by Sofia Grant
Margaret and Helene—and all of the other Daisy children—had been born to make their parents happy again. They arrived in the world as the new school was being constructed, and there was a newspaper picture of them, lined up in their mothers’ arms, at the ribbon cutting ceremony when it opened.
In the photograph, all of the mothers were smiling at once—something that, as far as Margaret could tell, had never happened again.
Chapter Three
After hanging up with her mother, Katie called Liam at work and got his voice mail. In truth, she was relieved not to have to speak to him in person, not yet. “Oh, hey,” she said breezily, clutching the hem of her sweatshirt for dear life. “My grandmother died. I mean, not that I even ever knew her or anything, but . . . and also, I got my period today, so, you know, guess you’re off the hook for a while.” Ha, ha. Their sex life served up as gallows humor. “Anyway, just thought—I don’t know, if you don’t have to work late tonight we could . . . but yeah, I know, the Sanders thing. So. Okay, see you when you get home.”
Cripes! If it was that hard to leave a voice mail, how was she ever going to bring up the rest of it? The layoff—moving—adoption. Long ago, when they’d first met, as undergrads at Columbia, it had seemed like they were perfectly aligned by fate and luck. They agreed on everything from late-night noshing (onion rings at Bernheim & Schwartz) to running (up Riverside Drive to the public track at 138th Street, avoiding the throngs circling the reservoir). But now there was a distance between them, a coolness, that seemed to go beyond the awkwardness of ovulation tracking, beyond Liam’s long hours and Katie’s dissatisfaction at her dead-end (and now dead) job. No question, they’d grown apart, but didn’t everyone—
Her phone rang in her hand, the caller ID flashing “Laura Rabinowitz.” Lolly! As if she’d read Katie’s mind. Rex and Lolly—Liam’s best friend and his beautiful artist wife—were abundantly, disgustingly happy together. Lolly called her at least twice a month to get together for matinees and whiskey tastings and window-shopping and gallery-crawling in the South End, and Katie—who’d never had a proper girlfriend in her life, having switched schools nearly every year since the third grade and having met Liam a few weeks into their freshman year—couldn’t quite figure out why Lolly bothered.
“Hi,” she said brightly—then burst into tears. Again. Stupid period hormones.
“What’s wrong?” Lolly asked in alarm. “Are you all right?”
“I’m—I’m fine,” Katie sniffled. “Just, I got my period, and, well . . .”
“Aw, hell,” Lolly said with feeling. Katie had surprised herself by telling Lolly about her and Liam’s struggles a few months ago, drinking mulled wine in front of a fire in the living room of their beautiful brownstone while fat snowflakes drifted past the windows.
“And I got laid off yesterday.”
“No!”
“Yes! And—and Liam bought pants that cost more than any dress I’ve ever owned.” An exaggeration, but not that much of one.
“That bastard,” Lolly fumed, despite the fact that she had inherited gobs of money that they didn’t even need because Rex did something clever with hedge funds or bonds or something. “Let me grab the Tito’s and I’ll come right over.”
Katie giggled despite herself. She considered mentioning Margaret’s death too, but that one was harder to explain; most people had at least met their grandparents more than once. “Thanks, Lols,” she said, “but I think Liam’s going to try to get out of work early.”
“If you’re sure,” Lolly said solemnly. “But only if you let me take you to tea at the Reserve soon. We can get dressed up and act like ladies.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Katie sighed.
“Can you hang in there until then? You know all you have to do is call and I’ll come over, right?”
“Right,” Katie said, but after she hung up she stared at the phone with a sense of wonderment. Too-good-to-be-true Lolly, who had singled out Katie from all the other women in her large and glamorous circle, for reasons she didn’t really understand. Next to Lolly, with her wild curls and thrift-shop dresses and moonstone rings, and paintbrushes stuck in Baccarat vases and an honest-to-god Rothko in the dining room, Katie felt about as interesting as a club sandwich.
THOUGH IT HAD been wishful thinking when Katie told Lolly that Liam would be coming home early, he showed up well before dinnertime with another plastic-wrapped bouquet and a carton of the potato salad that Katie liked. He seemed oddly buoyant, but Katie reminded herself that he was probably forcing himself to be cheerful for her benefit.
She’d taken some of the extra-strength ibuprofen that was left over from her miscarriage and was fuzzily numb, lying on the living room couch in a nest of blankets and imagining that she was in a canoe being carried down a lazy river, when Liam came into the living room with a plate in one hand and her cell phone in the other.
“Your mother’s on the line,” he said, setting the plate on the coffee table.
Katie struggled to sit up and stared at the phone in his outstretched hand. “Tell her I’m asleep,” she mouthed, then took the phone anyway, because Georgina delayed would only gather more steam.
“Hi, Mom, I’m fine,” she said.
“Of course you are. Listen. Interesting news. Margaret’s lawyer called. You’ve apparently been named in her will.”
“She had a will?”
“Well, of course she did. Don’t get excited, though; anything of value got sold off years ago.”
“Yes, you’ve told me,” Katie said, but any attempt at sarcasm was lost on Georgina, who plowed on as though she hadn’t complained dozens of times over the years that Margaret had never worked a day in her life, preferring to drain the dregs of the family fortune until there was nothing left but the moldering old house on a quarter acre. Georgina herself had never had a full-time job either, unless you counted the pursuit of men, which she worked hard to monetize while Katie was growing up. A series of boyfriends had generously supplemented Georgina’s income until, as her crowning achievement, she met a moderately wealthy podiatrist a month shy of her fiftieth birthday, who expired from a heart attack on their honeymoon, leaving her enough to live rather nicely and date strictly for pleasure.
“She didn’t leave me a thin dime, of course,” Georgina continued. Katie was pretty sure she could hear the rattle of ice in the background.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Katie said. “You can have half of whatever she left me.” It was a safe offer to make, because other than a few antiques and a pile of mismatched silver, her grandmother had owned nothing of even dubious value, according to Georgina.
“I’ll hold you to that. Word is that the house might actually be worth something now.”
Katie sat up straighter on the sofa, clutching the blankets up under her armpits. Outside, snow fell gently onto Beacon Street, creating the Currier & Ives–like tableau that Liam loved to gloat about to their friends.
“What do you mean?”
“Industry has come to New London. In the form of an Amazon fulfillment center. They’re getting ready to break ground somewhere near town—they say it’s going to be hundreds of thousands of square feet and create tons of jobs. Now there’s a rumor that they’re going to build a new hospital next.”
“How do you know this?”
“Katie,” Georgina said witheringly. “We have NextDoor down here, for your information. Nell Klaspaugh forwarded the post to me.”
“So?” Katie said, although if pressed she’d have to admit that she was surprised. New London, where her mother had grown up and which she had visited exactly once, was frozen in her memory as the sleepiest town on earth. Its only distinguishing landmark was a memorial to the children who had perished in some sort of local disaster in the thirties. She couldn’t picture the town having a chain coffee shop, much less a bustling warehouse, and she doubted her mother had set foot in Rusk County in years—at least, until she’d had to move Margaret to a nursing h
ome six months ago after her stroke.
“They’re having all kinds of town meetings, apparently,” Georgina continued, ignoring her. “Some people are talking about a protest, even. But that ship has sailed. Once they get Amazon in—oh, and an industrial park. Though that one’s a little iffy. Anyway, Margaret’s house may well be right smack in the middle of the biggest building boom in East Texas.”
“Like what are we talking?” Katie said, keeping her voice low. “I mean, I assume there’s a lot of deferred maintenance . . . ?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Georgina huffed. “I guess you’ll have to come down here to find out. Assuming that ad agency can get by without you for a day or two.”
Katie pressed her lips together tightly. The barb was an old, familiar one; according to Georgina, the expensive art history degree from Columbia was being completely wasted at Nickell, March. At another time, she might have made the point—again!—that she worked in design, not advertising, but the distinction was lost on her mother.
“But even if it turns out to be worth something, you don’t have to share it with me,” Georgina said, in a more conciliatory tone. “You kids can use it to buy a bigger place where you are. You’re going to need more room when my granddaughter comes along. Which she will, I promise.”
And just like that, Katie’s irritation melted away. Never mind that on her last visit, her mother had pronounced their current apartment unlivable and asked Katie how she could stand sharing their one closet with Liam. In her own way, Georgina was trying.
And Katie could try too. “Tell you what,” she said. “If she really left me a fortune, I’ll take you to Vegas. Just the two of us. We can eat at Le Cirque and ride the roller coaster.”
“Now you’re talking,” Georgina crowed. “Tell Liam to take good care of you.”
Katie hung up and snuggled back down into her pile of blankets, letting the drowsiness overtake her. She was almost back to sleep when Liam plopped down on the couch next to her and began eating her untouched food.
“How’s Georgina? They have a date for the funeral yet?”
“Fine,” Katie said, yawning. “And there isn’t going to be a funeral. They’re just going to put her in the ground and call it a day.”
“That’s terrible,” Liam protested. He came from a sprawling Boston clan, with dozens of nieces and nephews and aunts and uncles. Katie had attended two family funerals with Liam, multiday events that seemed more festive than their wedding had.
Katie sighed. “It’s not terrible. It’s just—the way my family is. There’s no law that says you have to stay close to your blood relatives. You don’t even have to like them.” Words taken almost verbatim from her mother. “Besides, I have a family. A family of choice. You, and your sisters, and Rex and Lolly, and—”
“It’s still not right,” Liam mumbled around a mouthful of potato salad.
“I’m in her will,” Katie ventured. “Kind of a shock.”
“What? I thought she was penniless.”
“She is. Was. I mean, she had some kind of trust that she lived on, but there wasn’t even enough to keep up the house. She was kind of a hermit, anyway—never went anywhere, didn’t have people over, so she didn’t need much.”
“So what did she leave you?”
“I’m not sure. I mean . . . there’s the house.” Katie decided not to repeat her mother’s claim about the land’s value, since Georgina tended to exaggerate and she didn’t want to get her hopes up. “And maybe some old family stuff. Silver and china and whatnot.”
She’d been to Margaret’s house exactly once, on her eleventh birthday. For some reason, Margaret had invited them that year, and Georgina had agreed to make the four-hour round-trip drive. There had been a luncheon in the dining room, some sort of casserole and a bakery sheet cake with her name spelled out in frosting. The only guests were her mother and grandmother, who maintained a chilly silence through most of the visit. All Katie remembered about the house was that it was crowded with old furniture and knickknacks everywhere, none of them interesting to an eleven-year-old. When Georgina announced that it was time to leave, Margaret had snatched a china cup off a shelf and presented it to Katie as a gift. Georgina had tossed it into the trash as soon as they walked in their door.
“A house in Texas,” Liam mused. “We could become ranchers.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “I should make you come with me, just so you could see for yourself how miserable it is down there.”
“So you are going.”
Was she? She wasn’t really considering it until the words were out of her mouth.
“I got laid off on Wednesday,” she confessed. “I didn’t tell you because . . . I was going to tell you, and then, you know.” She gestured at the nest of blankets, the crumpled tissues, the Vanity Fair that she hadn’t even opened.
Liam’s expression went from shock to dismay to a hopeful little smile with comical speed. “That’s awful,” he said, “but you hated Nickell, March and they didn’t appreciate you, and now you can take all the time you need to be with your mom.”
That was Liam at his best . . . finding a silver lining in the cloud that seemed to have parked over Katie’s head. He took her hand, and she squeezed back. He’d been suckered by her mother, who specialized in misleading men to believe she was charming, but that was all right—the fact that they got along forced Katie to be civil to her.
“I’m only going so I can make sure Mom’s okay,” she warned him. If it turned out that there really was any value to her inheritance, she could surprise him when she got back. “Do we have enough miles?”
“I’ll check,” Liam said, brightening now that he had a task to keep him busy. “Or maybe we can get you a bereavement fare.”
Ah, right. She was supposed to be bereaved. Katie turned the word over in her mind—it sounded old-fashioned, like pinafore or scullion—and decided she would do her best to honor the grandmother she never really knew. Experimentally, she dabbed at her eyes, but for what felt like the first time in days, she discovered that they were perfectly dry.
Chapter Four
1949
The second Sunday in March dawned crisp and clear, streaked with pretty white clouds as whisper-fine as the cotton balls her mother used to put witch hazel on Margaret’s shoulders when she stayed too long in the sun. Margaret woke up early, but she stayed in her bed quiet as a mouse to listen to the sounds of the household coming to life.
Today was a day to savor—a day that, like frustratingly few lately, would feature her at its center. Not just her, of course—she would have to share it with the other Daisies—and with the dead ones, of course, but they weren’t here to hog all the attention. All that was expected in return was that the Daisies look sad all day long and accept the attention that was lavished on them humbly, without making a fuss.
Looking sad and pretending to be humble were two things that Margaret was exceptionally good at and, truth be told, that she very much enjoyed. Unlike Helene Dial, who was arguably the prettiest of the Daisies, Margaret knew that pretending to cry and letting her lower lip wobble and her eyelashes flutter delicately would bring her lots more nice things, in the end, than the shrill displays of pique that were Helene’s specialty.
Oh, Helene. With thoughts of her rival intruding unpleasantly on her anticipation of the day ahead, Margaret pushed off her bedspread and sat up in her bed, because Helene was a problem she would have to deal with rather soon. Ever since Mrs. Dial had joined Mother’s publicity committee, she and Helene had been coming over to the house an awful lot. While Mrs. Dial and Mother sipped their coffee in the dining room and bent over their plans and notes, Margaret was expected to play nicely with Helene.
Just last week, Helene had been sitting on the floor in this very room, playing with Margaret’s Rose O’Neill Kewpie dolls. Margaret had tried to make her play with her new army nurse kit, but Helene had balked at being the patient, especially when Margaret told her to pretend that her leg
had been blown clean off at the knee—like Clifford Aiken, who had to sit on the porch with a blanket over his stump since he came back from the war.
“Your mother sure comes over here a lot,” Margaret said, lazily wrapping her ankle in one of the play bandages. “It’s because our house is so much nicer.”
Helene said nothing, pursing her mouth in a quivering little rosebud, and working diligently to prop one of the little dolls into the toy baby carriage.
“But that’s all right,” Margaret went on generously. “My daddy owns the wells and your daddy works for him. That means my daddy is the boss and your daddy is a worker. But the oil business wouldn’t be what it is without the workers.” This was a good line, one Margaret had remembered from the Pierson Production Company picnic last summer. She had been hiding under the cake table at the time, watching the speakers up on the bandstand while the other children were over in the baseball field participating in the games led by Mr. Cheek, the physical education teacher. Margaret had no desire to lope along with her ankle bound to another child’s with twine in the three-legged race, or to get her braids wet in the apple bobbing barrel, and besides, watching her father address his workers and their wives gave her a special, fizzy feeling in her stomach. Her daddy was the most important man in New London every day of the year, of course, but on picnic day, everyone gathered around to honor him and his family.
“My daddy is handsome,” Helene whispered. Margaret pursed her lips: this was undeniably true. All the ladies said so—at least they did when Mrs. Dial and Mother were out of the room. She had heard Mr. Dial discussed on two separate occasions: once when spying at her mother’s meetings, and another time at the Pierson Production Company Christmas party, when the children were meant to be in the basement, and the ladies were gathered in the kitchen washing the glasses while the men smoked cigars.