“Get away from who?” Henry asked. He was brandishing a tiny flashlight, one of those pocket flashlights you get for free with a paid magazine subscription.
“This is a private conversation, buddy,” Gideon said. “Why don’t you go back to Mommy and Daddy and let the adults talk?”
“You don’t have to be condescending,” Becca said. “I can’t stand it when you do that.”
“Do what?” Gideon asked. The smirk on his face indicated that he knew exactly what he was doing. Even in the dark that smirk shone brightly.
“Sylvia wants us all back in the dining room. Dinner is about to be served,” Henry said.
“Now you choose to do as you’re told?” Gideon asked.
“What, exactly, is your problem with me?” Henry asked.
“Who invited you into this conversation?” Gideon asked. “I’m speaking with my sisters. I’d like for you to give us some privacy.”
“She’s my girl,” Henry said. Sarah looked to Becca to see if that caveman statement had made her cringe. On the contrary: she was smiling.
“She is not your girl,” Gideon said. “She’s my sister.”
“Those two things are not mutually exclusive,” Becca said. She took Henry’s hand and left the study.
Thirty-Nine
“This girl,” Edmond whispered. “He needs her.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Ursella said, turning to her husband. She looked so beautiful in the candlelight. No different than when they’d met, more than twenty years ago.
“Of course you do, sweetheart,” Edmond agreed. “But he needs to formalize things. He needs to move forward with a—”
“Formalize?”
“He needs a wedding.”
“No, dear … not a wedding. That’s going too far, too fast.”
Edmond knew how this must look to Ursella, how his appeals for a wedding for their son seemed premature, pushy even. He knew, too, that fathers weren’t supposed to be the ones who thought of these things. But he wanted his son to establish himself. And he wanted a diversion.
What Ursella didn’t know, what Edmond hadn’t yet told her, was that he was keeping a secret. Something he couldn’t tell anyone. The bank was in trouble. The Rothschild World Bank. The business that his family had started in the 1800s, and then rebuilt after World War II, was collapsing. And he didn’t know what to do about it. It wasn’t his fault—not entirely—but he would be the one to take the blame. He had spent months trying to figure out some way, any way, to dig the bank, his family’s legacy, out of the enormous hole they’d put themselves in.
But now he was out of ideas. The bank was collapsing and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Earlier, in Becca’s room, Edmond had looked out at the backyard, with its green, green grass, and flat plains—perfect for a tent—and realized that what he needed was a wedding. A good influence on Henry wasn’t enough. What Edmond needed was a distraction. Something to salvage the two-hundred-year-old legacy of the Rothschild name. And a wedding was the perfect thing.
It was the Rothschild way.
It had all started in 1920, when Joseph Rothschild discovered that his apple- and grape-importing business was being investigated for possible prohibition violations (true). He arranged for his son to marry the daughter of a senator, a close personal friend of the family (on the payroll of the family). The wedding was attended by all of high society, as well as other like-minded politicians whose loyalties could easily be swayed. No alcohol was served at the nuptials. The charges were dropped.
Then, in 1949, when George Rothschild was accused of being a Communist (he wasn’t, he was gay), the Rothschild family threw the biggest wedding Los Angeles had ever seen. He married Lana Sterling, an up-and-coming starlet who was more than happy for the column inches in the society pages and gossip rags alike. George avoided the Hollywood blacklist and his young bride signed a five-year contract with Paramount.
Even Edmond’s own marriage to Ursella was a direct result of the Savings and Loan scandal of the 1980s and ’90s. The engagement was not—he had wanted to propose the first night he laid eyes on her, it was his mother who had encouraged him to wait the three months before presenting Ursella with a ring—but the hastened wedding date was. There were whispers in society circles of an unexpected pregnancy (untrue), but Edmond didn’t care about the rumors. All he cared about was calling Ursella his wife. And all his father cared about was keeping the Rothschild name away from the newspapers, away from the prosecutors. And the plan worked. The Rothschild family name was never associated with the S&L scandal, any and all mentions were of Ursella and her “predicament.” When it became clear that Ursella was not in the family way, the focus shifted to her charity work, which pleased Edmond’s father to no end.
And the Golds were just as good as any other family for an attention-diverting society wedding, weren’t they? The girl’s father was a doctor, for God’s sake. A heart doctor. A man who fixed children’s hearts. Edmond couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried.
He could picture it: a giant tent set up in the center of this two-acre backyard (Edmond remembered that detail from the tour), the bridesmaids milling around, the groomsmen handsome in their white dinner jackets, and the bride—a good girl from a good Connecticut family, on her way to becoming a doctor. Becca would glide down the grand staircase in the Golds’ entryway in a beautiful gown with white gloves (were gloves too much?) and her blond hair fanning out behind her. That would be the image they’d print on the front page of the Style section.
And he could picture the Vows column in the Times:
Rebecca Leah Gold and Henry William Rothschild were married on Saturday evening at the bride’s childhood home in Connecticut.
A massive sailcloth tent hosted three hundred guests, all close friends and family. A six-course tasting menu featured salads crafted from the romaine lettuce produced by the groom’s family, and wine pairings from Château Lafite Rothschild. The guests danced under the stars to the music of a fourteen-piece orchestra.
“I could not think of a more perfect woman to help carry on the proud tradition of our family name,” the groom’s mother, Mrs. Ursella Rothschild, former principal dancer in the Kirov Ballet in Leningrad, said of the bride.
“She always wanted to help people,” the bride’s father, Dr. Alan Gold, Director of Pediatric Cardiology at Connecticut Children’s Hospital, said of his daughter.
The bride and groom met—of all places!—in a bar near Columbia University, where the bride is studying medicine.
“I knew right away that Becca was someone special,” the groom said. “After all, I always listened to my father when he taught me about the markets. Specifically, the value of gold.”
“Well, we need to do something,” Edmond said.
“We don’t need to do anything. He needs to do something. Going back to school would be a good start,” Ursella said. “Why don’t you tell him that you’ll back his silly business proposition, but with one condition: that he return to university in the fall and graduate with a degree in business?”
It was a good idea, Edmond had to admit. A great one, in fact. But it wasn’t enough to help his current predicament.
“There usually isn’t this much excitement at a Gold family holiday,” Sylvia said as she emerged breathless from the kitchen.
“Everything is lovely, Sylvia,” Ursella said, grasping Sylvia’s hands in hers. Edmond, in that moment, could see that Ursella had her. Sylvia was completely taken with his wife. It wasn’t difficult to fall in love with Ursella. Everyone always did.
“Mrs. Gold,” Chef Michael said. “Would you like to do a tasting before dinner is served?”
“Won’t you excuse me?” Sylvia said, and went back off into the darkness, toward the kitchen.
“He needs a wedding,” Edmond repeated.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ursella said. “It’s too soon.”
Edmond and Ursella had become engaged t
hree months to the day from their first date; Edmond didn’t see why Henry had to wait any longer. He told his wife so.
“When you proposed to me, you were already running your father’s bank, and had been for some years. You were a man. You supported your entire family. Our son can’t even support himself. He hasn’t graduated college. He hasn’t even figured out why it’s important that he should.”
Ursella was laughing as she said this.
“We need this,” Edmond said.
“You look so worried,” Ursella said, rubbing the lines in Edmond’s forehead. She leaned over to kiss his head. Edmond’s hand went up to where Ursella had kissed him, almost on instinct.
“Why do you look so surprised that I kissed you?”
Forty
“Hey, do you remember this?” Sarah was holding up Joe’s old letterman jacket.
“Of course I do,” Joe said with a smile. Joe had played football in high school primarily so that he could get that letterman jacket to give to Sarah. He felt a little sad that it had ended up in Sylvia Gold’s basement. “You used to look so cute wearing it around school. You should bring it home and start wearing it again.”
Sarah giggled. Something about being down in the basement with Joe, lit only by a Maglite flashlight, was making her giddy. And, the wine.
“Careful!” Joe called out, but it was too late. Sarah tripped over a set of luggage. “Are you all right?”
“No,” Sarah said. Joe rushed to her side. He pressed his lips to her cheek and felt a tear running down her face.
“Where are you hurt?” Joe flashed the light along her legs—was something broken?—and then her arms, and then up to her face.
“I just bumped my knee, I think,” Sarah said.
“Should I call for a doctor?” Joe asked, his hand on her knee. “There are a bunch of them upstairs.”
Sarah laughed a big hearty laugh.
“No,” she said. “Let’s just get the lights back on.”
“You’re still upset?” It wasn’t really a question. Joe knew the tears streaming down her cheek weren’t because of her bumped knee.
“No, I’m fine,” Sarah said, as he helped her to her feet.
“That’s good,” Joe said, and used the flashlight to illuminate the path to the boiler room.
“What on earth is this?” Sarah asked, as they came upon a clothing rack, filled with various castoffs. Most of the clothing looked old-fashioned to Joe, but what did he know? “I’m taking this,” she said, removing a mink vest from its hanger.
“I was just saying that we don’t get attacked by animal activists often enough. You should definitely take that. Red paint would look good on it.”
“I think that if it’s vintage, you’re okay. I mean, the vest is already here. It’s not like we killed any new animals to make it.”
“Does it have a tag that reads: ‘It’s okay, everyone! No new animals killed—just really old ones. And they probably died of natural causes.’?”
“You don’t like it?” Sarah asked, draping it onto her body and then doing a spin for Joe.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “It’s too 1970s. Too Starsky and Hutch.”
“It’s not Starsky and Hutch,” Sarah said. “It’s Bianca Jagger.”
“Who’s that?” Joe asked and Sarah pretended not to hear.
“It’s so old it’s actually new again,” Sarah said, looking around for a mirror. She took the flashlight from Joe and scanned the basement for a reflective surface.
“Let’s just go flip the breaker and see if that works,” Joe said. “You can try on your mother’s old musty clothing once we have some light.”
“Admit I look good,” Sarah said. He could tell her sadness was lifting. And that she was drunk. She was walking like a runway model now, cocking her hips and swinging her arms. “You could say a lot about my mother, but her style was always on point.”
Another memory: Sarah, at a birthday party when she was seven years old. When she sat down to eat her cake, she overheard two of the other mothers talking about Sylvia. Sarah had smiled to herself when she’d realized that the women were talking about her mother’s clothing, and how she always dressed so beautifully. But then one said to the other: “But, you’re pretty, so you don’t need the fancy clothes to make yourself look better.” And they had both laughed. Sarah had felt embarrassed, whether for her mother or herself, she didn’t know.
“Hey, dance with me,” Joe said, wrapping Sarah up in his arms. He ran his hands along the fur. “This thing is pretty soft. I think I get it.”
Joe and Sarah swayed to no music, their arms wrapped up in each other, Sarah’s head pressed to Joe’s chest.
“I love you, you know that?” Joe asked Sarah. He kissed the top of Sarah’s head.
“Of course I do,” she said, looking up at him. “I love you, too.”
“Then, why are you still crying?”
Sarah didn’t know.
Forty-One
“Where have you been?” Malika asked Gideon. The lantern illuminated everything around them. Malika turned off the small flashlight Alan had given her. She didn’t need it as long as she stood next to Gideon.
“Trying to talk some sense into my sister,” Gideon said. He took Malika’s hand in his and kissed it. She pulled her hand away. “Now you, too?” he asked her. “Is there something in the water here?”
Gideon looked at her; she didn’t know what to say. This was how it was with Gideon. When he looked at you in that way, his eyes burning into you, it was hard to speak, let alone tell him something he didn’t want to hear.
What she wanted to say, what she should have said, was this: I’ve made a mistake. We’ve both made a mistake. And the sooner we fix it, the less it will hurt. But Malika couldn’t say any of that. Not with her hand in his (he’d pulled it back), not with his eyes burning into her (like they always did), not in the house he’d grown up in (even if it did bear a striking resemblance to the one she’d grown up in).
“I just didn’t know where you were,” Malika said.
“I was trying to talk some sense into my sister,” he said.
“She seems perfectly happy to me,” Malika said.
“That’s just because you don’t really know Becca,” Gideon said. “I know her. No way in hell she’s happy with that loser.”
“She doesn’t seem to think he’s a loser,” Malika observed. She turned Gideon’s head to face what she was watching—Becca and Henry kissing chastely by the front door in the dark.
“I have to go break that up before my mother sees them,” he said.
Malika pulled him back. “No,” she said. “You don’t. Your sister seems like she can take care of herself and your mother seems delighted that Henry’s family is here.”
“I have to do something,” Gideon said.
“Then let’s go say hello,” Malika said. “Offer them some light.”
* * *
“What do you want?” Henry asked.
“Sorry about earlier, man,” Gideon said. His head was down and his eyes didn’t meet Henry’s. He was only apologizing for Malika’s sake.
“Whatever.” Henry turned back to Becca. Malika watched as brother and sister had a staring contest. Gideon spoke first, and in Henry’s general direction: “Did you know she graduated valedictorian from high school?”
“I did know that,” Henry said.
“Did you graduate at the top of your class?” Gideon asked. And then, quickly: “Oh, I’m sorry, I meant: did you graduate high school?”
“Yes, I graduated high school,” Henry said.
“Good,” Gideon said, “because my sister there is a real catch.”
“I know that,” Henry said. “We really understand each other.”
“How on earth can you understand my sister?” Gideon asked, his cool exterior becoming ruffled. “She graduated college at the top of her class. She’s in medical school, for God’s sake, and just scored one of the most prestigious internships a fi
rst-year can get. Whatever she wants, she gets. How can you possibly understand her?”
“I usually get what I want, too,” Henry said. “And maybe your sister doesn’t want all that anymore. She may not even do the internship this summer.”
“Is that true?” Alan asked, materializing out of nowhere. He held a large lantern that threw off a lot of light, just like the one Gideon was carrying. “Becca, you’re not doing the internship?”
“I haven’t decided,” she said, her voice small.
“That internship is important,” Alan said. Standing across from Becca, Alan looked so very large. She felt his presence looming over her, like a cartoon villain casting a shadow over his prey.
Malika had the sudden sense that she shouldn’t be witnessing this conversation. She pulled at Gideon’s arm—surely dinner must be on the table by now—but he pulled back. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“I know it is, Daddy,” Becca said, her eyes downcast.
Alan didn’t say anything. His eyes burned into her, long and hard. She could feel his eyes on her face, but she wouldn’t look up. She couldn’t. This was new—disappointing a parent—and she didn’t know how to process it.
Then, the lights came back on.
“Dinner,” Chef Michael said, “is served.”
Forty-Two
Dinner was slightly elevated. The brisket wasn’t cooked with the recipe that had been passed down from Sylvia’s grandmother to Sylvia’s mother to Sylvia. Missing was the thick tomato-based sauce that had been the flavor of Sarah’s childhood, the taste Sarah tried to achieve when she cooked it herself, but never could. Chef Michael’s brisket was served with a red-wine reduction.
There was no sweet potato pie casserole, that gooey and sweet Passover dish topped with melted marshmallows that everyone fought over when it came time for seconds. (No one would be clamoring for seconds this evening.) Chef Michael’s sweet potatoes were different. For starters, they weren’t served in a casserole dish. Rather, they were scalloped and served stacked, one on top of the other, with a glaze in between each potato slice. Sarah thought she tasted maple, but she couldn’t be sure. There were no marshmallows.
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