Life and Other Inconveniences

by Higgins, Kristan

  I didn’t know who that was, but I knew it was a compliment. I perused the racks, which I organized by color. Riley sat on the couch and watched.

  I chose a black sleeveless sweater, which, though a decade old, had never been worn, since I was of the opinion that women should dress appropriately for their age. Despite my very respectably toned arms, I was still eighty-five. A black-and-white-polka-dotted circle skirt, strappy kitten-heeled shoes of my own design in cheery red, and a cropped silk Chanel jacket, patterned in black, white, blue and red and edged with a metallic silver material.

  “What do you think of this, dear?”

  “I love it!” Much to my surprise, she pulled off her jacket and dress right in front of me. She wore a blue bra and cotton panties—not a thong, thank heaven.

  Her skin was as white as milk. So smooth and perfect. She was perhaps a bit too thin. I would speak to Emma about it.

  She pulled on the clothes and spun around in front of the mirror. “What do you think?”

  “Marvelous!” The clothes made Riley look both elegant and youthful. She’d look darling if she cut her hair.

  “Wow,” she said, staring at her reflection. “You have the best taste, Gigi. Can I take a picture?”

  “Of course, dear,” I said. “Send it to your friends and give them my best regards.”

  Her face fell a little. “I just meant for when I’m home. I’ll try to imitate this look.”

  “My dear, the clothes are yours. Don’t be silly. Can you picture me in this outfit?”

  “Actually, yes,” she said. “You’d rock this look, and you know it.” Then, quite unexpectedly, she hugged me. “Let me go show Mom, okay?”

  “Of course.” She left the dressing room, and I picked up her cheap dress. I’d burn it, perhaps.

  Beverly Jane. Of course. That was it. The CEO of Genevieve London Designs.

  By the time I got to the foyer, Charles was waiting in the hall, and Emma was talking to Riley in a low voice, no doubt warning her about my shark-like teeth, detachable jaw and cannibalistic habits. She hugged Riley, told her to have fun and then said, “A word before you go, Genevieve.”

  “Of course. I’ll meet you outside, dear,” I said to Riley, and Charles and she went out. “Yes, Emma?”

  “Don’t spend too much money on her.”

  “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “No. It’s not. I’m giving you a chance with my daughter, and against my better judgment,” she said. “Riley had some . . . issues with friends, and I thought a summer here might be helpful. But you can’t buy her love, and I don’t want you to try.”

  “I have no intention of buying anyone’s love, Emma.”

  “Good. It’s not for sale.”

  We eyed each other a moment. “I noticed Riley seems a bit thin. She seems to eat well, but . . .” I let my voice trail off.

  “She grew almost five inches this year,” Emma said. “It’s not an eating disorder.” She paused. “But thank you for your concern.”

  “Of course.” There was an odd sense of neutrality between us. A cease-fire of sorts. “Do I have your permission to leave now?” I asked, ruining it.

  She rolled her eyes. “Be home before ten, please.”

  “Have a lovely day.” I checked my reflection—were I going to live a bit longer, I might have some injections done—and left.

  But it seemed Emma’s lecture had infected Riley, for once Charles pulled onto 95 South, she asked, “Why did you kick my mother out when she got pregnant with me?”

  I suppressed a sigh. “I didn’t exactly kick her out, dear. I gave her a choice. If she wanted to keep you, then I felt I wouldn’t be doing her any favors by continuing to support her so she could pretend to be an adult.”

  “She was all alone.”

  “That’s not true. She had Jason and the Finlays, and her father, and her grandfather Paul.”

  “But you raised her. Also, my dad’s parents are jerks.”

  “True enough. And I did raise her, and I’d raised her to be smarter than to get pregnant while still in high school.”

  “So you wanted her to abort me.”

  “I suggested abortion, yes, but I also suggested that she give you up for adoption.” I felt a flush of shame, for some reason. “Your mother had a very bright future. She was smart—”

  “She still is.”

  “Yes, I’m sure, but please don’t interrupt, Riley. It’s rude.”

  “It’s also rude to toss someone out because she’s pregnant.”

  I did sigh this time. “Things are very black-and-white when you’re young, Riley. I forced your mother to address the consequences of her irresponsibility. Birth control is very effective. Somehow, your mother and Jason got it wrong. Coddling Emma was not going to improve her life.” I didn’t mention the part for which I felt the most regret.

  “She worked as a cashier, you know,” Riley said. “At a grocery store on the night shift. She worked up until the day I was born and went back two weeks later.”

  That was not a pleasant image. “There’s no shame in hard work,” I said. “I imagine she learned a great deal.”

  Riley was silent, but her gaze said much.

  “I was going to pay for her college, you know,” I said. “And graduate school. I wanted her to come work with me, to pass my business down to her. She made her choice, and it was you. I doubt very much she’s sorry.”

  “She’s not. We have a good life.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  She huffed. “It’s just sad. You’re dying, and only now do I get to know you. You could’ve called, you know.”

  “She told me not to.”

  “Can you freaking blame her?”

  I could not. Truthfully, I’d thought Emma would call me. I thought she’d break, even living with that Paul. I thought she’d ask for money, and of course I would have given it. I was anxious to give it, frankly.

  But she’d never called. Not once. And while I knew where she was, I had never been able to bring myself to simply send a check. I should have, but I never did.

  “Why don’t we try to have a nice day in the city?” I suggested. “I’m eager to introduce you to the staff and have you enjoy yourself. They’re excited to see the next generation of Londons. Can we do that, dear? I was thinking you might enjoy getting a haircut and makeover.”

  Her face lit up before she could help herself. “Fine. But you can’t think that throwing some awesome purses at me is going to make everything okay with my mom.”

  “I know that.”

  “But you’re gonna try? To make things right?”

  “Of course.”

  I had no intention of trying. Emma had painted me as the Evil Queen a long time ago, and I simply didn’t have the energy to fight with her.

  Riley was looking at me, and once again, the resemblance cut through to my heart.

  “You okay, Gigi?” she asked, her voice kinder now.

  “Oh, yes. It’s just . . . your eyes are the same shade as my son’s,” I said.

  “Sheppard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever get any information about what happened to him?”

  “We did not, unfortunately. There were leads, but none ever turned out.” Summer blue. That’s how I used to think of Sheppard’s eyes, as clear as the summer sky.

  “Maybe,” Riley said, “maybe we can do something to find him this summer. I mean, not find him, maybe, but figure out what happened to him. I listened to a podcast about that once. We could do a DNA test. And register you on one of those genealogy sites? Maybe there’s someone out there related to you that you don’t know about. I’m really good on the Internet. Stalking and stuff. Maybe I could find something.”

  Unexpectedly, there was a lump in my throat. The child had just of
fered more than anyone had in decades. “That would be so kind, dear.”

  Soon, the Missing would end. That was the only thing I was looking forward to in suicide . . . seeing my son again. Surely God would grant me that.

  I felt a hand in mine.

  “Don’t cry, Gigi,” Riley said softly.

  “I never cry,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Now. Tell me about your friends back home.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Emma

  I had a bad feeling about the trip to New York. Genevieve wasn’t being honest with me, not that this was a big surprise. But surrendering Riley to her for an entire day made me nervous. The best thing I had going for me in life was that my child loved, respected and liked me. I knew Genevieve shouldn’t be able to touch that, but the idea of my grandmother telling my daughter what a loser I was—in much more elegant prose, of course—made me feel a little sick.

  We’d only been here a week, but it felt like an eternity. Genevieve seemed to like Riley. That made me nervous, too, because I remembered all too well how it felt to win that woman’s approval, only to have it yanked away. But when she gave a small smile, or said, “Well done,” it had been like winning an award in front of a thousand people.

  I shouldn’t worry so much. Genevieve was different with Riley. If she wanted to spoil her a little bit, that would be fine. In essence, that was why we were here this summer . . . to get Riley away from the bitchery of the little coven and, yes, be able to claim her name. Genevieve London’s great-granddaughter. The only one.

  Possibly the heir to all this.

  It was a clear, bright day, and the rooms of Sheerwater were drenched in sunlight. I had to give it to Genevieve—she’d balanced sophistication with hominess, and while the house was a mansion, it felt . . . comfortable. Friendly and posh, the way I used to picture Garrison London.

  I went into the formal library. I had some clients scheduled, but not until later.

  Genevieve had updated almost every room since I lived here, and now the chestnut bookcases were lit from within, which made them glow, the books magical. White birch logs were stacked artfully on the fireplace irons, and there were a few photos on the mantel—Genevieve and my grandfather on their wedding day, looking happy and wealthy and in love. Her dress was the best of the fifties—white satin covered by handmade lace, a Grace Kelly type of gown.

  I suddenly remembered Genevieve had told me I could wear her dress on my own wedding day. I’d been maybe . . . nine? Still unsure if I’d be staying in Connecticut, still hoping my father would come back for me. For some reason, I’d been crying . . . Maybe my other grandparents had called and I was homesick for Downers Grove? I remembered Genevieve had come home from work, taken one look at me and brought me up to the cedar closet, which was big enough to be a bedroom. Took out a giant box lined with tissue paper and held up the dress.

  “This was mine,” she said. “It was one of the best days of my life. Someday, you’ll find a wonderful man like your grandfather and marry him, and you can wear this dress. It will never go out of style.”

  The memory was so vivid I could smell the cedar. And she’d been right about one thing, anyway—her dress was a classic. I wondered if it was still in that closet.

  I wished I’d met my grandfather. Life would’ve been a lot better for my father, and probably for me, if Clark had had a good male role model.

  Here was another picture of Garrison, smiling into the camera. A nice face. A photo of my father, perhaps twenty, on the deck of a boat, also good-looking but without the confidence that shimmered in Garrison’s pictures.

  Another photo of Clark and Sheppard, their arms around each other, Sheppard taller, my father still chubby with baby fat.

  Poor Gigi. Losing a child, especially without any sort of closure, had to be brutal. An image came to me of a younger Genevieve, waiting by the phone, praying, calling her son’s name in the woods for weeks.

  I had never counseled someone who’d lost a child. Twice a colleague had recommended me, and twice I’d recommended someone else. Maybe when I was more experienced. Maybe when Riley was grown. I was so paranoid about her safety that I’d practically had a chip put in her ear. Honestly, why didn’t they do that? You could track your dog, but not your kid?

  I texted her. How’s the ride going?

  She texted back. Fine. Don’t worry. Charles is a good driver. Better than you! LOL!

  I smiled. Let me know when you get there, okay? Send pictures!

  Okay! Have a nice day! I might get a haircut if that’s okay.

  A haircut, huh? Riley had the most beautiful hair known to humankind. Who would cut it? People would sell their souls for long, curly red hair!

  I sighed. Parents had to pick their battles, and hair wasn’t going to be one of mine. Whatever you want! Love you so much!

  Love you too, Mama!

  Mama. Love swelled in my chest. I sighed. It was only 9:37, and she wouldn’t be back for twelve hours.

  Maybe I relied on my daughter too much, our girls’ nights watching Project Runway or The Bachelor, our biannual trips to Wicker Park and the fabulous thrift stores there. These past two years, when she started to have more of a social life, when I assumed she’d be home on Sundays, only to have her tell me she had plans . . . it had been something of a shock. Of course I wanted her to have a good social life, a nice group of friends, but I hadn’t realized that I’d feel a little bit . . . abandoned.

  We all have our issues, I knew. Being left was mine.

  I needed a hobby while I was here. I only had twelve clients a week. Maybe I needed another job. Maybe the grocery store was hiring.

  Maybe Pop would want to have lunch with me in town. He and I always had a vegetable garden, a really big one that took up about half of the backyard, and I missed digging and staking tomatoes. Oh, man, the tomatoes were so good. On Sundays in the summer, we’d make tomato sandwiches with Miracle Whip. Don’t judge—in the Midwest, Miracle Whip is used in 90 percent of all recipes. We’d sit there, the three of us, and Pop and I would have a beer, the sound of lawn mowers and music filtering in from the street.

  He’d been awfully good to come here with me. Then again, he was the best man in the world. He never talked about my mom—his only child—but when Riley was born, and he saw the glow of her hair, his eyes welled up, and he kissed her head so gently. He’d come over for lunch the other day to see Riley and me and to exchange jabs with Genevieve.

  I took out my phone and called him. “Hey, you want to grab lunch today, Pop?”

  “I can’t, honey. I’m a little busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “None of your business, that’s what. How about dinner? I’ll cook for you.”

  “Dinner would be great.” Better than eating here under the baleful gaze of Helga.

  “Six o’clock?”

  “Sounds perfect. See you then, Pop.”

  So. Still nothing to do. I could swim in the pool, except I didn’t want to. Genevieve would inevitably hear about it from Helga, and later make some snide comment about my workload, or my use of the pool, or how there were bathing suits designed for chubby women.

  I knew what I’d do. I’d start a vegetable garden. I’d passed Gordon’s Nursery the other day when I took a drive, and I could buy some tomatoes and basil, peppers and parsley. Genevieve had more than enough room, and it would give Pop and me something to do here.

  I went outside into Sheerwater’s impressively landscaped backyard. The scent of wisteria and lilacs was thick in the air, and the wind was strong enough to make the flagpole rope twang against the metal pole, making me glad I wore a cotton sweater and jeans. A rabbit hopped along the base of the stone wall, where there were two Adirondack chairs overlooking the sea.

  I couldn’t make the garden too close to the house, because Genevieve would think it was very déclassé to be growing
one’s own food. Roses, yes. Beans, never. Still, she had ten acres. I’d scout a location.

  I went to the gardening shed and got a shovel, then continued past the pool, which had been upgraded from the aquamarine of my childhood to some dark gray stone. I walked through the gate on the west side, into the wilder part of Genevieve’s land, where the pine trees grew and the towering rocks were covered with moss. I used to play here, making fairy houses or pretending that I was a baby wolf. Then Genevieve found me and scared the life out of me with tales of people who took children, or children who got lost or fell into the sea and drowned, or children who had fallen and hit their heads and were now brain damaged.

  So. My love of the forested part of Sheerwater ended, until I was sixteen, and Jason and I would come out here and look at the stars and kiss, the slippery fabric of a sleeping bag underneath us, our breathing shallow, our bodies pressing against each other’s.

  Those were happy, horny times. Maybe the time when I felt most secure, in some ways. Secure that Jason loved me, which he had. Secure that even if Genevieve didn’t, she put up with me and would continue to do so. Secure in my future, which, though blurry at that time, seemed drenched in sunshine.

  God laughs, as they say.

  The pine needles crunched gently underfoot, and a blue jay announced my presence to the other wildlife. The sun was warm on my hair, and I was abruptly aware of how stinkin’ beautiful it was here. As a state, Connecticut never got its fair share of love from outsiders, but those of us who lived here kind of preferred it that way.

  There. A sunny spot on the eastern side of the point, where there was an open space in the trees. It would get plenty of light but be safe from the harsh afternoon sun in high summer. I’d grow tomatoes that smelled earthy and warm, and even Genevieve wouldn’t be able to resist them. Peas and basil and parsley. Maybe even mint for her to put in a pitcher of ice water, the only thing she drank other than booze and coffee.

  Then again, Genevieve might be dead by high summer.

  I wish she’d let me talk to her doctor. I’d snoop, but I was a healthcare professional, too, and I’d never be able to violate HIPAA. Still, my grandmother allegedly wanted me here to take care of her and do my duty; if she wouldn’t tell me what that was, it was going to be harder.