by Abbi Waxman
Lili looked over at her and made a face. “Really? And you think he’s not bookish?”
“Oh,” said Nina, “good point. Not sure that being a Potter fan makes you bookish, per se, but I suppose it does mean he can read.”
“Are you criticizing Harry Potter?”
“Never. I’m a Ravenclaw.”
“A bookworm like you? What a surprise.” Lili was scrolling down a page of some kind, the screen hidden from view. “Here it is. Team members …” She paused and frowned suddenly. “Thomas Byrnes.”
“Burns like Edward or Byrnes like David Byrne?”
“The latter. With a Y.” Lili was still frowning. “That’s bizarre.”
“Why?”
Lili didn’t answer, and then looked up and smiled suddenly. “Nothing, I got distracted.” She closed the computer. “So now you know his name you can stalk him to your heart’s content.”
“I don’t know if that’s really my scene.”
“You’re lying.” Lili grabbed one of the blank seed packets and started working on it.
“Yes, I’m lying,” Nina said. “But I’m not in the market for dating right now. Things are pretty tight, time wise, and I have my life together and organized, and I think a boyfriend might be too much.” She started babbling. “Besides, I don’t know if I can manage the Instagram-worthy relationship, with its photo opportunities and matching sweaters and public declarations. I find it hard enough to relate to people in private; having to do that while also creating an effective online presence as a couple …”
Lili looked at her, her hand still for a moment. “You do realize it isn’t mandatory to live your life online, right? For thousands of years we managed to be miserable or joyful in private. You can still do it.”
Nina shrugged. “Sure. But even in private, being with someone else feels like …” She trailed off. “It feels intrusive.” She thought of something else. “Besides, I have this whole other thing going on.” She told Lili about her family, about her dad, while Lili drew and said, “Mm-hmm,” every so often. Eventually Nina said, “Besides, even if I didn’t have a new cast of thousands to deal with, what would that guy and I talk about once we’d finished discussing Harry Potter? He’s probably only seen the movies, anyway.”
“You’re a snob; there’s nothing wrong with the movies, and I think that whole thing is an excuse to avoid dealing with it,” replied Lili, turning the seed packet over and looking at it. She held it up to Nina. “How’s this one?”
The packet had the name Nina on it, written in vines, surrounded by amber poppies.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Good,” said Lili, “because it’s for you. You’re coming to the wedding.”
“I’m not invited.”
“You are now. Clare invited you. And she doesn’t like to be crossed.”
“That’s true,” said a voice from the doorway. Clare was standing there, holding several sheets of paper, with her editor, Frank. “I finished my book and I’m ready for bed.” Then she looked at Nina. “You can come to the wedding, but you can’t sit with me until after the ceremony, because I am a flower girl, and that is a Series of Responsibilities.”
Nina opened her mouth but closed it again.
“Thanks very much,” she said.
“You can thank me after,” said Lili, getting to her feet. “Assuming you have a good time.”
Nina laughed, getting up, too, and dusting herself off. She seemed to have acquired a pretty thick layer of dog fur, lying on the floor. Oh well, it was a chilly night.
“Besides,” added Lili, walking her to the door, “weddings are great places to meet people.”
Then she and Clare stood at the door and waved good-bye to Nina.
Eleven
In which Nina meets more family, and wishes she hadn’t.
The next morning, Nina got a text message: Danger, Will Robinson. Expect call from Sarky. See you later. It was from Peter Reynolds, and it made her frown. She was having her morning planner time when the text came in, and she looked over her day carefully. Was there space for a legal assault? Not really. And if there wasn’t space, it wasn’t going to happen. A schedule was a schedule, people, and without a proper schedule, the day would descend into madness, anarchy, dogs and cats living together, etc. The Ghostbusters reference reminded her of another Bill Murray movie, Stripes, where he begs his girlfriend not to leave, because “all the plants are gonna die.” She grinned, and flipped ahead to schedule a Bill Murray movie marathon. See? Even in the most organized life there is room for whimsy. It just needs scheduling. As her heroine Monica Geller would say, Rules help control the fun.
The call from Sarkassian came in a few minutes after the store opened, which was considerate at least. The lawyer sounded somewhat apologetic.
“I’m afraid to say your niece, Lydia, has raised the specter of legal action against you. She’s asked for a face-to-face meeting at our offices today. Would you consider attending?” He did sound like he was asking, rather than ordering, so Nina considered it.
“Legal action for what?”
Sarkassian coughed. “Fraud. She thinks maybe you’re not actually a Reynolds.”
Nina laughed. “And did you tell her that I don’t care at all about being a Reynolds, and in fact would have been totally fine never knowing who my father was?”
“Yes, but there is the matter of the will.”
“Cut me out of it, then. I really don’t care.”
Sarkassian sounded horrified. “You can’t simply cut someone out of someone else’s will. Besides, it might be a great deal of money.”
“Or it might be a giant inflatable middle finger. Let me be completely clear: I. Don’t. Care. My life is fine as it is. I don’t need any complications.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then, “Well, I know that, and you know that, but perhaps you could tell Lydia that in person? Please, Ms. Hill, it would be enormously helpful if you could attend the meeting. The rest of your immediate family will be there.”
So that was why Peter had given her the heads-up. He already knew about the meeting.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Thank you.” The lawyer did sound relieved, and Nina wondered what he was scared of. “My assistant will contact you with details.”
Dammit. Now she was going to have to change her planner. Nina hated changing her planner.
The lawyer’s office was in a glintingly tall glass and granite building on the corner of Wilshire and Crescent Heights. While not exactly forbidding and Borg-like, it was dark enough that should a battalion of Stormtroopers have emerged from the parking lot, Nina wouldn’t have been surprised. Well, she would have been surprised by the Stormtroopers per se, obviously, but it would have made sense they were coming from that building. The point is, the lawyer’s building was intimidating and Nina was intimidated.
While the firm didn’t have their name on the outside of the building, a quick glance at the lobby directory showed they had three floors all to themselves, which meant this was no Podunk operation, no, sir. The receptionist was clearly on top of her game, because when Nina walked up to her, she rose and said, “Right this way, Ms. Hill.”
“How did you know who I was?” Nina asked. She should have shrugged it off, but she was rattled; see earlier comment re: Stormtroopers.
The receptionist smiled at her as she headed down a long and plushly carpeted corridor. “I have a list of people attending your meeting, which is the only one involving clients right now, and I signed everyone else in already.”
“Oh,” Nina said. “So, professionalism and logic.”
The woman nodded.
“Well played, madam,” Nina said, and then wished her head had exploded instead. Why did she say these things? Why did her mouth open and this stuff come out? AIs like Siri and Alexa sounded more relaxed and human than she did.
The woman opened a door, but as the sound of many conversations rolled out, Nina hesitated.
“I think the
re might be a mistake. Mr. Sarkassian said it was immediate family only.” The room was filled with people. Enough food had been laid out on a deep shelf on one end of the room to feed a football team. After the game.
The receptionist shook her head. “No mistake. This is the immediate family.” She moved her head slightly to indicate Nina should go in because she was holding the door and it was heavy, so Nina stepped into the room.
Nina had always been comfortable with the fact that she was not gregarious. Not every interaction needed to be a party, right? Her Room 101, for those Orwell fans among you, would simply contain a couple of people whose names she couldn’t remember. Walking into a room full of strangers was about as comfortable for her as putting on a hat full of wasps and tugging it down firmly. But in she went.
“Nina!” Peter stood and came over to her. He took her hand and leaned in close. “Don’t pay any attention to this; let it wash over you.” He pulled back a bit and looked at her, smiling. “Lydia is not speaking for most of us.”
Nina nodded, and caught sight of Archie over his shoulder. He was also smiling at her, so maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. She took a seat in the total silence that had fallen and felt several pairs of eyes trained on her. She tried the in through the nose, out through the mouth breathing a long-ago therapist had suggested. The table was very nice, so she looked at that. Spruce, if she wasn’t mistaken.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” asked Peter. “It’s terrible, but there’s alcohol in it.”
Nina nodded, and he got her a glass that, as he had warned, was pretty bad. Nina wasn’t a wine snob or anything, but she was a millennial, and as you’ve probably heard, they drink more wine than any generation in history. This would probably be disputed by the ancient Romans, but the Internet doesn’t check sources very thoroughly. Nina had a policy of treating the Internet the way she might treat a guy in a bar, one who’s wavering gently on his stool and holding a honey mustard pretzel nugget. He might be an expert in international arbitrage or arms dealing or the history of Catholicism, but it’s more likely he isn’t. But anyway, she did drink wine, so the Internet nailed that one.
Sarkassian arrived and threw a haunch of dead lamb on the table, and the lion feeding began. The haunch came in the form of a pile of documents, but still.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said, in time-honored style. “I’d like to take a minute now to introduce everyone to Nina Hill.” He indicated her, and she looked around and smiled the smallest, tightest smile in the history of smiles, which, when you consider geopolitical world history, is saying quite a lot. I am not happy, said the smile, but I am willing to be polite for as long as you all are. What it also said, if you knew Nina well, was, I am starting to have a panic attack, so please can we move this along before I throw up on the table? But no one there knew her well, so her secret was safe.
The lawyer went around the table. “Let’s start with your siblings. This is Becky Oliver; she was William Reynolds’s first child.” The woman was maybe in her late fifties. She looked a lot like her son, Peter, and her smile was like his, too. She held up her hand in a peace sign, which Nina took to be a gesture of, well, peace. “The woman on her right is your sister Katherine, and on her left is their mother, Alice.”
Alice’s eyes were fixed on Nina, but she might have been stuffed for all the animation she showed. She had one of those hairstyles that looked like it could be removed in one piece, possibly in order to replace it with an identical one in a different color. She favored statement jewelry, but what her statement was, it was difficult to say, unless it was simply, I am a hollow shell of a person, which is fine with me, because my shell is shinier than yours. That statement came across loud and clear. Nina remembered Peter’s warning about Alice and tried not to look directly at her.
Katherine was different. She wore zero makeup and clearly gave less than zero fucks about her appearance. Her hair was messy, her clothes were untidy, but her eyes were as sharp and penetrating as a robin getting ready to ambush a worm. Nina was painfully aware she was the worm in this situation.
The lawyer swallowed and moved on. “To their right is Archie, who I think you’ve already met, and his wife, Becca. He is the son of Rosie, William’s second wife, sadly deceased.”
“Hello again,” said Archie. “Sorry about this.”
“Shut up, Archie,” said a younger woman who was sitting exactly across from Nina. “Don’t be such a quisling.” She switch-bladed a glance at him, then looked back at Nina, unblinking. She was in her midthirties, maybe, wearing a violet pants suit with one of those blouses that have a bow for a tie. Possibly she thought she was attending a meeting in 1986, or interviewing for a job as a minor character on L.A. Law.
Wow, thought Nina, quisling, eh? Bringing out the fifty-cent insults already. Respect. Although if the woman didn’t blink soon, her shiny little eyes were going to drop out of their sockets and roll across the table like marbles.
The lawyer sped up his introductions. “Your youngest sibling, Millie, isn’t here, but sitting next to Becca is Eliza, who is Millie’s mother and William’s widow.”
Eliza smiled tightly at her, but whether the tightness was for her or a general default setting, Nina had no idea.
Alice suddenly leaned forward and pointed at Eliza. “She killed him, you know, so I suggest you watch yourself. Come between her and the gold she’s been digging, and you might not live to regret it.”
Eliza snorted. “You’re mistaken, Alice. And possibly senile.”
“I’m not,” replied Alice. “I’m simply too old to make nice if I don’t want to. You killed William so you could take his money.”
Sarkassian interrupted. “Please, Alice, that’s slander and completely baseless.”
Alice looked at Eliza. “Murdering whore.”
“Emasculating harpy,” replied Eliza, calmly.
“Ladies, ladies,” muttered the lawyer, clearly used to this level of familial invective. He frowned at them, cleared his throat, and continued. “OK, now we come to nieces and nephews. Peter you already know, and sitting next to him is his sister, Jennifer.” Jennifer looked like Peter and waved a friendly hand. “Jennifer has children who are your great-nieces and great-nephew, but they’re younger and not legally required to be here.”
“Am I legally required to be here?” Nina looked at Sarkassian. “I thought it was just an invitation.”
“It was,” he replied quickly. “I simply meant that they are legally still minors, and therefore not party to any action.”
Nina frowned at him, but before she could ask anything else, the woman across from her snapped, “And I’m your niece Lydia, your sister Katherine’s daughter, although I doubt we’re actually related at all.” She looked aggressively at Nina. “What proof do you have that my grandfather was your father, and that you’re not a con artist?”
Nina gazed at her for a beat or two, then slowly raised one eyebrow, a skill she was rightly proud of. If this woman thought she could intimidate her by being rude, she was about to be disappointed. Nina might battle crippling anxiety once or twice a week, but she also worked in retail, and rudeness is the special sauce on the burger that is the Los Angeles shopping public.
“Oh, I don’t know. My birth certificate? His own word? My mother’s word?”
Lydia smiled like the meanest girl in school about to comment on some underling’s shoe choice. “Well, that’s hardly sufficient, is it?”
“Legally it is,” said Sarkassian, briskly. “William Reynolds is listed on her birth certificate; he made provision for her in his will, proving that he was aware of her existence, and her mother has confirmed that he was her father. As far as the law is concerned, we’re good.”
“Well, who’s to say she is actually who she says she is?” Lydia looked scornful. “She might be some grifter pretending to be Nina Hill to get her hands on our money. She may have kidnapped the real Nina Hill and be keeping her in a basement somewhere.”
At
this, the last remnants of Nina’s anxiety peeled away, revealing a cold center of anger. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Sometimes when her social anxiety got pushed too far, a strange confident madness would take over her mouth, which had led to some very unfortunate outcomes.
“Well,” she said, apparently completely nonchalant, “if I am a grifter, I’ve been playing a very long con, seeing as I went to school as Nina Hill, went to college as Nina Hill, got a job as Nina Hill, and have been working at it for six years, still pretending to be a totally unimportant and regular person. Presumably in case someone I’d never heard of dropped dead and left me a mysterious something.” She turned up her palms. “It’s a lovely blend of cynicism and optimism, but as a con it seems a little high intensity, don’t you think?”
Several people laughed, but Lydia didn’t seem amused.
“Also,” continued Nina, “I didn’t approach you guys; you came to me. I had no idea who my father was. He could have been anyone.”
“Is your mother a prostitute?” Lydia asked.
Nina paused. “No,” she replied evenly, “I didn’t mean it that way. She’s a news photographer. She won a Pulitzer.”
“Lois Lane won a Pulitzer, and she’s a fictional character.”
Nina happened to know that was true, and for a split second recognized that Lydia, for all her assholery, was a kindred trivia spirit. However, any fellow feeling quickly dissipated when Lydia kept talking.
“Where is your slutty single mother now?”
“She’s in China.”
“Convenient.”
“Not if you want to hand her something.”
Eliza spoke up from the end of the table. “This whole thing is ridiculous. If William left this woman something, isn’t that an end to it? He could have left anything to anyone, right?” She turned and looked at Nina. “I didn’t kill him, by the way. He died of a heart attack after years of smoking, drinking, and eating red meat with almost every meal.” She turned up her palms. “He stopped all that when we met, but the damage was done.”