The California Dashwoods

by Lisa Henry

  They both mumbled something that sounded vaguely polite.

  “Well, I just thought that Marianne and Greta could share,” Francesca pressed on. “That would free up a room.”

  Abby drew a deep breath. “Excuse you. My daughters don’t have to—”

  “Ned and Robert can have my room,” Elliott said, to head Abby’s diatribe off at the pass. Francesca looked smug, John looked relieved, and Abby looked like she had a hell of a lot more to say on the subject. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

  Ned shot him a worried glance. “That’s really not necessary.”

  “I don’t mind,” Elliott repeated.

  In the awkward silence that settled over the dining room, Great Uncle Montgomery muttered about nonexistent mold spores, and Greta turned her steak knife over and over in her palm in a thoughtful manner that made Aunt Cynthia shuffle her chair a few inches further away.

  Happy families.

  ***

  Elliott trudged upstairs after dinner to grab some spare clothes and his laptop and phone. He dragged a duffel bag down from the back of his closet and shoved clothes into it. This was his room, but he had known since his father died that he wouldn’t be allowed to stay in it. The Family wanted them out of the house. It was a matter of when, not if.

  Elliott slid his laptop into his bag, then zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder. He stared down at his rumpled bed, but fuck it. If the Ferrars brothers wanted clean sheets, they could find them for themselves. Elliott crossed to the door and wrenched it open, surprising Ned Ferrars.

  He had a suitcase on wheels.

  “Sorry,” Elliott said, and stepped outside his room.

  “No, um, I’m sorry.” Ned pressed his lips together. A faint wrinkle appeared at the top of his nose, right between his drawn-together eyebrows. “For, um . . . for your loss, and for everything.”

  Elliott’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t think a single person associated with the Family in any way had stooped to offer him their sympathies. At the funeral, everyone gave their condolences to John, as though Abby and her children, even in that moment, were interlopers with no claim on Henry Dashwood.

  He was our dad too.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, his throat aching.

  Ned nodded and wheeled his little suitcase into Elliott’s room. The door snicked shut behind him.

  ***

  Henry’s studio was largely undisturbed. It smelled of oil paints and turpentine. Stacks of unfinished canvases leaned against the walls. Elliott set his duffel bag down on the old paint-spattered couch his dad used to take his naps on every afternoon. It still smelled faintly of weed.

  He crossed to the wall and traced his shaking fingers down a canvas. The paint was laid on thick, in a choppy texture that read like Braille. He closed his eyes and could hear Henry’s voice.

  “This is art, my boy! Art! Nothing matters more in the world!”

  “Says the man living in a Cape Cod mansion!”

  Henry’s laughter had filled the room, and then he’d grown uncharacteristically solemn.

  “Alexander Dashwood used to fly kites, you know? He used to watch the birds, and fly kites. He wanted to soar. He had an artist’s soul as well, I think. What would he make of his descendants, hmm? Making their fortune by manufacturing military drones. All innovators become oppressors, given enough time.”

  Elliott smiled, his chest aching, and lifted his fingers away from the canvas.

  “Love you, Dad,” he whispered to the silent studio. “Miss you.”

  Elliott blinked awake when he heard the rattle of plates. He yawned and stretched, arching his back. “Hey, Mom.”

  Abby set a mug of tea and a plate of toast on the old piano stool that Henry had used as a makeshift coffee table. She patted Elliott’s legs until he lifted them, and then slid onto the couch. She settled his legs in her lap.

  “Why did you sleep down here?” she asked. “You could have shared with one of us.”

  “You all snore like chainsaws.”

  Abby snorted and slapped his knee. “All lies!”

  Elliott yawned again. “Did you make me breakfast?” He blinked at the toast. “Is that raspberry jam?”

  “And lemongrass tea,” Abby said. “Your favorites.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He sat up, and rolled his shoulders until his back cracked. Okay, so the studio couch wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep for an entire night, but he felt close to his dad here. To his dad, and to his entire childhood. Elliott didn’t have a single happy memory that he could untangle from the smell of oil paints and turpentine.

  He reached for the tea and took a sip, then set it back down and selected a small triangle of toast. Abby had cut it into quarters, the way she used to when he was a little kid. He glanced at her, eyebrows raised, and she smiled and knocked her shoulder against his.

  “What?” she asked. “You’ll always be my baby boy.”

  The sweet flavor of the raspberry jam burst across his tongue as he bit into the toast.

  “And you could use a little looking after,” Abby continued, her smile softening from teasing into something tinged with sadness. “Me and your sisters? We can barely be in the same room as those people. It’s like pouring gasoline onto the dumpster fire that is your father’s family.”

  Elliott snorted.

  Abby leaned against him. “But you’re a peacemaker, Elliott. And I don’t think I’ve given you enough credit for that.” She wrinkled her nose. “I mean, someone has to deal with the Dashwoods, and I know it can’t be me. Thank you for stepping up, baby. And not just now.”

  Elliott wondered if she was talking about college. Elliott had been two weeks away from graduating high school when Henry was diagnosed. His oncologist had given him eighteen months to two years. He’d made it three years. Sheer stubbornness, probably. Because, as he’d whispered to Elliott one night, there was still so much he had to do. He’d painted, and laughed, and danced with Abby, and Elliott’s chest had ached when he’d leaned in the doorway and watched them.

  Elliott had decided not to go to college, telling himself there would be time for that after. At first he’d meant after his dad got better, but when it had become increasingly clear that wasn’t going to happen, and “after” had taken on a darker meaning, Elliott had stayed home to spend time with Henry, and to help schedule his medical appointments, and manage his commissions and the obligations he had to various galleries and collectors. Henry had painted in a frenzy in his last few months.

  “They’ll be worth a hell of a lot more when I’m dead,” he’d declared with a laugh. “Make sure they pay through the nose, Elliott!”

  The paintings, and the ten thousand dollars, were all they had left to provide for their future. It wasn’t much, long term, and Henry’s art had never sold for more than a few grand apiece. He’d been a good artist, but never a truly great one. And the world was full of good artists. The one piece that actually touched on something truly transcendent, something truly incredible, Henry had always refused to sell. The Naked Blue Lady. Or, as she was officially titled, Abigail in Lamplight.

  “Do you remember John?” Abby asked. “Not John John. My cousin John.”

  Elliott sucked jam off his finger. “John in California?”

  “He lives in a little town called Barton Lake. He has a store there. It’s where I met your father, actually. He and the Family were there for the summer, and they wanted an au pair for John. John John, not cousin John. I thought, well, I can make more money looking after some spoiled little snot-nosed rich-kid brat than I can doing chalk drawings on the pavement, and—” She cut herself off with a laugh. “And the rest is history.”

  Elliott saw the moment her expression shifted from gentle grief into something sharper. He reached out and caught her hand. “Cousin John?” he prompted.

  Abby shook herself. “He emailed me last night. He’s got an apartment above his store that he’s happy to let us have. And, if we work a few shifts in the
store, he’ll let us have it rent-free. Utilities only. It’s two bedrooms, so it’s going to be a squeeze, but we’ll find a way to make it work, won’t we?”

  Four of them in a two-bedroom apartment sounded like a disaster, actually. Abby and Marianne, despite being two peas in a pod—or perhaps because of it—locked horns a lot, and Greta was at the age where she needed her own space to storm off to. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a hell of a lot better than the prospect of living in the car. And it was a starting point, right? A roof over their heads while they figured out their next move.

  “What’s the catch?” Elliott asked.

  Abby smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “There’s no catch, baby. This is what families do.” She raised her eyebrows. “Well, families that aren’t the Dashwoods.”

  Elliott quirked his mouth in a wry smile.

  That was certainly true. The Dashwood Family was less like a family and more like a corporation. He wondered what Alexander Dashwood, flying his kites and dreaming his dreams, would have thought about the true legacy he’d left. A legacy of lawyers at every family gathering, of board meetings instead of birthdays, and of looping signatures on contracts instead of Christmas cards. A legacy of scheming sycophants who relied on the family trust for income and spent their lives cozying up to the trustees—Cynthia and Great Uncle Montgomery among them—to keep the money coming.

  The Dashwoods really were so awful that it was as easy to reject them on an emotional level as it was to be rejected by them. Practically though . . . Well, enough money to get the girls through school and college would be nice. Elliott just needed to convince John to make that happen somehow. John was under no legal obligation—the Family lawyers had made sure that Abby and her children were in line for absolutely nothing—but John wasn’t as bad as the rest of them. John was their brother. Except there was also no guarantee that John would have any influence with the rest of the Family.

  Elliott thought of the space above the fireplace where the Naked Blue Lady had hung.

  “California might be nice,” he said at last, when what he really meant was that California might be necessary.

  Abby smiled and squeezed his hand again.

  ***

  Elliott took a walk before lunch, his phone in his hand. He needed to escape the house for a while. To escape the narrow looks of Francesca and the Family, and the increasingly furtive, guilty glances that John threw him that did not speak optimistically of their chances of ongoing financial support.

  The day was overcast and cool, and the gardens were richly verdant. The damp air smelled of loam and petrichor. Elliott headed for the greenhouse in the center of what had once been a croquet lawn. He’d spent hours here as a child, helping Abby plant beans and lettuce and tomatoes and peppers. Once, stepping inside the greenhouse had been like stepping into another world, warm and bursting with color even when outside everything was cold and gray. There was none of that today though. Ever since Henry had gotten worse, ever since it’d become clear that he wasn’t going to beat the disease, the plants in the greenhouse hadn’t been tended.

  The peppers had taken over. The beans and lettuce were gone. One or two straggling tomato plants were still hanging on, but they were thin and wilted. Elliott didn’t bother to water them. He couldn’t imagine that Francesca would want a greenhouse on her croquet lawn. He couldn’t imagine her playing croquet either—that might involve putting her cocktail down—but she seemed like the sort of person who would enjoy telling others she had a croquet lawn.

  Elliott moved between the rows of raised garden beds. He reached the end of a row and used his T-shirt to wipe a clear patch on the glass, cleaning it enough to let a little light in. He could see the house from here. It looked blurry and unreal through the smeared glass panes. It even seemed to shimmer a little, like a mirage of a floating city on the horizon, and Elliott felt a sudden hot twist of bitterness for being unable to hold on to the house. He felt bitterness toward John too, for not standing up to the rest of the Dashwoods even though he was better than them. And toward his parents, for not planning for this, for not thinking the worst could happen—that Henry might die so young, without having time to set aside enough money to provide for his family. Of course the worst could happen. The worst happened to people every fucking day.

  He closed his stinging eyes and exhaled slowly.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!”

  Elliott spun around, damp earth and dead leaves crunching under his shoe. Ned Ferrars was standing in the entrance to the greenhouse, a couple of bottles of imported beer nestled in the crook of his elbow.

  “I didn’t know anyone was in here,” Ned said, color rising in his face. “I’ll, um. I’ll just . . .”

  “Are you sneaking out here to day drink?” Elliott asked, warming to that idea immensely. “I won’t tell if you share.”

  Ned looked uncertain for a moment, and then flashed him a bashful smile. He stepped forward and passed Elliott a beer. “It’ll be our secret then.”

  Elliott sat on the edge of a garden bed and gestured at the space beside him. He watched as Ned sat too, and then he twisted the top off the beer. “When I was six, I ran away from home.” He took a swig of the beer. “I made it this far.”

  “That’s, um, disappointing?”

  Elliott shrugged. “I just wanted to sleep with the carrots.”

  Ned cocked an eyebrow. “Worst tagline for a mafia movie ever.”

  Elliott almost sprayed a mouthful of beer over himself. He swallowed with difficulty while the laugh tried to escape him, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Holy shit! Seriously?”

  Ned’s smile was the most genuine one Elliott had seen from him.

  “Wow.” Elliott took another sip of beer, more carefully this time just in case Ned had more terrible jokes up his sleeve. “That was truly terrible. Thank you. I needed a good laugh.”

  Ned reached out and clinked their beer bottles together. “Then I’m glad I could help.”

  “Death is weird,” Elliott said, and then winced. “Sorry. You came to get quietly buzzed, right? Not to listen to me ramble about whatever’s going on inside my head right now.”

  Ned’s expression was soft and warm. “I’ve been told I’m an okay listener.”

  Elliott exhaled slowly. “We knew this was coming for months. I mean, for years it was a possibility, but for months we’ve known for sure. And yet somehow it’s still shocking. Somehow my brain still can’t wrap itself around the fact that Dad’s gone. That he’s dead. That I was at his funeral the other day. His funeral.” He shook his head. “Weird.”

  Ned took a sip of beer.

  “I hate to think what you’ve been told about him.” Elliott dragged the toe of his shoe through the dirt. “But he was a good dad to us. Maybe not so much to John, but he was to us. He was always so full of life. Always doing crazy, wild things. I mean, how can he not be here anymore? That makes no sense. I know he’s gone. I know it. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with it.”

  “Time,” Ned said at last, his voice low. “That’s a shitty answer, I know, but it’s the only one I’ve got. Just time.”

  “Yeah.” Elliott nodded. “I go from feeling numb, to getting these weird bursts of energy like I should be doing something, except there’s nothing I can do, and this whole shit-fight with the Family makes everything a hundred times more fucked up.” He shot Ned a guilty look. “Sorry. I don’t mean . . .”

  Ned shrugged and quirked his mouth in a smile. “My sister thinks your mother is a gold digger. That’s not a secret.”

  “Twenty-two years of marriage,” Elliott said. “I guess she was playing the long con.”

  “I guess she was.” Ned’s smile faded. “Francesca’s close with John’s mother, and John’s mother doesn’t have a high opinion of your mother. Francesca has very much taken that on board. But I’m not here to take sides or to run to Francesca with whatever you tell me. I know when to keep my mouth shut, Elliott.”

&nb
sp; Elliott bit his bottom lip, anxiety battling with some new emotion. Something needy and hot and guilty. Something alive. “Yeah?”

  Ned’s gaze dropped to Elliott’s mouth. “Yes.”

  Elliott wedged his beer bottle into the garden bed beside him and twisted his body toward Ned’s. If Ned was surprised, he gave no sign of it. He met Elliott halfway, dragging his fingers through Elliott’s hair and angling their mouths together. Ned tasted like beer, and Elliott chased the bitter flavor with his tongue. He felt more alive than he had in days, in months. Blood rushed to his dick, and he hardened in his jeans.

  It was good. So good. For so long he’d been walking underwater, sluggish, deaf, slow and mute, and finally he could feel something again. Finally he had sharp-edged sensation to chase down. He was back in his body at last, and he wanted. The rush of sensation left him breathless, panting against Ned’s mouth. His skin tingled; he was more buzzed than his few mouthfuls of beer warranted.

  “I don’t do this,” he whispered.

  Ned’s lips moved against his as he spoke. “Me neither. God.”

  Elliott felt as though he had blood pumping in his veins for the first time in longer than he could remember. He was no numb observer, trapped behind a pane of thick grimy glass. This was life, and he was a part of it again. He wanted to dig his fingers into the dirt and feel it.

  He dug his fingers into Ned’s shirt instead, then twisted the fabric in his grasp as they kissed again.

  There was a sudden dull thump, and Ned jerked away and then leapt to his feet. His jeans were soaked with beer, and he reached down to right the offending bottle. “Sorry. Shit. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Elliott said, his face burning. He wanted to laugh at Ned’s embarrassment, and at his own. Who knew how much further they might have gone if Ned hadn’t knocked his beer over? Whatever weird spell had taken hold of both of them, Ned had broken it with his clumsiness, and then they were just two awkward guys again, avoiding eye contact in a greenhouse that smelled of damp earth and fertilizer.