She tossed her purse, a bottomless leather monstrosity, onto the empty seat beside her, of course then calling attention to the unused chair at the table.
“Believe me,” Madison told her grandmother with feigned gaiety. “I eat plenty.”
“I doubt it, in your mother’s house. You know they served beautiful rainbow arrangements of vegetables at that wedding instead of cake?”
She laughed loudly, a surprisingly ladylike trill that always seemed so unsettling emerging from Concetta, of all people.
“Well,” Isabel’s voice cut in coolly, “for all you know, Concetta, we did. You didn’t attend.”
Concetta’s eyes flashed. Too early, Madison thought, for this tactical clumsiness. From everyone. The wedding, and Concetta’s casual refusal to make the train trip to attend, was radioactive. It always had been.
They all looked at their menus for a few moments, and Isabel bantered with the waiter while Concetta frowned at the recitation of the specials.
Madison’s phone buzzed in her purse and she surreptitiously clicked it to life beneath the napkin in her lap. It was another text from Chip: U picked a movie yet?
Have fun with your family, he had told her on the phone yesterday. And if not, you can call me. I’m texting you as soon as we hang up. He’d called on the house line, but now he had her cell number. When they’d hung up she had waited, watching the insistent rain outside batter the surface of the pool. Someone had forgotten to cover it. And then her cell phone had danced in her purse, on the floor.
Chip was still, so far, the only person who had ever mentioned her father to her indirectly without being nosy. Without prodding, and yet not explicitly asking her what she thought was happening or how she felt. He had managed to do this when no one else had, not Lily, not Amanda.
Isabel sent the waiter away for a few minutes, and Concetta set down her menu. She crossed her arms, resting her elbows on the white tablecloth.
“So we’re here,” she said, “for you to explain what’s been going on. Where’s my son?”
“Madison, would you take the boys to wash up before the appetizers get here?” Isabel said.
“No,” Madison said. “They washed up when we got here.”
Her mother didn’t look at her, registering the refusal only with a blink. She turned back to Concetta.
“He did of course want to make it,” Isabel said. “He met us last night, for dinner, but then he had to get right back to work.”
Madison reached out to Luke and found his hands where they clutched each other in his lap. How could her mother know, for certain, that one of the twins wouldn’t speak up at this, tell the truth?
“Please,” Concetta said. “We all know he has no work.”
“Not true,” Isabel said, “but that’s not a topic for today, Concetta. We wanted to take you to a nice lunch. Madison hadn’t seen you in far too long.” She made furtive eye contact with the waiter, who hurried over with the prosecco she’d ordered.
“No thank you,” Concetta said, having been silent during the ordering process. “But, sir, I’d like a glass of red, if you please. And just—a few ice cubes. In a separate glass. You’re all keeping your reds so warm these days, it’s like you heat it.”
Madison’s phone spasmed against her leg. seriously damico, very not cool to stand me up, if u aren’t excited about our big date just say so, i can always return the red roses i got.
This is a joke, she reminded herself. There is no way Chip will be bringing you flowers. dont lie, she typed back furiously, trying not to look down at the phone, u bought those roses for wyatt and hell cry if you give them away.
“I’m glad we have this chance to talk,” Concetta said, clearly settling in for a speech. Madison’s phone buzzed again. touche, from Chip. how was turkey day?
“Well, I have concerns,” Concetta said. “I’ve been getting calls at the house. Even with the extra cars he set up for me, you know, they keep people from the door, but they’re still on my block. All the time.”
At this, finally, Isabel seemed spurred into reaction. She looked directly at Madison and, almost imperceptibly, shook her head.
“I’m sure if you let him know what’s wrong, Nonna, he can take care of it,” Madison blurted, not sure what her mother wanted.
Her grandmother looked at her, a face that would have been a smirk except that it didn’t seem to be enjoying its own smugness.
“I know that’s what they’ve taught you, darling, but you can’t always take care of it that way,” she said. “It can’t all happen offstage, you know?”
“I didn’t mean—” Madison tried, but her mother’s voice layered itself over hers, so that as soon as Madison was silent her mother had already been speaking for a few seconds, as if they were tagging each other in and out of the conversation.
“Concetta,” Isabel said, “this isn’t appropriate. If you want to discuss this with Bob, you can call him at home. But it’s not for this lunch.”
“Call him at home! He never answers. Your phone rings on and on and on,” Concetta said. “But then, Ms. Berkeley, you already know that.”
Madison choked in surprise at the use of her mother’s maiden name. But Isabel simply folded her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on her mother-in-law, her entire body coiled like a question mark.
“You think I don’t understand what’s been happening?” Concetta said, her voice lowered in an alarming and uncharacteristic gesture toward Isabel’s sense of propriety, the room they were sitting in. “I read, Isabel. I probably know more about his job than you do. I was there when he talked his way into that job, long before you even met him. And I’m not going to watch my son suffer, be made to suffer for other people’s mistakes, just because you’re not willing to get dirt on those little hands. You know where I’m from. I don’t come from here.”
“You were born in Brooklyn,” Isabel said, almost muttering it, keeping her eyes on Concetta.
“You cannot wait this out,” Concetta said, ignoring her. “You got no idea how many times I been visited, at my home, by some pissant reporter who says he used to write for the New York Times, like I’m supposed to find that impressive. He wears these big thick glasses, I guarantee you, just so he looks older than twelve. And he’s always dressed like some kid headed to church on Christmas Eve. Hair like a bottle brush, badly in need of a haircut. Not impressive at all.”
Madison stared, in shifts, into her lap, then at her grandmother, then at her mother, then into her lap again. She hadn’t replied to Chip’s texts. Her mother, for some reason, hadn’t spoken yet.
“I don’t know what he wants,” Concetta barreled on. “He seems to think I’m going to put my heels up and fill him in on some embarrassing stories from my son’s childhood. I close the door on him, goes without saying.”
“No one is waiting anything out,” Isabel said, finally. “You give me absolutely no credit, but by now, I guess I should know that. It’s no surprise.”
“Now,” Concetta began, but Isabel had gained all the steam she needed.
“If you’re so concerned,” she said, “I’d encourage you to come out to the house with us. Come sit with your son. Try to get him to talk to you. Try to get him to describe his plans for the future. But you’d rather not, Concetta. You’d always rather call us from Brooklyn to remind us that we live a life you find repugnant. This doesn’t, as we know, keep you from cashing his checks.”
Luke had begun to make a soft, keening noise under his breath.
“Your favorite,” Concetta said. “Your favorite little story, Isabel. That I sponge off you people. I never saw you striking out on your own. I never saw you turning down your own daddy’s checks. You wouldn’t know how that feels, would you? My son worked for every single thing he has, and he doesn’t deserve to suffer because other people decide we need a villain.”
Madison continued stroking her brother’s little fist, holding it in her own. He’d brought his other hand up above the table, so that he
could hold Matteo’s, too. They both stared at their place settings. She knew she should stand up, get them away from the table. She knew she was failing to meet even the most basic requirements of being an older sister. But she could explain this, to them, when they were older. That she’d been afraid to leave; that she hadn’t known whether or not they’d be able to trust their mother’s account of what happened while they were gone.
“Your son’s a very hard worker,” Isabel said. “He’ll work himself into the ground when things are going well. Not so good at picking up the pieces afterward, though. Not so good at meeting with the lawyers, or consulting the financial planners, or dealing with the press, or managing a need for additional security. Not the best.”
“So do something,” Concetta said. “He’s mourning? Of course he’s mourning. He needs his wife to do something.”
There was something else, pulling ragged at the edges of Madison’s mind, something that didn’t have to do with her family, but she couldn’t remember what it was. The description of that guy, the reporter trying to contact her grandmother. Something had knocked at a memory, like a book pulled slightly out of line on its shelf.
But Madison’s phone was buzzing, had gone off twice since she’d last checked. She could just leave right now, walk out of this building and take the elevator straight down to the train and head home early, to get ready for the date tomorrow. He’d used that word. It was a date.
“You don’t know how he operates,” Concetta said.
“I don’t know how he operates,” Isabel echoed. Each word was given an equal weight, neither inquiry nor assertion in her voice.
“Now is not the time to worry about what your other little lady friends think of you,” Concetta said. “You gotta live in the real world, now. You two have been living somewhere else for too long. If you wait, it’ll be too late. This’ll all blow over, but the question is where will you be when it does?”
“How refreshing,” Isabel said, her voice so low it was barely audible. “Another expert opinion.”
“What’s that, dear?” Concetta barked.
“Everyone’s an expert this year,” Isabel said. “Everyone knows how to solve the problem. Apparently it’s quite simple. How funny, then, that I can’t see it.”
“Well, sometimes we can’t see our own dilemmas so clearly.”
“What the fuck would you know about any of these dilemmas?”
At that, Concetta put down her wineglass. The ice cubes clinked.
“Excuse me?”
Madison could not remember a time when Isabel had cursed at her grandmother. Had permitted anyone to see that Concetta made her this angry.
“You’ve never dealt with a world any bigger than your little block, Concetta. You’ve never taken care of anyone but yourself. Your son was responsible for thousands of employees. He has a big life, we have a big life, because that’s what he wanted. And now you think—what would you know, about any of this?”
They all sat in silence. An obsequious waiter delivered their appetizers, flinching as he set the plates down as if Concetta might nip at his wrists.
“You know what, girls?” Concetta said. “This is really not to my taste, the cuisine here. I’m going to head home.”
“Let me call you a car,” Isabel said, her voice entirely without affect. Concetta ignored her.
“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Madison said, wringing her hand away from Luke’s and ignoring her mother’s scrutiny.
Her grandmother stood, abandoning her napkin with a great flourish, and stared down at her daughter-in-law.
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “I hope you’re damn confident about his priorities. Because the boy I know is not going down for this. And it might surprise you, what he’ll do. You’ve never seen him really get to be scrappy, not in years and years. But then, of course, I’m not saying things you don’t know. Or I shouldn’t be. You’re his wife, aren’t you.”
Madison followed her grandmother as she stalked out of the dining room, catching up with her in the small foyer by the elevators. They stood, side by side, waiting.
Her grandmother turned to look at her, squinting as if through a thick fog.
“Don’t let your mother make it his fault,” she said. “He’s one man and it’s a big country out there. He wouldn’t have gambled with you, or the boys, not on his life. And he’s not going to hang his head now as if he did. She’s always wanted him to be ashamed of what he has. At least when she thinks someone’s watching. Don’t let her fall in line with everyone else.”
“I won’t,” Madison said. “I haven’t.”
Concetta took her by the shoulders and pressed their bodies together, some more militant version of a hug.
“You taking care of my son?” she said, and Madison nodded. The elevator dinged, and then Concetta was gone.
TWENTY-FOUR
Lily was racing through her afternoon, performing her errands at double their usual speeds. It was a bright white day, not too chilled for the middle of December. She was only a few minutes from the house, and there was still time to strategize.
The boys had a playdate planned for after school and Madison had told her that morning, without even a nod toward performing it as a request for permission, that she’d be going over to that Allison girl’s house to kick off their winter break. So Lily had time to figure out what to do when her boyfriend arrived.
Jackson, on an express train that at that moment was probably slicing through Mamaroneck.
He hadn’t sounded dangerous on the phone, exactly, because he hadn’t seemed at all on edge or upset. But he was being unreliable, definitely. She didn’t trust him not to do something crazy, actually just show up at the door. And while it was unlikely Isabel would suddenly start answering her own door again today, Lily still needed to get home before there was any chance of Jackson arriving.
Bob might be home, as well. Thanksgiving had come and gone without even a symbolic appearance; at that point she’d assumed he was still sleeping in his study, but now that they were staring down Christmas, she wasn’t so sure. The small noises, the occasional untidiness, all the unconcealed clues that had been her guides back in October: somebody was watching them now, keeping them concealed.
Apparently there had been some sort of unpleasantness in the city, with Concetta. Isabel had mentioned it in only a slanting way—“Lily, if you see Bob this afternoon, let him know that we saw his mother on Friday and she’s waiting for a return on her last call”—and Madison had just fled the room at the mention of her grandmother’s name.
But that had been weeks ago now, and on this particular afternoon Lily’s problem was her boyfriend.
Jackson had called the night before, drunk, from some grimy bar at the nexus of Greenpoint, Williamsburg, and Queens. He’d shouted the name a few times, but she had all she needed to know from his thick, rounded speech—Jameson and beers—and the music blaring in the background. You could hear the way his sneakers must be sticking to the spill-coated floors.
He’d been with his friend Gabe, the one he was always name-dropping even though she absolutely refused to be baited into showing interest. The one who’d just started his own website. She assumed Jackson wanted Gabe to bring him in on the new project, but she’d never asked for any more details.
But last night they’d both been there together, howling into the phone.
“I’m coming out there tomorrow,” Jackson had said.
“Okay,” she droned, lying on her bed paging through a copy of New York, one eye on the magazine to see if Bob was mentioned anywhere and the other on her picture window, where she kept the curtains open so she could see the house right up until she went to sleep.
“You’re not taking seriously,” Jackson had said. “ME seriously. She never takes me seriously!” She could hear him turning to someone else, a leering Gabe sitting next to him on the pockmarked wooden banquette, probably.
“Go home,” she’d said. “Come on, Jackson
, get a cab.”
“You can’t tell me I can’t see my girlfriend,” he’d bellowed.
“Sure.”
“I’m coming up there TOMORROW.”
“Okay.”
She hadn’t called him that morning, annoyed not just by his behavior but also by the fact that he had a point about one thing, at least. When he wasn’t allowed to see her for weeks at a time, to press her against the back walls of bars and elevators and stairwells, to wake her up by kissing her hip bones, then she liked him a hell of a lot less. It was true that all the best parts of dating Jackson required that your bodies be very, very close together.
She had assumed, when they didn’t speak all morning, that he’d forgotten their phone call. And then, an hour ago, he’d called her from Grand Central, about to hop on the 2:37.
“There’s a bar car on this one,” he had said. “Score.”
He told her she couldn’t stop him, he was going to sneak over to the house for the night, and when she exploded, he backtracked.
“Okay, well, I still think sneaking over to make out with the babysitter is very hot, but I can wait for you. Pick a bar! I’ll meet you there later tonight, whenever. I’ve got a deadline, I could use a quiet afternoon out of the city to get some work done. It’s like I’m meeting you at our country house, except the house doesn’t belong to you and I’m not allowed over.”
She parked the car and let herself in through the mud room. The house was silent, sealed. She tried to listen to see if Isabel was upstairs, but then told herself that it didn’t matter. There was no way she’d bring him back here. She’d be firm. He didn’t know that her authority was currently being performed behind a blackout curtain, that no one who mattered was listening to Lily anymore. She’d tell him he couldn’t come here.
And then, as if on cue, she heard Isabel’s car start up outside. She must have already been sitting out there, in the driveway, when Lily drove into the garage. She must have waited, not wanting to be watched as she drove away from the house.
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