More Than Words

by Jill Santopolo

  Nina nodded.

  “I told you about the company,” he said. “You always knew you’d be getting his majority stake in the Gregory Corporation.”

  Nina nodded again.

  “Well,” TJ said. “In addition to the company, it won’t be a surprise that your father left you everything else: his stock portfolio, this apartment, your grandparents’ house in East Hampton, the two cars out there, the Mercedes in the city, the boat, and . . . the house upstate.”

  Nina looked at him. “What house upstate?”

  TJ looked down at his hands. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

  Then it clicked. The house that her mother had been at when she’d died. The house her father had bought her as a wedding present. The house Nina hadn’t seen since she was eight.

  “My mother’s house,” she said, answering her own question. “I thought he sold that a long time ago.”

  “He couldn’t,” TJ said simply. “He hired a gardener to care for the property, someone to run the water so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. He had it painted every few years, cleaned every once in a while. But he couldn’t bring himself to sell it. And couldn’t bring himself to visit it again either.”

  Nina was stunned. How had her father owned a house—her mother’s house—for decades and not told her?

  “These are the keys,” TJ continued, handing her a key ring. It was a Tiffany ring with a heart on it. Priscilla’d had her apartment keys on a similar one when they were in high school. Nina wondered if her father had bought the key ring when he’d bought the house, if that was how he’d presented the gift to her mom.

  “Thank you,” Nina said, automatically, even as she wondered what other secrets her father might have kept.

  “Jack, at the investment firm, will be able to walk you through all of the finances. He’s been in touch with your father’s lawyer, who will take care of whatever legal issues need to be handled. You should talk to Jack at some point soon. Not a rush, but not not a rush. Everything is part of your dad’s estate for now, while the will is in probate. He made me the executor, so I can help, too, if you need something.”

  Nina nodded, still thinking about that house. Why didn’t her dad tell her about it? He must’ve had a reason. Maybe he thought it would be too painful for her, especially when she was young. But still, that didn’t explain now. That didn’t explain the past twenty-four years.

  “I mean that not just with the will,” TJ said. “I know I’m not your dad, but I’ve known you since the day you were born, and I’ve loved you just as long. So if there’s anything . . . I promised him . . .”

  Nina saw the tears filling TJ’s eyes and felt them in her own.

  “Thank you,” she said again, but this time it wasn’t automatic. This time it came from her heart. She knew how much TJ had done for her father in the end, and how hard taking care of everything was for him. But that was how close TJ and her father’s friendship had been—like Leslie and Nina, they’d been inseparable since their first year at Yale. Until now.

  Nina and TJ hugged, and then TJ said he had to go take care of a few more things. Nina nodded. She would help soon, just like she’d promised her father. She just had to get her mind straightened out first. It had to be in working order before she started a new job, proved herself to a staff who thought of her as their old boss’s daughter. Nina walked TJ to the door, then sat back at the dining table, looking at the keys. There was an address written on them in Caro’s handwriting, taped to one side of the heart.

  Nina pulled out her phone and typed the address into Google Maps, turning it to satellite mode. The house was small, white, two stories, with a wraparound porch and latticework that made it look like it was built out of gingerbread. Nina zoomed in on the door, which was painted a bright red. There were crocuses and hydrangeas in the front yard. She remembered that house. Her mother’s house. Now her house.

  Nina took a breath and called Tim.

  “Hey,” he said, after one ring. “You okay?” It was what he asked her every time they spoke now. Every time they saw each other. Nina felt like she was letting him down every time she said Not really.

  “I just inherited my mom’s house,” she said, ignoring the question. “That I didn’t even know my dad still owned. Can you take a drive with me tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Tim said. “It’ll be nice to get away. Go on a little adventure.”

  She appreciated his positivity, but this wasn’t a weekend getaway. And she didn’t think it was an adventure, either. Nina had no idea what she’d find in that house.

  37

  “I just don’t understand,” Nina kept saying as she drove her father’s Mercedes up the Hudson. Tim had wanted to call a car service, the way they usually did when they left Manhattan, but Nina hadn’t wanted to let a driver in on this trip. It felt too personal. So Tim had relented. “My father didn’t mention this house for more than two decades. Seriously. Who keeps a house hidden for more than two decades?”

  Tim kept looking over at the speedometer. “Are you going too fast?” he asked.

  Nina looked down. “I’m going exactly sixty-four miles per hour.”

  “That’s above the speed limit,” he said. “Be careful. You’re not used to driving.”

  Tim had never bothered to get a driver’s license—he’d lived in New York City all his life, except for four years at Stanford—and was never quite comfortable in the front seat of a car. Nina’s father had insisted that she learn to drive, both automatic and stick, so she’d learned while she was at the house in the Hamptons one summer, in a series of lessons with her father, who winced every time she popped the clutch on his classic TVR sports car.

  But other than when she was out of the city, which hadn’t been all that often that past summer, she rarely drove.

  “I promise, we’ll be fine,” Nina said.

  “We used to all come up here,” Tim said after a moment. “Do you remember? I haven’t thought about it in forever.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Nina answered, keeping her eyes on the road in front of her, “but we did. We went hiking, I think. You, me, my mom, your mom.”

  “I remember that, too. And one time we had a picnic somewhere there were sculptures.”

  “It must’ve been Storm King,” Nina said. She wished she could remember more.

  “It really is weird that no one talked about this house again after your mom died,” Tim said. Nina could feel his eyes on her, watching her expression, checking to see if he’d said the wrong thing again.

  Somehow the appearance of this house, her mother’s house, made things worse. She felt like she was a water balloon—emotions filling her tight—and all it would take was one prick for them to gush out, soaking her and everyone around her.

  The last time Nina ever saw her mother was Christmas morning. She and her parents were still in their pajamas, even though Maeve, the au pair, was fully dressed. Nina’s mom was wearing red silk pajama pants with a matching top. That was the last thing she saw her mother dressed in—red silk pajamas. For years, Nina avoided the color red, even on pencils or notebooks. She still didn’t have any red in her wardrobe.

  That Christmas, she’d just opened her presents: matching clothing for her and her American Girl doll, Molly—the one with glasses like Nina’s. A set of Anne of Green Gables books, since she’d finished the Emily of New Moon trilogy and had loved it. An electric keyboard with a pair of headphones because she’d just started piano lessons. A ski sweater from her aunt Daphne, her mom’s sister, sent all the way from Colorado. And a gold necklace with her name written on it in script, a heart over the letter i. Priscilla had gotten one that year, too—everyone had said how lucky she was to have two is in her name, so she got to have two hearts.

  Nina’s father gave her mother a diamond tennis bracelet that she told him was too much, but which Nina could tell she really
loved. And Nina gave her a Spanish novel. Her father had helped her pick it out and had said he was sure her mother hadn’t read that one yet. Nina’s mom had gotten a gift in the mail from her sister, too, a ski sweater that was almost the same as Nina’s. They’d skied in Massachusetts and Vermont and for a week in Zermatt the year before. TJ, Caro, and Tim hadn’t come on that trip, and Nina’s parents had spent an entire day skiing the blue slopes with her instead of insisting she go to ski school. It was one of the best days of Nina’s life.

  “Are we going skiing this year?” Nina asked her mother when she opened the box with the sweater inside.

  “Of course,” her father answered. “Maybe Aspen next month.”

  Nina’s mom looked at him. “We can’t go to Colorado and ski Aspen.” She was crumpling up wrapping paper, wadding it into a compact ball.

  Nina stroked her new sweater. “What’s wrong with Aspen?” she’d asked, following the path of the silver-threaded snowflake across its blue woolen background.

  “Nothing,” her father said, and then went to open his gifts. Nina had made him a mosaic picture frame in art class and had put a picture of them inside, which he told her he’d put on his desk at work. And then he picked up another gift with his name on it and opened the card. When he read it, his eyes widened.

  “What is it?” Nina’s mother said. “Who’s that one from?”

  “Just someone at work,” he responded. “Did one of the doormen bring this up? When did it get here?”

  Nina nodded. “Harold gave it to me yesterday,” she said, all of a sudden worried she’d done something wrong. “He told me someone dropped it off and said to give it to you. Since it was a Christmas present, I put it under the tree.”

  “Who’s it from?” Nina’s mother asked again, an edge in her voice now. “Joseph, can I see the card?”

  Nina’s head ping-ponged back and forth between them, trying to figure out what was happening.

  “Nina,” Maeve said, standing up from her seat on the couch. “Why don’t you and I bring those Christmas cookies we made down to Harold? Let’s see if we can find the super and the porters, too, and wish them all a Happy Christmas.”

  “But you didn’t open your gifts yet,” Nina said. “And Daddy didn’t finish.” All of a sudden Christmas felt wrong. Something was going on that she didn’t understand.

  “It’s okay,” Maeve answered. “I’ll open them later. You can help, if you’d like. I bet Harold will be so glad to get your cookies.”

  “Okay,” Nina said slowly, looking at her parents, still confused. But she knew when a sentence was an order even when it wasn’t said that way.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Nina and Maeve came back from delivering cookies, Nina’s mother had gone. “She went to the country,” her father said.

  “But why?” Nina asked. “We haven’t had Christmas dinner yet. I’m still wearing pajamas. Why didn’t we go with her?”

  Sometimes her mom went to the country by herself for a day or two, when city life started to feel too chaotic, or when something unkind was said about her in the press.

  “I’m a professor, not a fashion plate,” she’d said once, in frustration, as the family drove up to the house together, after someone had written an in-depth article about her choice to wear ballet flats instead of heels to a cocktail party.

  “You’re both,” her father had answered. “It comes with the territory.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Mom needed some space,” he told Nina that Christmas morning.

  “But it’s Christmas!” Nina said. “Did someone write something mean about her again? Is that what was in the card?”

  Nina’s father pulled her in for a hug. “Well,” he said, “I guess you could say that.”

  * * *

  • • •

  And then later that night they’d gotten word that her mother’s car had slipped on the ice and crashed into a tree. The paramedics did all they could, but they hadn’t been able to revive her. Nina had asked her father, over and over, but she’d never found out who that gift was from or why her mother left. And eventually, in the chaos of all that came next and the anguish of her grief, she’d forgotten about it. Now that she remembered, she wanted to pick up the phone and call her dad, ask him what really had happened the day her mother died. Why he’d never told her. She’d had all these chances over the years, millions of them, but hadn’t thought about it. And now, now that it seemed so important, she didn’t have any chances left.

  Nina had the urge to press her foot down on the gas pedal, zoom forward, and fly, fly like nothing else mattered, like she could leave her whole life behind and start fresh, somewhere new. Her foot moved, the car sped up. Faster. It felt so good that it scared her.

  But then she tapped on the brakes. She could handle this. She would handle this. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  38

  When they reached the house, Nina brought the car to a stop. A deluge of memories washed over her. She remembered much more than she’d thought she did: the rosebushes that she wasn’t supposed to touch, the wild strawberry patch that grew berries so small they looked like doll food, the deep red and bright orange of the autumnal leaves. Wave upon wave of memories hit her, a tsunami of words and images.

  “Shall we?” Tim asked, after they’d sat in the driveway for a while.

  Nina turned the ignition off but didn’t make a move to get out of the car. The urge to fly took over. To race out of there. But she suppressed it.

  Instead, she gathered her courage like she did her memories, pulling them in close, and willed herself to open the door.

  Their feet crunched on the stones of the driveway. The porch creaked, and so did the hinges of the door.

  “We should oil that,” Tim said.

  Nina nodded. Then she saw the kitchen. The granite island in the center, the framed advertisements for 1950s brands of soap and salt and soda lining the wall. She remembered herself dancing with her parents in that kitchen, wiggling around to “Twist and Shout,” the whole family relaxed in a way they never felt in Manhattan.

  Tim walked through the French doors into the living room, stopping in front of the fireplace. “We made s’mores here,” he said.

  “Did we?” Nina asked, but then she remembered marshmallows on wooden shish-kebab sticks, the smell of roasting sugar as they turned brown and gooey.

  “Mm-hm,” Tim said. “I think that was the same trip we made that gingerbread castle.”

  “That was here?” Nina asked. She remembered making the castle with him, but her memory had placed it in New York City. On Central Park West. In apartment 21-B.

  “I’m pretty sure,” he said.

  Tim’s memory of their childhood was always a little better than Nina’s, maybe because he was two years older. “Wait, those chairs,” Nina said, combing her memory of making the gingerbread castle with Tim. “Did we make it at that table?”

  “I think so,” he said. “I remember those chairs, too.”

  “Wow,” Nina said. “I feel like my whole sense of our childhood is shifting. I can’t believe I forgot all of this. I can’t believe my mind moved those memories to Manhattan.”

  Tim shrugged. “Not talking about your mom. Not ever coming back to this place. It’s easy to see how those memories would fade—or that your mind would alter them.”

  “I guess,” Nina said, wondering what else her mind had changed, what other memories weren’t quite true, suddenly not trusting her own history.

  She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Empty. Literally empty. The pantry too. No one had eaten a meal here in decades.

  “We’ll need some food,” Nina said. “If we stay more than a few hours.”

  “Do you want to?” Tim asked. “Stay more than a few hours?” They’d packed cloth
es, just in case.

  Nina looked around. She was pretty sure she remembered sitting on that couch while her mother read her Caps for Sale. “Yeah,” she said. “How about we stay the night?”

  “Works for me,” Tim said. “I saw a grocery store in town. I can take a walk and get us some provisions while you explore your new old house a little more.”

  “I can come,” Nina said, not sure she wanted to explore the house alone, but not wanting to admit it. She was tired of feeling so fragile, of letting anyone—even Tim—see that fragility. “We can drive, it’ll be a lot quicker.”

  “We’re Manhattanites,” Tim said. “We walk places. Besides, I could use the exercise.”

  Maybe he was right; maybe exploring the house would be better without him. It would give her space to process her emotions. “Okay, go for it,” she said. “I’ll check out the second floor.”

  Once Tim left, Nina headed upstairs. She opened the first door on the right and saw her bedroom. As soon as she walked in, she remembered the white wallpaper with silver metallic polka dots and the lavender gauzy curtains. The furniture was all white wood, and so was the floor, with a lavender circular rug underneath her canopied bed. There were three books from her Baby-Sitters Little Sister series sitting on the dresser that she must’ve ended up rebuying in the city. There was even a pair of her elementary-school-sized snow boots in the corner of the room. It was a house stopped in time. Everything was covered in a light layer of dust. Nina wondered how long ago her father’d had the place cleaned. She continued down the hallway and found the bathroom, the guest room, the office, and—at the very end—her parents’ room. She remembered the striped wallpaper, the brass bed frame. The television on the dresser was small and boxy, clearly from when George Bush was president. The first one.

  Nina sat down on the bed. She didn’t have a ton of memories of her mom, but sitting here, she remembered one she was pretty sure she could trust. It was summer, so her mom wasn’t teaching, and Nina wasn’t in school. They’d come up to the country for a long time, just the two of them. A few weeks, maybe a month. And her dad came up on the weekends, but not all of them.