansive porch overlooking the ocean, framed by a stainless steel railing. I feel a sense of déjà vu, even though I’ve never been here, because Mom has described this porch in so much detail. It was her favorite spot in the entire house.
“Mildred, the children are here,” Theresa calls.
My grandmother is sitting at a teak table, shaded by an enormous, gauzy umbrella set up behind her. There are four place settings, and three tiered trays holding a mouthwatering array of sandwiches, pastries, and fruit. Mildred is wearing a sun hat despite the umbrella, and a beautiful patterned scarf over a long-sleeved, cream-colored linen dress. Her gloves are the same cream color, short enough that I can see the stack of gold bracelets on her left arm. Her white hair is loose and wavy, and she’s wearing a pair of large black sunglasses.
Not fair, I think as I take a seat. I thought sunglasses would be rude, or I would’ve brought my own. I could use some camouflage right about now.
“Aubrey. Jonah. Milly,” Mildred says, inclining her head toward each of us in turn. “Welcome to Catmint House.” Theresa steps away as a man in a black apron materializes behind us, offering coffee, tea, or juice in a hushed tone. “Please help yourselves to whatever you would like to eat,” Mildred adds.
“Thank you,” we chorus, but nobody makes a move toward the food.
“Unless nothing appeals to you?” she asks dryly, and then silverware clatters as we all try to fill our plates at the same time. Damn her, I think, stabbing a slice of melon with my fork. We haven’t even been here two minutes and she already has us jumping to do her bidding.
Jonah, who’s sitting beside me, is staring at the sandwiches with an expression of mild dread. “They’re all full of lettuce,” he whispers. “And nothing else.”
“Here.” I poke one with my fork. “I think that’s roast beef.” Jonah grabs it gratefully. Aubrey plays it safe by piling her plate high with mini pastries.
“So.” Mildred folds her hands under her chin. I wait for the obvious question: Why are you here? But it doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head toward Jonah and says, “I must confess, Jonah, that I see nothing of Anders in you.”
Jonah tries to buy time by biting off half of his roast beef sandwich and then—disaster. His face turns red, his eyes water, and he gags before lunging for a napkin and spitting gobs of half-chewed food into it. “What was that?” he gasps, reaching for his water glass. I look at the uneaten sandwich half on his plate, and catch sight of a creamy white substance nestled between the layers of roast beef.
“Oh, um. Looks like horseradish. Sorry about that,” I say as Jonah drains the entire glass of water in two gulps. “He’s not a fan,” I add, to Mildred.
“So I see.” She plucks a plump blackberry from the top of a miniature tart and pops it in her mouth. The gesture is startling, like this person actually eats? I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she just feeds off decades-old resentment.
When Mildred has chewed and swallowed, she finally takes off her sunglasses, setting them on the table beside her plate. Her eyes, ringed with heavy eyeliner like the first time we saw her, remain on Jonah. “Tell me,” she says. “Is Anders doing well?”
Jonah goes still, except for the slight twitch of a muscle in his jaw, for so long that I wonder if he misunderstood the question. Then he reaches for the pitcher of ice water and pours himself a fresh glass, taking his time like there’s no awkward silence whatsoever. When he finishes, he looks at Mildred and inhales a slow, deep breath. Almost as though he’s about to give a speech. “Do you want me to answer that honestly?” he asks.
His voice is calm, with a hint of a challenge. It’s like all of his earlier unease has suddenly vanished, and for some reason that makes me uneasy.
Mildred arches a brow. “I do.”
I let out an involuntary, nervous cough. Jonah blinks, catches my eye, and a deep flush stains his cheeks. He turns back to Mildred and mutters, “I guess he’s okay. I don’t know. We’re not close.”
An emotion I can’t decipher flits across Mildred’s face as she turns toward Aubrey. “You also look very little like your father, although I see traces of him in the shape of your eyes, and your chin.” Aubrey looks surprised, and gratified, at the comparison. “How is Adam nowadays?”
Aubrey tugs at the collar of her shirtdress and wets her lips. She hasn’t touched her pastries yet or any of the three beverages in front of her. She’s nervous, but her voice is steady as she says, “He’s pretty much the same as always.”
Mildred takes a delicate sip of tea. “In other words, he thinks the sun rises and sets on him, and surrounds himself with people who agree?” she asks.
I can feel my eyes pop as Aubrey goes red. Jesus, lady, I think. If he’s like that, don’t you think you might’ve had something to do with it?
Aubrey’s obvious agreement with Mildred’s jab is at war with loyalty her father doesn’t deserve, and the conflict is written all over her face. Mildred relents, going so far as to briefly pat Aubrey’s hand with gloved fingertips. “Forgive me,” she says. “This has been a difficult weekend. I didn’t mean to lead with—well. Let’s talk of happier things. I understand that you’re a competitive swimmer?” Aubrey nods, gratefully, as Mildred adds, “Your father must be proud of you. He always prized athletic ability.”
Aubrey hesitates, like she suspects a trap. “I…I hope so.”
Mildred turns back to Jonah, who’s been quietly cleansing his palate with miniature fruit tarts. “I hear your grades are excellent, Jonah. Will you be applying to Harvard?”
Jonah takes his time swallowing the tart, but looks relieved at the relatively easy question. “Yeah, probably.”
It’s a good fifteen minutes later before I fully grasp the pattern of the conversation. There are a half-dozen fascinating things we could be talking about right now, like our parents’ disinheritance, Dr. Baxter’s death, Uncle Archer’s reappearance, and, of course, the question that has to be foremost in Mildred’s mind: Why the hell are you three here? But none of those come up. My grandmother is dividing her laser-like attention between Aubrey and Jonah, asking them questions about their lives, their accomplishments, and their fathers. Sometimes her interrogation borders on the uncomfortable—she’s clearly fishing for something related to her two oldest sons, although she won’t come right out and say it—but her attention never wavers.
Jonah looks deeply uneasy the entire time, but he doesn’t give himself away. Aubrey unfurls like a flower in the sun, basking in the light of our grandmother’s unexpected interest.
I might as well not even be here.
My whole life, I’ve imagined what it would be like if my grandmother and I finally met. Yes, the shopping fantasies were silly, but beneath that, I used to think that me being her namesake might mean something. That looking so much like my mother might mean something. That wearing my grandfather’s watch every day might mean something. That caring about art and fashion the way she does might mean something.
And now, sitting in my mo
ther’s favorite spot in the legendary Catmint House, watching whitecaps skitter on the horizon as I eat more than my fair share of brunch because I never have to answer any questions, all I can think is this:
None of it means anything at all.
Maybe she’s a racist who can’t be bothered with her only nonwhite grandchild. Maybe she’s sexist and only cares about her sons. Or maybe she just doesn’t like me.
“I need the bathroom,” I say, standing abruptly.
Mildred gestures at the French doors. “Take a left at the hallway. There’s a powder room two doors down.”
“Okay,” I say. But when I leave the room attached to the balcony, I turn right instead. To hell with Mildred’s directions. I’ve never been inside my mother’s house before, and I’m going to have a look around. I slip my sandals off and hold them in one hand, padding quietly through vast, beautifully furnished rooms that look like something out of a magazine. Art and fresh flowers are everywhere. When I peer into the kitchen, I marvel at the top-of-the-line appliances that sparkle as if they’ve never been used for anything as mundane as cooking. Then a soft voice catches my attention, and I follow it back into the hallway.
“I think it was excessive,” Theresa Ryan is saying. She’s in a room adjacent to the kitchen, and from my spot in the hallway I can see an entire wall of built-in bookshelves. “We’ve been down this road before. You think you’re getting rid of one problem, but all you’re doing is creating a dozen more.”
She sounds angry, which isn’t an emotion I associate with my grandmother’s placid assistant. I edge closer.
“They’re here now,” she says. “I’m trying to keep things short, but I’m not sure how soon I can pry her away. She has an almost—morbid curiosity, I suppose.” There’s a long pause, and then Theresa adds, “Well, what do you think? The same old obsession. And now is not the time for her to be distracted like this.” Another pause. “It would be best for everyone, I agree. All right. Let’s touch base later this afternoon.”
I hear the click of footsteps and quickly backtrack into the kitchen so I can duck behind the island. Theresa makes her way down the hallway without pausing, humming to herself. When I can’t hear her any longer, I ease out of the kitchen and peer into the room she exited. It’s an office, filled with books, filing cabinets, and an enormous carved wooden desk. I’m dying to look around, but I’ve already been here too long. I have just enough time to check something.
There’s a landline phone on the desk, the kind with a screen on the handset. My mother has something similar in her office; she can’t seem to let go of outdated technology. I press Menu on the handset, then Last Call.
A name pops up on the screen: Donald Camden.
Milly is a dream client for Kayla’s Boutique. “Everything looks so good on you!” the owner exclaims, hands clasped in front of her, as Milly steps out of the dressing room and onto a dais in front of a large mirror. “But I do believe we’ve found it. This is the dress.”
I think she’s right. Milly is wearing a stunning sleeveless gown with a plunging yet still tasteful black top and a billowing white skirt. At least a foot of fabric pools around her feet, which are encased in black high heels, but other than that she looks Oscar-ready.
Except for her face, which is closed off and remote. She’s been like that ever since our weird brunch at Gran’s two days ago, which ended abruptly when Gran declared a sudden headache. I thought shopping would for sure cheer Milly up, but she looks like she’s just going through the motions. Polite, but not really interested.
“We’ll need to take up the hemline, of course, but the rest fits perfectly,” the owner says. She’s an attractive woman in her late thirties with dark hair and olive skin, wearing a simple tan sheath that’s dressed up with layers of necklaces. She closed the shop when we came in, and she and the saleswoman on duty have been giving us the royal treatment for almost an hour.
I’ve never been in a store like this before. The interior practically glows with flattering white light that makes everyone’s skin flawless. The chairs are cream leather, the mirrors are antique silver, and the floor looks like luminous mother-of-pearl. Red roses are everywhere, filling the air with their soft, heady fragrance. The overall effect is like being inside a comfortable, expensive jewelry box.
“You look incredible,” I tell Milly from my chair beside the mirror. I’ve been sitting here half curled into the fetal position ever since trying on a single, horrifically unflattering dress.
“I agree,” the owner says. “If you like it, we can start the alterations right now.”
“All right,” Milly says. The owner waves toward the front of the store, and the saleswoman heads our way with a seamstress in tow. She wasn’t here when we arrived, so she must’ve been called in especially for us. The seamstress crouches beside Milly and starts pinning the dress’s hem with quick, deft hands. The attention seems to revive Milly, who offers the owner a genuine smile. “Thanks for all this. I love the dress.”
“Your mother would be thrilled,” the owner says.
“You mean my grandmother?” Milly asks.
“Well, yes, I hope so. But your mother, too. I knew Allison a little way back when. I was too young to run with the Story crowd, but my sister was friendly with all of them.”
I glance at the front of the store, where Kayla’s Boutique is written in stark black lettering above the cash register. “Are you Kayla?” I ask.
Her face droops a little. “No, I’m Oona. Kayla was my sister. She died when I was in high school, so when I opened this shop I named it after her.”
“I’m so sorry,” Milly and I say in unison, and I can feel my face get hot. Leave it to me to turn our fancy shopping trip depressing.
Oona smiles reassuringly. “Thank you. It was a long time ago. But I remember both of your parents very well. Allison was so beautiful. And Adam, well—” She lets out an almost girlish laugh. The teen version of my father seems to have had that effect on everyone. “Adam was quite dreamy, back in my day.”
For once, I don’t want to hear about my father. “Did you know Archer, too?” I ask.
It’s been two days since our brunch with Gran, and we still haven’t heard from Uncle Archer. He hasn’t been to work at the resort, either, and I’m starting to wonder if he took off once he realized his cover was well and truly blown. The thought leaves me feeling empty and unsettled, like I’ve lost something before I even knew I had it. I keep remembering the younger version of my uncle sitting amid a sea of Legos with me years ago, patiently searching for a policeman’s hat after my father, tired of my whining, sniped that I’d probably lost it. “The right hat is important,” Uncle Archer had said, unperturbed. “We’ll track it down.” And eventually, we did.
“Of course I knew Archer,” Oona says. Light and conversational, as though the entire island isn’t a boiling pot of rumors about him. “He was always friendly with the residents of Gull Cove Island, almost as though he were one of us. We’ve stayed in touch throughout the years. Lovely man, despite some…” Oona hesitates briefly before finishing with “challenges.”
“Did you know our Uncle Anders, too?” I ask.
“Oh yes. Better than any of them. Kayla dated him off and on throughout high school, and while he was at college.” Milly and I both blink in surprise, and Oona laughs ruefully. “I don’t think your grandmother ever approved.”
“Did you?” I ask, and Oona raises a brow. “I mean, did you like him?” Uncle Anders is still a mystery to me, the Story sibling I know the least about.
Oona shrugs. “He was very intense,” she says as the seamstress gets to her feet. Milly’s skirt just brushes the tips of her shoes, and Oona nods approvingly at the length. “That’s perfect. Linda, could you help Milly out of that dress so we can get started on the hem?”
The saleswoman ushers Milly off the dais and into a dressin
g room. The seamstress heads for the front of the store, leaving me alone with Oona. She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow with a kind smile. “You’re not quite as comfortable with this process as your cousin is, are you?” she asks.
My eyes drag toward the pile of fabric on the chair next to me. It looks so innocent now, nothing like the pink monstrosity it was when I tried it on. “Dresses don’t look good on me.”
“Nonsense.” Oona lowers her voice and leans her head toward mine. “Linda is still relatively new, and she hasn’t fully mastered the art of picking the right dress. That pink was a wonderful color for you, but I have something different in mind. Why don’t you head into a dressing room and let me bring it to you?” I nod half-heartedly, but she’s already charging toward a rack. “Take off everything except your undergarments!” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back!”
That’s the downside of personal shopping—zero privacy.
Behind the curtain, I strip off my T-shirt and shorts with a feeling of dread. Milly is going to look incredible at the gala. Jonah, who’s off in some tuxedo shop down the street, will undoubtedly be dashing. And I’ll be the frump in the corner making everyone whisper, Are you sure she’s a Story?
“Here we go!” Oona appears with a dress draped over her arm. The color is a gorgeous twilight blue, but I catch sight of some kind of beading and—I don’t know. The simpler, the better, usually. But Oona hangs the dress from a hook on the wall and starts unzipping the back with total confidence. “What do you think?”
“It’s nice,” I say hesitantly. I want to distract her from the moment when I’ll have to stuff myself into what looks like an unforgiving column of fabric, so I add, “You said before that my uncle Anders was intense. What did you mean?” She furrows her brow at me in the mirror and I add, “I haven’t seen him in years, and I barely remember him.”
“Well.” Oona slips the blue dress off its hanger, letting the silky fabric run through her hands. “It was a long time ago, of course. All I remember, really, is that it was all very dramatic. He and Kayla broke up a lot, and each time Kayla swore she’d never take him back. Then she did. It was hard, in those days, to resist a Story.” Her eyes get a little unfocused. “Kayla was a townie at heart. I think she knew she’d never be able to keep up with Anders in the real world.”
The Cousins Page 16