by Shari Lapena
“What have you been up to?” Ellen hears Barbara ask Rose as they make their way into the other room.
“Not much,” Rose says. “Just work.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Barbara says. “What do you do for fun? Do you have a boyfriend these days?”
Ellen furtively watches her daughter’s face as she tends to the turkey, the smell of the roasting meat familiar and comforting. Rose used to be so popular, but she doesn’t talk about friends or boyfriends anymore. It’s all just work, work, work.
“No one at the moment,” Rose says.
“I guess running your own law practice is pretty demanding,” Barbara acknowledges with a smile.
“You’ve no idea,” Rose agrees.
“There’s such a thing as work-life balance,” Ellen suggests gently.
“Not if you’re a young attorney,” Rose says.
But Ellen wonders if there’s more to it than that.
* * *
• • •
audrey stancik has been knocked sideways by a nasty spring flu. She didn’t bother to get the flu shot this year and she heartily regrets it now. Inside her modest home, she sits in bed in her most comfortable, faded pajamas. Her hair is tucked back in a headband, but, even ill, her manicure is perfect. She’s propped up by pillows, the television on in the background, but she’s not really watching. There’s a wastebasket full of soiled tissues next to the bed and a box of fresh tissues on her nightstand, beside the framed photograph of her daughter, Holly. She feels utterly miserable—her nose is running like a tap and she’s achy all over. Audrey was supposed to be celebrating Easter dinner at her brother Fred’s place with the family, and she had been particularly looking forward to it this year. She would have enjoyed it much more than usual, knowing what she knows. She’s going to miss that delicious meal with all the fixings, and her favorite, Irena’s lemon pie. It’s really a shame; Audrey enjoys her food.
But other than having the flu, Audrey is quite happy these days. She’s expecting a windfall soon. A significant windfall. It’s too bad someone has to die for her to get it.
She’s going to be rich. It’s about time.
3
Catherine stands on her parents’ doorstep with Ted beside her, buzzing a little with nerves. She rings the doorbell. It’s always like this—wondering how everyone is going to get along, hoping for the best. But she’s not going to allow anyone to ruin the day for her.
She and Ted have a lovely home in Aylesford, but it’s nowhere near as impressive as this. They have the kind of house two professional incomes—a dermatologist and a dentist—can afford. Her parents’ home, where she and her siblings grew up, is more of a mansion. As the eldest, she would like to have this house when her parents are gone. She would like to live here, in Brecken Hill, in comfort and wealth, and host her siblings for holiday dinners, her own children around her. This is what she fantasizes about—and in her fantasy she’s never very old. Not much older than she is now. Certainly not as old as she would be if her parents lived a long life and died of natural causes. But then that’s the point of fantasies; by definition they are never realistic. She wants the house and everything in it—the dishes, the antiques, the art. Her parents have never promised her the house, or even hinted that they would leave it to her. But they wouldn’t leave it to Dan—he wouldn’t want it anyway. Jenna would probably trash the place, or if she didn’t, her friends would. Her mother would never inflict Jenna and her lifestyle on their wealthy neighbors, Catherine is sure of that.
The door opens and her mother is there, welcoming them in with a smile. She’s wearing black trousers and black heels, a white silk blouse, and an orange-and-pink Hermès scarf around her neck. Catherine briefly studies her mother’s face, looking for signs of what she herself will look like when she’s older. She sees watery blue eyes, good skin, well-cut hair. Her mother has aged rather gracefully—but money helps.
“Hi, Mom,” she says, leaning in to embrace her mother. It’s a polite hug rather than a heartfelt one.
“Hi, dear. You’re the first,” she says, turning to greet Ted. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink.”
She bustles into the dining room to the right of the foyer, saying, “What would you like? Champagne?”
Her mother always serves bubbly on holidays. “Sure,” Catherine says, taking off her spring coat and hanging it in the closet as her husband does the same. They never take off their shoes.
“Ted?”
“Yes, sure,” he says, smiling agreeably.
He always starts off well, Catherine thinks; it’s only after a bit of time that he begins to feel the strain.
Sheila pours champagne into flutes, and they take their fizzing glasses across the wide entry hall through to the living room on the other side and sit on the plush sofas, the spring sun slanting through the large bay windows. The view out over the lawn is lovely, Catherine thinks every time. And the gardens have begun to bloom with daffodils and tulips. She would do more with the garden, if it was hers. “Where’s Dad?” she asks.
“He’s upstairs, he’ll be here in a minute,” her mother says. She smiles tightly, lowering her voice and putting her champagne flute down on the coffee table. “Actually, there’s something important I want to talk to you about, before your father comes down.”
“Oh?” Catherine says, surprised.
Something passes across her mother’s face, uneasiness perhaps. Catherine’s not sure what, but it puts her on guard. And then the doorbell rings. That can only be Dan, she thinks. Jenna is always late.
As if reading her mind, her mother turns her head toward the front door and says, “That must be Dan.”
She gets up to answer the door while Catherine raises her eyebrows at her husband. “I wonder what she wants to talk about?” she whispers to Ted.
Ted shrugs and sips his champagne. They wait until Dan and Lisa join them in the living room, Catherine and Lisa quickly hugging, while the men nod greetings. Dan and Lisa sit down on the sofa opposite, while their mother fetches them glasses of champagne. Catherine thinks Dan looks more tense than usual. She knows he’s been struggling. She wonders if her mother is going to let them in on whatever the secret is too. But when her mother rejoins them, she directs the conversation to the general and superficial, and Catherine follows her lead.
The doorbell rings again a few minutes later—three short, sharp bursts—announcing Jenna. Their father has still not appeared; Catherine wonders uneasily if something’s wrong.
They remain in the living room, listening to her mother and Jenna at the door. “And who have we here?” her mother asks.
Great, Catherine thinks sourly. Jenna’s brought someone. Of course she has—she almost always does. Last time it was a “girlfriend,” and they’d wondered through the entire gathering if she was just a friend, or perhaps a lover; it was hard to tell. They’d all been a little uncomfortable as Jenna and her friend draped themselves over each other, and they’d never really found out. Catherine makes a face at Ted and listens.
“Jake Brenner,” a man’s voice answers, deep and confident.
“Welcome to our home,” her mother says, overly polite, a trifle cold.
Then Catherine hears the heavy tread of her father coming down the elaborate front staircase. She stands up and takes a big swallow of champagne, gesturing at Ted with her chin to get him on his feet. He stands reluctantly, switching his champagne flute to his left hand. Together they move toward the foyer.
Catherine acknowledges her father first. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, she steps forward and hugs him. “Hi, Dad, Happy Easter.”
Her father hugs her briefly, and, as she steps back, he says his hellos and reaches out and shakes hands firmly with Ted. There’s nothing warm about it; it’s rather formal. Dan and Lisa hang back in the living room and attention shifts to the couple standi
ng at the door. Catherine notices the heavy black eyeliner around Jenna’s eyes and the new purple streak in her hair. Even so, she’s a striking beauty. Tall and lean in her customary tight black jeans, heeled boots, and black leather biker jacket, she looks like something out of the edgy New York music scene, and Catherine briefly feels the usual stab of irritation—or maybe it’s jealousy. Catherine could never pull that off. Then she reminds herself that she would never want to. Catherine has her own look—tasteful, classic, expensive—and she’s happy with it. It reflects who she is.
Jenna is a sculptor, and a good one. But she’s not serious enough about it to be successful. She’s more like a talented dilettante, a party girl looking for an excuse to hang out in New York City. She knows her parents are afraid that the New York art scene will ruin her. None of Jenna’s works are on display in her parents’ house; they find them too obscene. Catherine knows her parents are in an awkward position—they want to be proud of their talented daughter, they want her to be successful, but they’re embarrassed by what all that obvious talent produces.
Jake looks like somebody Jenna would like. Dark and sexy and in need of a shave. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a battered brown leather jacket. Catherine can smell the weed coming off the pair of them from her position at the foot of the staircase. Their father gives them both a stony stare.
“Hi, Dad,” Jenna says breezily. “Jake, meet my dad.”
Jake just nods laconically, spliffed out, doesn’t even step forward and offer his hand to shake. He’s tall and lean, like Jenna, and, Catherine thinks, far too laid back for the situation. He has no manners.
“Come with me. There’s champagne,” Sheila says, heading into the dining room.
Fred Merton glances at Catherine as if to say, Who the hell is he and what is he doing in my house? Then he greets Dan and his wife.
* * *
• • •
a short time later, Dan stands in the living room, sipping his champagne, and feigning interest in the gardens beyond the window. All the women are in the kitchen, getting the meal ready to bring to the table. They have been joined by Irena, the former nanny, now cleaning woman, who has been invited to dinner. And to clean it all up afterward. Ted is gamely involving the rather louche Jake in conversation on the sofa in front of the living-room window, while Fred, standing beside Dan, listens. They have learned that Jake is a “serious visual artist” with various unnamed jobs in the gig economy that keep him from creating his own work. Dan can’t discern whether Jake is the real thing or a fraud, a wannabe. Knowing his sister, he could be either the next Jackson Pollock, or some loser she picked up last night at a party and spontaneously invited to their family dinner the next day.
Dan moves closer to his father and says in a low voice, “Dad, I was hoping maybe we could talk, after dinner, in your study.” He meets his father’s eye, but then looks away. His father intimidates him. Dan has always felt, as the only son, that enormous pressure was placed on him. He was supposed to carry the family mantle, take over the business someday. He’d done his best to rise to the challenge—he’d worked hard. But his father, who’d made millions in robotics, had recently—and abruptly—sold the company rather than let Dan take over. He’d done everything asked of him—he’d been employed there in various capacities from the time he was in high school, expecting it to be his one day. He’d earned his MBA. He’d worked his ass off. But his father didn’t like the way he did things, and he was controlling and pigheaded, always dangling carrots and snatching them away. The sale of Merton Robotics had gutted Dan, left him unemployed and unmoored, and shattered his confidence. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to do. That was six months ago, and he’s been floundering ever since, getting himself into financial trouble. His job search so far has yielded nothing, and he’s getting desperate.
He’s never resented his father more than he does right now, this very minute—it’s because of his father that he’s in this mess, and he doesn’t deserve it. Dan even wonders whether his father meant to sell the business all along.
“I’m a businessman first and foremost,” he’d said to Dan the day he told him the shocking news that he was selling Merton Robotics. “A damned good one. This is a very good deal for me, an offer I can’t refuse.”
He hadn’t even considered what it might mean for his son.
Now, his father responds, more loudly than necessary, “What do you want to talk about?”
Dan feels a sudden flush starting up his neck. So much for trying to be discreet. He’s aware that the conversation between Ted and Jake has stopped. His father always humiliated him when he got the chance. He did it for sport. Dan feels the heat spread across his face. “Never mind.” He won’t talk to his father today. He no longer has the stomach for it.
“No, don’t do that,” his father says. “Don’t start something you won’t finish. What did you want to talk to me about?” When he doesn’t answer, his father says bluntly, “Let me guess. You need money.”
A feeling of impotent rage floods through Dan, and he wants to punch his father in the face. He doesn’t know what stops him, but something always does.
“Yeah. I don’t think so,” his father says cruelly.
Just then his mother’s voice calls, “Dinner’s on the table. Come be seated, please.”
Dan shrugs past his father, face burning, and makes his way into the dining room. He’s lost his appetite.
4
Irena does most of the work, bringing the food quietly and efficiently to the dining room—the vegetables, potatoes, side dishes and sauces, the gravy—while Sheila carries in the roast turkey on an ornate platter and carefully places it near Fred. Irena wonders when it will get to be too much for her. The bird is obviously heavy and Sheila’s not getting any younger. She fears the day when Sheila twists an ankle in those heels and goes down with the turkey on top of her. Fred always carves; it’s something he takes seriously, as the man of the household. Fred stands, while they all sit, waiting. He wields the carving knife while telling some story, pausing to make a point. He doesn’t care that the food is getting cold.
Fred is at the head of the table, with Sheila at the opposite end. Catherine, Ted, and Lisa are on Fred’s right, while Jenna, Jake, and Dan are on his left. Irena is closest to the kitchen, shoved in kitty-corner between Dan and Sheila.
It’s too much trouble, Sheila says, to add another leaf to the table, although it would be Irena doing it. If Audrey were here—Fred’s sister—the leaf would be added. But Audrey is not here tonight; she has a spring flu.
While Fred carves, Irena observes the others at the table without anyone taking notice. It’s easy enough to do if you’re the hired help who has been with the family since the children were in diapers. No one pays much attention to her, and she knows all of them so well. Sheila is hiding a tremor; she’s clearly worried about something. Irena knows about Sheila’s new antianxiety meds in the bathroom medicine cabinet. It’s hard to keep secrets like that from the cleaning lady. She’s wondering why Sheila has started taking them. Dan is a dusky red, as if he has suffered another rebuke, and he alone is not watching Fred carve the turkey. Jenna has brought another plaything with her—a man, this time. And Catherine—well, Catherine is luxuriating in the fine china and crystal and the glint of the silver. She’s the only one who seems to be enjoying herself. Ted is on his best behavior; Irena can sense his restraint.
Irena feels a tug at her heart as she watches them all. She’s fond of the children, and worries about them, especially Dan, even though they have grown up and moved out. They don’t need her anymore.
The food is served, and the meal begins. Everyone digs in—dark meat and white, stuffing and scalloped potatoes, cold ham, rolls and butter, salads and sauces. And they talk, just like any other family. Fred is going on about a friend’s new yacht. Irena notes that he is drinking a lot of wine—the best chardonnay from
the cellar—and quickly, which is never a good sign.
* * *
• • •
jenna has finished her meal. She places her knife and fork diagonally across her gold-rimmed plate and casts her eyes around the table. Dan has been subdued; she notes that he hasn’t said a word. His wife, Lisa, sitting across from him, has kept a worried eye on him. Jenna suspects Dan and their father already had words earlier—there’s a familiar tension in the air. Her mother seems to be chattering more brightly than usual, a sure sign that something is wrong. She feels Jake’s right hand creeping up her thigh under the tablecloth. Catherine seems her usual self—such a princess, always, in her pearls, her conventionally handsome husband chewing politely next to her. Her father has been drinking wine steadily and seems like he has something on his mind. She knows that look.
Then he taps his glass with his fork to get everyone’s attention. He does this when he has an announcement to make, and he’s a man who likes to make announcements. He has such a monstrous ego. He enjoys dropping bombshells and watching the reaction on everyone’s faces. It’s the way he ran his business, apparently, and it’s the way he runs his family. Now, all eyes turn to him uneasily. Even Dan’s. Jenna knows Dan’s had a shitty time of it. Surely there’s nothing more he can do to Dan. So maybe it’s her turn. Or Catherine’s. She finds herself tensing.
“There’s something you should know,” her father says, looking at each of them around the table.
Jenna catches Catherine looking at her as if she’s thinking the same thing—it’s you or me. Their father takes his time, drawing out everyone’s discomfort. Then he says, “Your mother and I have decided to sell the house.”
Catherine then. Jenna quickly glances at Catherine. She looks as if she’s been sucker punched in the stomach. She obviously had no idea this was going to happen, and it has floored her. Her face has gone slack, her expression flat. They all knew Catherine wanted this house someday. Well, it looks like she’s not going to get it.
