“Nothing you can do about that,” Odessa sympathized.
“Except hope and pray that she has the good sense to marry someone very high yellow to stop that black curse of hers before it afflicts another generation.” She talked as if they were discussing the prognosis of a terminal cancer patient.
“Well, at least you’ve got Mildred. She’s a real beauty.”
This immediately cheered Priscilla up. “Yes, she is,” she preened.
Outside the door, Mildred and June looked at each other, dumbstruck. It was as if Eve had bitten from the apple, and for the first time she and Adam realized the truth: They were stripped naked, and things would never be the same between them.
After a third cocktail, Paulette felt sufficiently fortified to confront her aunt in the wood-paneled living room where most of the guests had gathered to socialize. Mildred stood huddled with Lauren, Gillian, Maximillian, and her husband, Nathan. Paulette walked up without preamble. “We need to talk about the will,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, the highball still clutched in her grip. She had gotten wind of the fact that Mildred was trying to postpone the reading until Paulette was back on the West Coast.
Mildred withdrew her attention from the group, and regarded Paulette as she might an unknown intruder. “Excuse me?”
Paulette took Mildred’s condescending tone as an opportunity to release her own. “I said, Aunt Mildred, we need to talk about the reading of Granny’s will.” The alcohol had raised Paulette’s voice many decibels above the range of a private conversation. Years of anger, hurt, and resentment boiled like hot magma beneath the surface.
Mildred could sense ears perking up all around her. She took a surreptitious glance around the room, confirming that sets of eyes were following suit. “Now is not the time,” she hissed between teeth clenched behind lips that still struggled to maintain a smile. Lauren was in the process of turning three shades redder; Nathaniel’s jaw was tighter than a vise, while Gillian looked on embarrassed, and Max stood stoically on the sideline.
“Well, I suggest you make the time.” Emboldened, Paulette moved closer, claiming a portion of the small distance that stood between them, and also affording Mildred a whiff of the alcohol that clung to her breath.
Mildred looked as if she’d been slapped in the face. Stunned, she turned from Lauren to Nathaniel and Max before realizing that it was up to her to manage her volatile, ill-bred, uncouth niece. “Paulette, I suggest you calm down, and we will deal with this later. Maybe when you’re sober.” She took hold of Paulette’s arm to lead her out of the room and away from the prying eyes that had joined their conversation.
Paulette snatched her arm away and threw twin daggers at her aunt. “Don’t think for a moment that you can placate me with a few words and your holier-than-thou attitude. I am not my mother.” June stood in a corner mortified. By now everyone in the room was openly observing the unfolding spectacle, and surely Priscilla was turning over in her freshly dug grave.
“You are absolutely right. No one else in this family would have such poor taste,” Mildred retorted haughtily. She looked down her nose at Paulette as though she were mashed debris scraped from the underside of her designer shoe. “You should have stayed in California, instead of coming here sniffing around for money already. Your grandmother’s hardly cold in her grave yet.”
“How’s this for poor taste?” Before she thought better of it, Paulette tossed the last of her cocktail into her aunt’s face.
As the ice cubes clattered noisily to the floor, a resounding gasp flowed through the gathering of spectators, their eyes widening to catch every spare detail of the drama, so that it could later be recounted and further embellished for others unlucky enough not to have had a front-row seat.
Lauren’s hands flew to her mouth in disbelief, while her father backed away as if to be sure to avoid collateral damage. Max hung his head, slowly shaking it from side to side, as gin-smeared mascara trekked down his mother-in-law’s previously perfectly made-up face.
June quickly appeared, pulling Paulette aside. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
“You may let that bitch treat you like pond scum, but I certainly don’t have to,” Paulette said as she flung drops of liquid from her hand, shot a withering gaze at her aunt, turned on her heel, and stalked off.
NINE
When the alarm clock blared, Lauren rolled over and tried thinking of at least one good reason to get out of bed. Nothing came readily to mind. There was no exciting job filled with important deadlines to propel her, or young children waiting outside her bedroom door; she didn’t even have a caring husband who she felt really gave a damn. In short, she didn’t have a life. On second thought, she did have one; it just happened to belong to her mother.
Lauren’s relationship with Max had grown steadily worse; they barely even spoke. Regrettably, Gillian hadn’t gotten the role on Broadway, so her shoulder to cry on was again back in L.A. Paulette, thanks to her thriving business, was too busy to listen. She realized just how much she’d miss her grandmother. Though Priscilla Baines-Reynolds was a legend to most, she was a doting grandmother to Lauren, full of advice on everything from men to the “real” cure for the common cold. They shared a very special bond, one that certainly didn’t exist between Lauren and her own mother.
Even though Lauren had slept eight full hours, her bones still felt like solid lead, as though thick Virginia molasses rolled slowly through her veins. She pulled the down comforter up over her head, willing it to swallow her. Lauren’s feelings of despair were counterintuitive to her life as others knew it. She was the golden girl, who was gorgeous, born into serious money, and married to a handsome, successful man. What more could a woman want? Ever since she was a well-heeled toddler with long, curly braids, Lauren had been promised that the world was her oyster, which wasn’t such a good thing if you were allergic to shellfish.
It was eleven o’clock when Max strode into the bedroom fresh off of eighteen holes of golf with her father, exuding as much energy as she lacked. “You’re still in bed?” His tone was accusational, brimming with judgment, heralding the beginning of a conversation they’d had ad nauseam. He couldn’t understand why she was the picture of gloom when she didn’t have a job to worry about, nor the financial problems faced by most people. Plus, she had him! In his opinion Lauren was a spoiled brat, who, so far, hadn’t even accomplished the one thing that was expected of her: to bear him a child.
The first year of their marriage they—Max, Lauren, and Mildred had agreed not to have children. During the second year, when the plan called for Lauren to get off of birth control, her mother and Max stood by anxiously awaiting word of their impending immortality. At the beginning of year three they all met and decided that it was time to bring in the professionals. The most prominent fertility specialist in Manhattan was hired, but to no avail; there was still no pitter-patter of little feet.
Before Lauren could decide how or even whether to respond to Max, the phone at her beside rang. Saved by the bell, she thought.
After hearing the voice on the other end, she had second thoughts. “Hi, darling. You sound as if you’re still in bed,” Mildred said.
“I thought I’d sleep in,” she offered weakly. Why, she wondered, did she always feel the need to explain herself to her mother?
By now Max had disrobed and was headed into the bath suite for a shower, so at least she wouldn’t have to continue that conversation.
“I hope that’s not all you’re doing.” Mildred was so involved in their marriage that Lauren wondered why she didn’t just fuck Max for her. Knowing Mildred, if she did, she’d probably get pregnant and happily birth her own grandchild.
“Mother!”
“Don’t go getting in a twitter. I just called to remind you that the reading of the will is at one-thirty today.” She’d succ
eeded in delaying it by two weeks, hoping to be well rid of Paulette, who’d thwarted her plan by taking the red-eye back in this very morning.
“Grandmother’s will?” This was the first Lauren had heard of the reading.
“To my knowledge, no one else in the family has died. Though I can think of a couple of people who would be high on my wish list.” Of course, one of them would have been Paulette, and the runner-up, undoubtedly, her mother. Sadly, Mildred still held a tight grip on a grudge that was decades old.
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” Lauren scoffed. “Will Paulette be here?”
“Unfortunately, yes, but she’ll be in for a rude awakening. I’m sure Mother was smart enough not to leave a penny to her, or to her mother.”
Lauren was sick of listening to this. “I’ve gotta go.”
“See you this afternoon.” There was a brusque click on the line. Lauren hung up the phone, knowing that she would be in for a long day. She’d had no idea that Paulette was even in town. More and more lately she did not call Lauren, or even bother returning her calls. Lauren hadn’t spoken to her cousin since the embarrassing fiasco after the funeral two weeks prior. Of course, her mother had bitched for days about how tacky, classless, and generally without basic merit Paulette was, but Lauren couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.
Even as a young child she’d picked up on the blatant favoritism that was shown to Lauren and her mother by her grandmother, and at the expense of her aunt and cousin. Mildred always told Lauren that it was because Aunt June had run wild at a young age, gotten pregnant, and taken off with Paulette’s father. Paulette blamed the shabby treatment she and her mother received on Lauren’s mother. Amidst all the conflict, it had still been fairly easy over the years for Lauren to pretend that the long-festering problems didn’t exist, or that they would simply dissolve in time.
“Who was on the phone?” Max asked as he emerged from the shower with a towel cinched at his waist. He was an incredibly attractive man, almost too pretty to be handsome, with sleek, jet-black hair, a caramel complexion, and long, thick eyelashes that shaded a pair of light brown eyes that had made many a woman swoon.
Lauren listlessly pulled herself up, sitting on the side of the bed. “It was my mother, reminding me about the reading of Grandmother’s will this afternoon, which I knew nothing about.” She stood up and trudged toward the bathroom. She stopped short as a thought occurred to her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Max pulled a tangerine polo shirt over his head. The color looked amazing against his glowing June tan. “As lead attorney, my responsibility is to communicate with the executor of the estate—your mother, not my wife. Plus, I obviously knew that you would be here.” Shortly after Max and Lauren were married, Max’s firm—thanks to Mildred—had been named the law firm of record for all family business and personal matters, including Priscilla’s estate, with Max as the lead counsel. When his explanation to Lauren didn’t appease her, he added, “I have to avoid every semblance of preferential treatment where you’re concerned. You do understand?” He pulled himself up to his full height, sticking his chest out. Speaking legalese, he was now on comfortable ground.
“And who coordinated with Paulette?” she asked pointedly.
He ran his hand through his hair nervously. “Why do you ask?”
“I just want to make sure that Paulette and my aunt are also being treated fairly.”
He visibly relaxed. “Of course, honey. Don’t you worry about that.” He reached out and hugged her. If she could have seen his expression, she would have seen a wave of relief instead of spousal affection. For a moment he worried that Lauren had become suspicious of his affair with Paulette.
Facing the opposite direction, she caught her own reflection in the vanity’s mirror. Her complexion was sallow—even in June—and her hair was lackluster and flat. In the middle of it all sat her eyes, which looked like two holes punched into a set of puffy pillows. The image wasn’t the least bit golden.
The house on Martha’s Vineyard was perfectly situated to provide awe-inspiring white-sand views of the Atlantic Ocean from each of the ten spacious rooms. It was the perfect $5 million summer home. Priscilla had presided over it for the last forty years, and in the last five, as her health declined, she’d handed the reins over to Mildred, who really was to the manor born. And dear Max took to the relaxed splendor like a baby to a warm bottle.
Lauren spaced out during lunch, as Max, her father, and her mother carried on a lively conversation about contemporary civil rights issues, as if any of them really gave a shit about the plight of everyday black folk. The fact that the Baineses were long-standing Republicans was one of the best-kept secrets in black society.
“I’m sure that Martin Luther King Junior rolls over in his grave every time one of our current crop of civil rights leaders shows up for any calamity that warrants a camera crew, but are nowhere to be found on a day-to-day basis when people are starving, homeless, and institutionally marginalized,” Nathaniel preached, though he certainly didn’t care himself. He sat back arrogantly and reached for the cigar in his breast pocket, as if to emphasize the profundity of his proclamation.
“You’re absolutely right. There has to be new blood infused into the dying carcass of what was the greatest movement of two generations.” Max’s pontification wasn’t only for the sake of table chatter; as usual, he was thinking of himself. One of the many reasons he’d married into the Baines family was to help his political aspirations. He had the appearance; the right education, and was steadily building the necessary contacts and wealth needed to enter politics on a grand scale. Perhaps, Max thought, Congress would be a good start.
He was born with great looks and above-average intelligence, but, sadly, no money, position, or power. People often heard his name, Maximillian Neuman III, and assumed that he was from stacks of dough, when actually his mother was a cook at the local elementary school in Maryland, and his father was a mail carrier for the post office. Max changed his name from Henry to the more prominent-sounding Maximillian the minute he graduated from high school; he added “the Third” after finishing college to lend a sense of legacy to his self-appointed moniker. Yet, after all of the thought and hard work, right after they began dating Lauren had shortened his name to simply Max, and, of course, everyone else followed suit.
“What about Barack Obama, Max?” Mildred tossed out. “Now, that’s a fine young man,” she said, as a warm smile spread across her face, the same one she often wore when speaking of Max. As much as she loved her son-in-law, she would have happily tossed him under a bus for a handsome senator like Barack.
“I was thinking more of Condoleezza Rice. Now, there’s a woman who could effect change,” Nathaniel said.
The mention of the controversial figure’s name pulled Lauren back from her own listless thoughts. She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, change for herself and her Bush buddies. She certainly doesn’t care about the rest of us.”
“Honey, you say ‘us’ as though you have any problems.” This was Mildred, reminding Lauren of her silver spoon.
“Oh, I forgot,” Lauren interjected sarcastically. “I have it all.”
Mildred completely missed her daughter’s weak attempt at sarcasm. “Yes, you do, dear,” she absently confirmed.
After lunch Max, Lauren, Nathaniel, and Mildred made their way into the family library, where Theresa, the housekeeper, had already ushered in Paulette, who looked primed for a good fight, along with her mother, who seemed embarrassed even to be present, and Jim Nance, another partner in Max’s law firm. Another gentleman, with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, sat at Paulette’s side.
“Glad you all could make it,” Max said, taking charge of the soon-to-be-tense situation. He shook hands and paused when he came to the stranger.
Paulette stood up. “This is my attorney, Peter West,” she said.
Mr. West shook Max�
��s hand, nodded to everyone else, and, like a boxer before a title bout, took to his corner, reclaiming his perch next to Paulette.
Max resumed his roll as ringmaster, as Mildred sat smugly, waiting for the unnecessary formalities to conclude. Everyone knew that June had been written out the will aeons ago, and there was little reason to think that daughter of hers would fare any better.
“As you all know, we’re gathered today for the reading of Priscilla Baines-Reynolds’s last will and testament.” Max cleared his throat and made eye contact around the room. Lauren appeared genuinely bored. Mildred and Nathaniel gave the impression that this meeting was keeping them from a very important bridge game, while Paulette appeared alert and poised for attack, as her mother sat cloaked in premature defeat. “Before I continue, let me state for the record that this document was executed by me and my staff just six months ago, and it is, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, Priscilla’s last will and testament.”
Mildred shifted ever so slightly in her chair. Six months ago? June had been written out of the will decades ago; why would it have needed to be changed? Her mind navigated through many scenarios, winding up at one that she liked: It had to be rewritten to account for Lauren’s marriage and any changes in tax laws. Yes, that was it! She smoothed the crease in her linen pants and continued to pay attention, forcing herself to focus on the legalese that Max stood spouting like a broken faucet, until she’d had enough. “Max, darling, I’m sure that what you’re saying is very important, but do you mind getting down to business?” In other words, who was inheriting what, and how much was it worth?
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