She’d learned it in fourth grade, for an intramural speaking contest. Her father had helped her, drilling the lines every night with the promise of a dollar to spend at the bookstore for every time she made it through without an error. In the end, she’d lost the competition to a whey-faced girl reciting a limerick about her dog, but it didn’t matter; Grace’s father had presented her with a beautiful leather-bound guide to the night sky, illustrated with every constellation. Roxy Heatherington could keep her silly certificate; Grace had won the prize that really mattered.
“ ‘Plant thou no roses at my head, nor shady cypress tree.’ ” Her voice was stronger now, the lines spilling from her lips with barely a conscious thought. “ ‘Be the green grass above me, with showers and dewdrops wet, and if thou wilt, remember, and if thou wilt, forget. . . .’ ”
Grace paused, the words catching in her throat. She hadn’t grasped it as a child. This was a poem about death. About what happened after we were gone — or didn’t happen. Was her father dreaming through his twilight? Did he remember, or was there nothing left of him with which to even think? Hallie was the one who believed in spirits, in souls; Grace had always believed in science instead.
“Rossetti, right?” A voice came from below. Grace made a startled noise, and grabbed the door frame to stop herself from tumbling right out of the tree.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Grace caught her breath and peered down. A teenage boy was staring up at her. Hallie’s age, maybe a little older, wearing a black jacket with something under his arm. He had square-rimmed glasses, his brown hair already tufting in the rain. “I always liked that one,” he added. “The poem, I mean. And ‘Do not stand at my grave and weep.’ Mary Elizabeth Frye, I think.”
Grace recovered. “Can I help you?” she asked, trying to sound polite.
“I was actually looking for a place to hide.” The boy glanced back toward the house, then gave Grace a rueful smile. “It’s pretty crowded in there, and my sister is being . . . let’s just say, demanding.”
He wanted to join her in the tree house, Grace realized with dismay. “I don’t know if it’ll take the weight.”
“I have food.” The boy offered up a box from under his arm with a hopeful expression. The box.
Pie.
Grace relented. “OK, but be careful, the ladder is kind of . . .” She trailed off as the boy expertly scrambled up the tree. “Weak,” she finished as he collapsed on the floor beside her.
“Practice,” he explained. “I climb rigging all the time out on the water.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “You’re one of them.” He looked quizzical. “The people who yacht.”
The boy laughed, then offered his hand. “I’m Theo.”
Grace shook it carefully. “Grace.”
“I know,” he replied, easing open the pastry box. “We met before, at the christening.”
Grace paused, assessing him again. But she had nothing. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember. That day was kind of . . . a blur.”
It was the only other time she’d stepped foot in that fancy church, exactly nine months after her father had left them. (The math was unavoidable.) Hallie had refused to go, of course, so it was left to Grace to stand politely in the front pew while baby Dash wailed so loudly even the pastor looked nervous to bless him. All Grace remembered was the reception afterward at some upscale hotel, and the fancy layer cake with chocolate frosting she’d eaten until she felt ill.
Faced with the pie there on the floor between them, Grace brightened. Maybe she wasn’t a terrible person, after all; maybe that was just her mind’s way of dealing with tragedy. In times of unbearable sadness, she thought about baked goods.
Theo must have seen her expression. “You like blueberry?” He pulled a fork and some napkins from his breast pocket and passed them over. “Go ahead.”
Grace cut a couple of misshapen slices. “So how did you know my dad?” She passed a crumbling wedge to Theo. “You’re one of Portia’s crowd, aren’t you?”
“You could say that.” Theo took a bite, smearing blueberry filling across the side of his face. He laughed awkwardly, wiping his mouth. “She’s my sister.”
“Oh.” Grace blinked. She’d known Portia had a younger brother, two of them, in fact, but had always pictured them just like her: perfectly coiffed hair and an elegant smile. Theo’s tie was askew, his hair stuck out in wet tufts, and there was still a blueberry smudge on his chin. Still, there was something comforting about his haphazard appearance; she’d had just about all the fake perfection she could take.
“How is Portia doing?” Grace ventured at last, more because she felt she ought to than because she actually cared.
Theo gave a sad kind of smile. “She’s holding up for now, but . . . she wasn’t prepared for this.”
“None of us were.”
If Theo noticed the edge to Grace’s voice, he was too polite to say. “I’ll be sticking around for a while, to help out with Dash and . . . the arrangements.”
He lived in New York, Grace remembered now. There were trust funds, and a town house on the Upper East Side, and a grandmother who ruled them all with an iron fist. Her father had explained about her new stepfamily, but Grace had done her best not to listen.
“My brother, Rex, is tied up with school in London at the moment.” Theo added, “He sends his apologies.”
“It’s OK. Everyone’s a blur to me,” she admitted. “They all have the same look on their face, the same platitudes. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ ” Grace sighed. “But I guess there’s nothing else to say.”
Theo swung his legs off the edge of the tree-house floor, back and forth. “Your dad talked about you all the time,” he offered. “You and Hallie.”
Grace looked over.
“Whenever I saw him at functions,” Theo continued. “You know — Christmas, anniversaries.” He made a wry face at that, then explained. “The Coates family is big on black-tie events. He said you were doing really well in school. Science, right?”
She nodded slowly. Grace never liked to think of her father off in his new life. It was easier, somehow, to leave it just a vague space, instead of imagining the realities of his day-to-day existence. Breakfast at someone else’s table. Watching the nightly news, feet up on someone else’s lap. But of course, he had a whole world, with people to talk to. About them.
“Astronomy,” she said finally.
“And your sister’s going to Juilliard.” Theo smiled. “He was really proud of you both.”
For the first time all week, Grace felt the sting of tears in the back of her throat. She quickly turned her face away. “I should get back,” she said, swallowing them down. She scrambled to her feet, brushing the dust from her dress. “My mom, and Hallie . . .”
“Right. Of course, I’m sorry I kept you.” Theo leaped up, but Grace waved him away.
“It’s OK, you can stay.”
“I shouldn’t. This is your place.” Theo gestured to the ladder. “After you.”
Grace slithered back down the tree, and Theo followed. They lingered awkwardly for a moment.
“Thanks,” Grace offered, forcing a tiny smile. “For the pie.”
“No problem.” Theo shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “And, I know it doesn’t mean anything, but . . . I’m sorry.” His eyes met hers, quiet, sincere. “For your loss. For everyone’s. He was a good man, and he loved you all so much.”
Grace felt her control slipping. If she opened her mouth to say a single word, she knew she’d be powerless to stop the tears. She couldn’t cry, not yet — not in front of Theo — so instead, she just nodded at him briskly, folding her arms tight around her, as if she could physically hold everything inside, and then hurried away, back to the house.
“What do you mean, nothing?”
Grace flinched at Hallie’s cry of disbelief. It was a week after the funeral, and they were sitting in the living room across from their dad’s colle
ge friend Arthur. He was the executor of John’s estate, he’d explained on the phone. He just needed a few minutes with their mom to discuss some legal details.
He’d neglected to mention that those details involved the complete ruin of the first Weston family.
“How can there be nothing?” Hallie demanded, as if Arthur were the one at fault, and not just the regretful messenger.
Arthur cleared his throat, a profoundly awkward look on his grizzled face. “Your, uh, father died intestate.”
“No, he didn’t,” Hallie exclaimed. “He died in bed with that bitch!”
“Hallie . . .” Grace tugged her sister’s sleeve — long and black, since Hallie had declared herself in official mourning and was recycling every outfit from her juvenile goth phase. “Let him finish.”
“Intestate means without a will.” Arthur coughed again, avoiding their gazes. “And in those cases where the deceased has no will, all assets pass directly to his nearest living kin.” He coughed again. “His wife.”
Hallie swore. Their mom sat silently on Grace’s other side. By now, Grace knew not to expect a response from her. Her mom’s fugue state had been replaced with wild-eyed nights spent painting in her studio; Grace had to physically drag her downstairs to meet Arthur, red paint still staining her fingertips like blood.
“But I don’t understand,” Grace said. “He had to have a will. He was all about paperwork, it was his thing.” Bills, forms, official documents: those had been her father’s forte. His filing system was a work of art, his study lined with banks of cabinets. “It’s all in the details,” he’d said, and winked, stowing away Grace’s report card in her personal drawer. That was what made him such a financial whiz: he’d always take care of the fine print.
“I’m sorry.” Arthur finally met their eyes. “There was one, but he and Portia had it voided, after the baby. . . . He always planned on making a new one, but things got busy, and . . . well, they never got around to it.”
“How convenient,” Hallie remarked, scathing. “Bitch.”
Grace showed Arthur out, and then joined her mom and Hallie in the kitchen. It was still gray and damp out, but the kitchen had always been the warmest part of the house, painted yellow and snug with heat from the antique Aga cooker that took up half of one wall.
“We’ll be fine,” Hallie was saying, stabbing leftovers from a sympathy casserole straight from the dish. “We don’t need anything from him, we never did.”
Grace put the kettle on. “We can challenge it. The alimony he’s been paying these last years, they have to keep that going. There’ll be documents, some divorce judgment.”
Their mom stayed silent. Grace looked over. “Mom? The alimony documents? Do you have them somewhere?”
She gave a faint shrug. “We never went to court. He offered more than enough, so we just kept it private.”
Grace gaped. “You didn’t have a lawyer?”
“He wanted it settled quickly, with the baby coming.” Their mom looked drained. “I didn’t see the point in fighting it. He was already gone.”
“No, now he’s gone.” Grace set out teacups and a plate of cookies. The pie had only been the beginning: their cupboards were stocked full of sympathy baskets and bereavement baked goods. They’d be needing it, since apparently now they had no money to buy food.
“I don’t get what you’re so stressed about.” Hallie pouted. “If he couldn’t care enough to write a stupid will, then we’re better off without him.”
“Oh, yeah?” Grace shot back. “Who’s going to support us now? Pay for heat, and electric bills, and all your trashy shows on cable?” She turned to their mom hopefully. “When was the last time you sold a painting?”
“Last month.” Their mom paused, frowning. “No, wait. That was a gift, for Julianne. She gave me those lovely glazed urns in exchange.” She smiled fondly at the row of hideous misshapen pottery.
So their mom’s artistic endeavors wouldn’t put food on the table. Hallie would be away at college soon, and Grace didn’t think there were any businesses out there looking to hire a high-school student to work part-time for a full-time salary.
She slumped, the solution to their problems becoming painfully clear. “We’ll have to sell the house.”
Hallie gasped. “Grace!”
“What? It’s our only option.” She looked around, trying not to feel the clench of pain at the thought of leaving it and, instead, look at the cold, hard real-estate facts. Four bedrooms, two baths, a charming — if decrepit — attic studio . . .
“We can’t leave. This is our home!” Hallie was still glaring at her as if Grace were the one who’d forgotten to leave a will.
“Which we can’t afford on our own,” Grace explained, trying to stay calm. She poured the tea and wished that, for once, Hallie could think logically. “But if we move somewhere smaller, we can live off the money from the sale. At least for a while.” Grace put a teacup in front of their mom. “You should call a Realtor, start the whole process.”
Their mom toyed with the delicate china cup. “I can’t, sweetie.” She sighed. “The house is in his name too. Was.”
Grace sat down with a thump. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
“Like I said, it was all so stressful. I didn’t want to have to deal with the taxes, so we decided to just leave it in his name. So nothing would have to change.”
“But it did!” Grace exclaimed. “It has! And now . . .” She trailed off, the terrible truth becoming clear.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Her mom squeezed Grace’s hand. “I’m sure it’ll work out. It always does.” She suddenly brightened. “Varnish!”
“What?”
“Varnish! I’ve been trying to get a glossy finish on this new piece I’m working on. Of course.” Their mom got up from the table, finally animated. “Why didn’t I think of it? Try not to disturb me, honey.” She kissed Grace on the cheek. “I need total concentration.” She wafted out.
Grace slumped until her chin was level with the table. Hallie pushed the casserole dish her way. “Don’t be such a drama queen.”
Grace’s mouth dropped open, but Hallie didn’t seem to grasp the irony. She rolled her eyes, unconcerned by their imminent poverty and destitution. “It’s not like Portia’s going to throw us out of our own home. We’ll be fine.”
Grace wanted to believe them, and for the next few weeks, it looked as if, perhaps, they might be right. She dug through the boxes of paperwork left in the study and found the statements for a forgotten savings account with enough money to pay their bills that month. Her mom was in talks with a new agent about a gallery show and a couple of potential commissions, and with school almost over, Grace could find a summer job. It wouldn’t be much, she knew, but it might just be enough. Sure, there was still a hollow ache in her chest that Grace couldn’t bear to think about — like staring into the sun — but every guide to grief and bereavement said that would ease, in time. Things were getting back to normal.
Then the letter arrived from Portia’s lawyer.
“That . . . She’s . . . Mmmph!” Hallie screamed in frustration, beyond words. She stormed out, leaving Grace clutching the crisp page.
Ownership of assets . . . Ms. Portia Weston’s legal right . . . Vacate the property . . .
She lowered the letter, her hand shaking. “Mom?”
There was no reply.
“Mom?” she said, louder this time. Their mother was staring at a magazine cover, head tilted slightly as she gazed at some starlet posing in the ocean.
“Would you say that’s an azure blue, or more of a cobalt?” she asked. “There are hints of aqua in the waves, but . . . No, it’s definitely more cobalt.”
Grace stifled a whimper. If there was any way of surviving this upheaval, it was down to her alone to find it.
Grace waited across from school for the downtown bus the next day, trying to distract herself from the epic task ahead of her. She watched as students streamed through the ga
tes: hipster, steampunk, Harajuku girl, goth, mathlete. Their mom had insisted on sending her and Hallie to an alternative charter school, the kind of place where Grace took mandatory personal empowerment classes along with her science and math immersion, and her fellow classmates were as likely to be tech wizards with Silicon Valley start-up funding as wide-eyed homeschoolers who were trying to integrate with society for the first time.
“Grace!” Hallie yelled from across the street, hanging with her group of cooler-than-thou graduating class — all red lipstick and weird vintage fashions that, to Grace, looked like something dragged from the back of their grandmother’s closet. “Tell Mom I’m staying over at Mirabelle’s tonight.”
“Tell her yourself!” Grace yelled back.
Hallie looked exasperated. She detached herself from a guy wearing an ugly tweed jacket and a handlebar mustache, and sauntered across the street, not paying any mind to the traffic that had to screech to a halt in front of her. “Come on, Grace,” she pleaded. “It’s not like Mom even notices when I am there.”
“She noticed enough to give you a midnight curfew,” Grace replied, immune to Hallie’s eyelash batting and pitiful puppy-dog stare. Hallie’s helpless expression dropped; she glared at Grace with kohl-smudged eyes.
“You can be so immature, you know that?”
“And you can be back by midnight.” Grace turned away as the bus shuddered to a stop in front of them. Hallie made a muffled scream of protest, and stormed back to her hipster friends, her long black skirts flaring out in her wake.
Grace swiped her pass and made her way to a free seat in the back. She was sick of being the one keeping tabs on her sister — Hallie was right, their mom was tuned out of the world right now: spending all day painting up in her studio, then surfacing out of nowhere at random hours to demand they eat their vegetables and get their homework done. But just because they could run around until dawn if they wanted, didn’t mean they should. Hallie had been more of an erratic drama queen than ever since the funeral, and for all Grace knew, she was liable to wind up dead in a gutter outside some East Bay rock show at three a.m.
Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood Page 2