Or worse, hooking up with boys who thought Hitler was a role model when it came to facial hair.
Grace disembarked downtown and made her way past blocks of towering office buildings and chic storefronts to Portia’s fancy apartment building. She and Grace’s father had moved there only a few months ago: a prestigious address with brocade-trimmed doormen and views of the park. Grace stood a moment outside, staring up at the dark-green canopy as she steeled herself for what was to come. She’d never actually visited before; there had always been some excuse about Dash’s nap routine, or renovation work. But now, with the pale sandstone towering above her, Grace felt like she was trespassing in a world to which she’d never been invited.
“Miss?”
Grace turned. The doorman was holding the polished glass door open, waiting. “Sorry,” she murmured quickly, ducking past him.
Inside, it was more of the same: marble floors and glossy mirrors, and everything gleaming like it would smudge if she so much as looked twice at it. Grace crossed the lobby, nervous. “I’m here to see Portia Coates,” she told the man behind the vast reception desk.
He stared at her blankly for a moment, then his expression cleared. “You mean Mrs. Weston?”
Grace swallowed. “Right. Her.”
“Let me call up for you.”
Grace waited while the man murmured into his phone, struck by the sudden fear that Portia would refuse to see her. They didn’t have the kind of faux friendship she knew other friends managed with their stepparents, and although Grace had always been relieved by the distance between them, now she wished they’d at least pretended to be close. Maybe then Portia might feel some sense of duty to her stepdaughters, instead of having her lawyers treat them like squatters.
“You can go up,” the man finally said, nodding toward the elevators. “Fifteenth floor. Penthouse.”
When Grace emerged from the elevator, Portia was waiting in the cream carpeted hallway, wearing a pale silky dress and expression of wide-eyed delight. “Grace, darling, what a surprise!” She beckoned Grace closer and enfolded her in a brief, bony excuse for a hug. “How are you? How is your poor mother holding up? You poor dears.”
Grace pulled back. “We’re fine,” she managed, thrown by the outpouring of enthusiasm. “I wanted to talk to you —”
“Of course, come in, come in! I’m afraid Dash is out with his uncle right now, but let’s sit down and have some tea.”
Grace followed her into the apartment. “Shoes.” Portia pointed to the neat row by the door. Grace awkwardly kicked off her sneakers. There was a pause; Portia was still waiting expectantly, so Grace bent to straighten them in place. “Do you want a tour? We just finished the guest suite.” Portia added, “The designer is a genius, I swear.”
“Umm, sure.” As much as Grace wanted to get this over with, she had to admit, she was curious about the place her father had called home. It looked like something out of a foreign design magazine, all-white sectional furniture with bulbous silver lamps swinging from the ceiling.
“So, these are the bedrooms,” Portia began, striding briskly down a hallway. “Master, second, guest, Dash’s room, the nanny’s quarters . . .”
Grace peered through doorways as they passed, but they all looked the same: an expanse of white linens and pale carpet and austere abstract art. Where did they put all their stuff? Grace wondered. Clothes, and books, and last week’s newspapers, and next week’s projects. There had never been even the suggestion that she and Hallie would have a room here, and looking around, it was finally clear why. God forbid the girls ruin all this spotless perfection with their messy teenage lives.
“And here we are, back to the beginning!” Portia led her to the open living area, and sat on the very edge of one of those square white couches. “Please, sit,” she told Grace. “Greta!”
Grace carefully took a seat as the Swedish nanny appeared, placing a tray of tea on the glass-topped coffee table before disappearing without a word. “Thanks!” Grace called after her, before the kitchen door swung shut and there was silence again.
“So.” Portia poured her a dainty china cup of herbal tea, then fixed Grace with an expectant look. “What’s on your mind?”
Grace tried to organize her thoughts — to sound mature, and calm, and not sixteen. “We got a letter from your lawyer,” she began. To her dismay, her voice came out shaking. “About the house.”
“Mmm.” Portia slowly stirred her tea, but didn’t say anything else.
“They say we have to move out.”
Portia gave her a patronizing smile. “Why don’t we just leave that to the adults? How’s school going? Are you looking forward to summer?”
Grace blinked. “No, you don’t understand,” she managed. “We can’t leave, it’s our home!”
“Now, Grace.” Portia’s tone was chiding. “Don’t be so sentimental, you’re not a little girl anymore. Home is wherever you make it.” She tapped her teaspoon once on the edge of the cup; the ring of china echoing.
“But couldn’t you let us stay?” Grace tried. “Just until Mom sells a few paintings, and we have some money saved?”
“Of course.” Portia smiled at her again. “I told the lawyers, I’d be happy to work something out, provided your mother paid the going market rental.”
Grace deflated. “But we can’t afford to pay rent, not right now!”
Portia leaned forward. “You’re looking at this all wrong, Grace. It’s an opportunity for you all: a fresh start. Imagine how much happier you’ll be when you’re not rattling around that big old place. You know, I swear I smelled damp there,” she added, “maybe even mold. Who knows what would happen to you if you stayed in that death trap? It’s a blessing, you’ll see.”
“A blessing?” Grace’s control slipped. “Don’t you get it? We can’t afford a new apartment, we can’t afford anything! Without Dad, there’s nothing!”
Portia folded her hands in her lap. “Now, your mother’s financial life is not my responsibility. I’m sure there are savings, work she can do . . .”
“But this isn’t what he would have wanted!”
Portia flinched.
“I’m sorry.” Grace swallowed back her frustration, fighting to keep her voice even. “But you have to see, he never meant for this to happen.”
Portia gave a little shrug, as if she were helpless. “Grace, dear, I’m a single mother now, I have to put poor Dashwood first. Do you have any idea what it costs to raise a child these days?”
Grace shook her head slowly.
“The nannies!” Portia exclaimed, aghast. “And then there’s baby yoga, and mini-Mozart classes, and ante-pre-preschools to moderate his social adjustment. His child nutritionist alone runs three hundred dollars an hour, and that’s not even accounting for private-school fees, or summer camp, or the Ivy League . . .” She shook her head, as if overwhelmed just by the thought of it. “I’m sorry, but you can see, my hands are tied.”
Portia sipped her tea. Silence.
“But . . . what are we supposed to do?” Grace looked at her, horror dawning. She really wasn’t going to budge; Portia was going to take their home. “You can’t just throw us out on the streets.”
Portia widened her eyes and let out a mellifluous laugh. “Dear girl, what do you take me for — some kind of monster?”
Grace exhaled in relief.
“No, I’m giving you until the end of the month to move out.” Portia beamed. “That should be plenty of time.”
Grace managed to hold back the panic long enough to murmur a polite good-bye and make it down to the lobby, but no farther. As she stumbled out of the silent, polished bubble and into the noise and bustle of the street, she was overwhelmed with helplessness, so fierce she could barely breathe. What could they do now? Where were they going to go?
The tears were stinging in her throat again, but this time, Grace had no strength left to swallow them down. She pulled on her parka and hurried blindly down the sidewalk, her ches
t shuddered with the first traitorous sob.
“Grace!”
She was halfway down the block before the sound of her own name filtered through her distress. Grace turned to find Theo behind her: dressed in preppy khakis and a parka, tugging Dash in a stroller.
“Grace?” His face changed as he took in her expression. “Are you OK? What happened?”
She tried to tell him everything was fine, but her voice choked in her throat.
Theo looked around at the rush-hour crowds, jostling past them with impatient expressions. “Come on.”
He ushered her across the street, pushing the stroller with his free hand. Grace was powerless to resist; it took everything she had to swallow back the sobs. She was mortified. Weeping in the middle of the street like she was some pitiful basket case. Like she was Hallie!
Theo steered them into the park across the street, depositing her on a bench. “Do you need me to call someone?” he asked, digging through the diaper bag until he found a packet of tissues for her. “Your mom, maybe?”
“I’m fine!” Plastering on a smile, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just . . . my allergies,” she covered. “You know, hay fever.”
The excuse sounded weak, even to her. “You sure you don’t need anything?” Theo kept pulling items from the bag. “Juice box? Pacifier? Mr. Wiggums?” He waved a stuffed elephant. Grace took the juice with a faint smile.
“Thanks.”
She sipped through the tiny straw, focusing on taking one deep breath, and then another. The park around them was shady and green; kids playing on a distant set of monkey bars. The comforting hum of the city surrounded them, a world away from the icy silence of Portia’s apartment. Slowly, she felt herself calm.
Grace could feel Theo studying her, so she turned to the stroller — which was less a stroller than an off-road vehicle, swathed with sun-netting protection and safety straps. “How’s Dash?” she asked brightly. “Have you guys been having fun?”
“If by ‘fun’ you mean intellectually stimulating structured playtime, then yes.” Theo grinned. He reached into the stroller, lifted Dash out, and before she could protest, gently placed him in Grace’s arms.
“Hey, you.” Grace held him awkwardly. “What’s up?” He had blue eyes, and tufts of dark hair, like her dad — their dad — and was swathed in a tiny white sailor’s suit. He blinked at her, gurgling. Grace blinked back. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so calm,” she told Theo, surprised. “He’s always . . . you know.”
“A brat?” Theo laughed. “It’s all the fussing Portia does, it gets him wound up. I tell her that he just wants to eat and sleep, but she’s convinced he needs all those classes.” He shrugged. “But what do I know? I just get to be the cool uncle, I’m not the one getting up in the middle of the night.”
Nor, Grace suspected, was Portia, but she didn’t say so. That awful sympathetic look was gone from Theo’s face, and she felt less like a wretched mess. “What about you?” she asked, slurping her juice. “How have you been?”
“OK. I mean . . .” Theo paused. “I heard, about the will.” He looked awkward. “I wanted to say something before, but —”
“It’s fine!” Grace interrupted. “I mean, it’s out of our hands. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“I tried to reason with her,” Theo offered, looking miserable. “I mean, you’re family. Sort of. But she wouldn’t —”
“Can we not talk about it?” Grace cut him off again. “Please. I can’t . . .” She swallowed. “I just want to forget about it, OK?”
“OK.” Theo nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, and Grace was afraid he’d ask something more about her father — about the grief, or the money, or any one of the things she knew would prompt a whole new wave of “hay fever” tears. But instead, he offered a grin. “Want to go show Dash the ducks?”
“Sure.” Grace exhaled in relief. “That sounds perfect.”
They found a dry spot near the pond. Theo produced a blanket from the depths of the stroller and spread it on the grass. They settled on either side, letting Dash crawl around between them.
“So what’s Hallie up to?” Theo asked, leaning back on his elbows. “I think I heard something about a street-drama project . . . ?”
“Oh, God.” Grace rolled her eyes. “That was last month. She and some of her theater friends decided to perform scenes out on the street, like a flash mob, but with theater? Anyway, it would have been fine, except they decided to do the murder scenes from Macbeth. In downtown Oakland. With fake blood and prop swords.”
Theo laughed.
“It wasn’t so funny trying to get her home from the police precinct,” Grace told him. “She nearly got charged with public disturbance, ranting about freedom of creative expression and the fascist police state.”
“She’s certainly . . . interesting,” Theo said, lips twisting as he tried not to grin.
“That’s one way of putting it.” Grace watched Dash pick up a leaf and start chewing. “Should we . . . ?”
Theo shrugged. “It’s organic, right?”
Grace laughed, the last of her tension draining away. “What about you? How come you’re done with school already?”
“I had enough credits to graduate early.” Theo pulled his jacket sleeves over his hands. “I was at boarding school,” he explained, “so I didn’t really feel like sticking around. And then when Portia called . . . I figured she could use the help.”
“That’s really nice of you.” Grace frowned. He caught the expression.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just . . . You’re not at all alike.” As soon as the words were out, Grace realized how that sounded. “I didn’t mean, you know . . . Just . . .” She sighed, defeated. “You’re different, that’s all.”
“Too different,” Theo murmured. Dash tried to crawl off into the pond, but Theo caught him by the suspenders on his sailor suit and yanked him back. “Not so fast, kid.”
“What do you mean, ‘too different’?” Grace shifted so she was sitting cross-legged.
“I’m kind of the black sheep of the family.”
“You?” Grace laughed. Theo was kind, polite, and didn’t seem to mind toting his baby nephew around for the day. In her book, that made him some kind of saint among teen boys. “What, are you hiding some secret addiction, or criminal record or something?”
“Ha, that would be fine,” Theo told her. “Uncle Emmett is doing two years for tax evasion, and my grandma . . . Let’s just say, she likes her brandy.” He gave a rueful grin. “Nope, I’m the real scandal. Chronic lack of ambition.”
Grace blinked. “You’re eighteen. Are you even supposed to have ambition yet?”
“Oh, yes.” Theo nodded. “I’m supposed to be on track for law school, or finance. I wanted to take time off before college, you know, travel. Volunteer, maybe, but the way they flipped out . . .” He exhaled in a long sigh. “I don’t know what they’ll say when I declare my major.”
“Fashion,” Grace guessed, teasing. “Modern dance. Nineteenth-century Romantic poetry.”
“Close,” he said, laughing. “No, I want to study philosophy.”
“How is that weird?” Grace exclaimed, baffled.
“I know, it’s crazy,” Theo agreed. “To hear them go on about it, you’d think I was going to wind up stripping in some dive bar in Pensacola.”
Grace laughed. “With an Ivy League education, you could make it to Miami at least. Someplace classy.”
Theo laughed with her. “The Coates family . . . it’s a weird beast, that’s all. Normal rules don’t really apply. But I guess every family is strange, in its own way.”
“Yup.” Grace nodded slowly, thinking of her mom — still locked in the attic, far from reality — and Hallie, probably out getting arrested even as they spoke. Theo winced.
“I’m sorry. Going on about college, and family — that’s, like, nothing, compared to you and —”
“No
!” Grace cut him off. “No talking about that. We had a deal.”
Theo paused. “OK.”
They were interrupted by his cell phone. Grace paused. “Is that . . . the Addams Family theme?”
“What? No. Never.” Theo snatched the phone up. “Hey, Portia. . . . No, we’ll be right up.”
He hung up, looking apologetic. “I have to get back. It’s time for his language immersion hour.”
Grace stared. “His what?”
“Portia likes to play French language tapes at him while he naps,” Theo explained, getting to his feet. “It’s supposed to acclimatize them to the sound.”
“Wow.” Grace looked at Dash, now happily sucking on Theo’s shoelace. “When I was a kid, I just had Disney movies and My Little Ponies.”
“You had Disney?” Theo clutched his chest. “I’m jealous. We just had PBS.” She laughed, helping him fold up the blanket and strap Dash back into the stroller. “Hey, are you doing anything later?” Theo asked as they headed back across the park. “I was thinking about seeing a movie. If you’re free, I mean.”
Grace paused. Did he think he had to babysit her, like Dash?
“It’s just, I don’t really know anyone in town, and I really need a break from family. Not you,” he added quickly. “You’re not — well, you know what I mean.”
“OK,” Grace replied slowly. “I mean, sure, that sounds fun.”
“Great.” He grinned. “I’ll call you later.”
Theo’s phone rang again, with the same familiar booming chords. He picked up. “Yes, Portia, I’m literally across the street.” He rolled his eyes at Grace. “We’ll be right there.” He hung up, sighing. “Duty calls.”
“Au revoir.”
Grace went to the movies with Theo that night, more to escape the thought of her imminent homelessness than for the gross-out comedy they wound up seeing. But Theo proved a good distraction: regaling her with horror stories of his family, and the hell that was boarding school, and never once mentioning Grace’s father or the crisis what was left of her own family now faced. To her surprise, it was fun, and Grace was glad of the friendly face and the chance to put the real world on hold, just for a few hours. Soon they fell into a regular routine: meeting after Grace got out of school to go take Dash to the park, or the zoo, until that familiar Addams Family theme started up and Portia summoned Theo home again.
Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood Page 3