“I can’t imagine Freddy looks very good in a suit. He sweats too much.” She’d been angling for a joke, but Gran’s glance was sharp and allowed no room for smiles. Gran had a great sense of humor when it suited her. Otherwise? Pun at your own risk.
“Have I ever protested when you bring a man home for the night?”
“No, ma’am.” The ma’ams were a relic from her teen years. When she’d first come to live here, Gran had been so strict Gretchen feared she’d moved into a warped boot-camp-slash-boarding-school. Turned out it was more of a test. Gran wasn’t the sort of maternal figure who loved unconditionally. There were conditions.
Oh, yes. Conditions abounded.
“And do I ask about the sea creature you have down there, or why you talk to it at night?”
“Wally gets lonely.”
“Until the day your life is perfect, I don’t want you sticking your nose in mine.”
That was her cue. When Gran started extracting one-liners from her seemingly endless supply of made-up mottos, it was time to make a break for it. Gretchen grabbed the picnic basket she’d packed earlier that morning.
“Is that the raspberry lemon tart you made earlier?”
“Among other things,” Gretchen hedged. It wasn’t often that she got a chance to cook for more than just her and Gran, so she’d gone a little overboard. She’d woo Janice into a state of complacency with calories and crème fraîche. “But don’t worry. There’s an extra one in the kitchen for you and Freddy.”
“Oh, good. We’ll need the energy after the project we have planned.”
Gretchen looked up, startled, but Gran just waved her off with a laugh. “It’s not that kind of project. Don’t worry so much. I think you’ll like this one for a change. Oh, and Gretchen? Be sure to tell Janice I said to fuck off.”
Well, crap. Gran might need a cane to make it around the house safely, but nobody ever said there was anything wrong with the rest of her. Gretchen stomped her foot. “How’d you know? You said you thought I was going out with Jared.”
“I’m old, not stupid. These days, you only cook like that when you’re worried about something.”
“That’s not true.” Gretchen loved being in the kitchen, loved opening up the cupboards and transforming simple ingredients into something unexpected.
Okay, so maybe it was depressing, using all those culinary classes to cook for two people who, between them, ate very little. And maybe she avoided making anything too complex, knowing that each julienne cut was a complete waste. But she didn’t anxiety-cook. That was just weird.
“You peeked at my phone or something,” she grumbled.
Gran neither confirmed nor denied this statement. “Well? What does she want from me now?”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe my favorite sister is interested in the pleasure of my company? Or that maybe I want to visit the Terror—ah, I mean Sarah and Carrie?”
“I’m not giving her the rocking chair.”
“She hasn’t asked for that since the girls were babies.”
“I remember the way she eyed it. And don’t get me started on how likely she is to get the mahogany dining room set. I’d rather chop it up and use it as firewood first. In fact—bring the axe in when you come home.”
“Sure thing, Gran. I’ll even sharpen it for you.” Check. The axe needed to go far, far away. She’d have to either toss it into the junk pile in the backyard or bury the darn thing. It wouldn’t be the first weapon she’d had to conceal from Gran.
“Oh, and Gretchen?”
So close. She’d gotten almost all the way to the door. “Yes?” she asked, her hand on the knob.
Gran’s tone softened, but she didn’t look up from the magazine as she said, “Don’t let her bully you. Whatever it is you think you’re protecting me from, it’s not worth letting her get under your skin.”
* * *
Gretchen walked straight into an ambush.
Wielding her picnic basket like a shield, she stepped hesitantly into Janice’s house, a spacious colonial-style McMansion located in one of the more affluent Pleasant Park neighborhoods. If the huge number of cars parked outside hadn’t tipped her off, the din of voices as she approached definitely would have. There was only one group of people who could make that kind of noise.
Her sisters. All of them. In the same room.
“She’s here!” Mary called. “Quiet.”
“Oh, I see her.”
“Why is she frowning like that?”
“You guys, I’m standing right here.” Gretchen didn’t let go of the basket. Her white-knuckled grip on it was the only thing allowing her to keep her cool. “I can hear you.”
Janice pushed her way past the kitchen island they’d gathered around, playing hostess in a neat black apron and with actual goddamn pearls around her neck. She tried to take the food from Gretchen’s hands, but she refused to let go. After a brief struggle in which Janice realized, in slow steps, that this was a battle she wouldn’t win, Gretchen was allowed to remain in possession of her baked goods.
Gretchen’s victory gained, Janice smoothed back her hair and straightened her apron.
“Fine,” she said with a false brightness. “You can just set that out when you’re ready, okay?”
The mechanics of greeting her sisters with a basket in her arms proved tricky, but Gretchen managed. It was better that way anyway. She did not want to air kiss Mary on the cheeks like they were in some kind of Italian villa. There was no need to hug Pauline, even if her lips did look a little wobbly from the guilt of having tricked her here.
Don’t let Janice bully you. Right. Gretchen had just enough backbone in her to tell one sister to mind her own business. She’d need bionic parts if she intended to withstand the lot of them.
“I’m sorry, Gretchen.” Pauline, the sister closest to her in age and appearance, leaned in. Gretchen had always liked her best. Once an incredible bassist, Pauline and she had made many a childhood plan to run away together and start an all-girl punk rock band. “I told her this was a bad idea. But you know how she gets.”
“I’ve put out trays of sandwiches in the living room.” Janice silenced them with a glare. “Shall we?”
The tinny sounds of a football game could be heard emanating through the hall, which could only mean that her sisters’ husbands were also in attendance today. Gretchen was contemplating the possibility of making a run out the back door when a small, rotund man carrying a briefcase appeared.
“Sorry I’m late. The Jenson estate was a real mess.” The man wore a brown suit over a beige shirt, his tie an incongruously bright blue. He looked like a used-car salesman. “Has the young lady arrived yet?”
Clearly a lawyer, and one she very much doubted was bringing her a car. More’s the pity.
“What’s going on here?” Gretchen asked, finally finding her voice. “Who is this guy?”
The man extended a hand, his fingers fat and almost painful-looking, his skin like sausage casings stretched to the limit. “You can call me Tony. I’m here to talk about your grandmother.”
This was where Gretchen’s speed and agility would have come in handy. She could duck past Tony, jump over the dog blocking the entryway, roll under Janice’s inevitable tackle. She could sprint for her car and escape with all her parts intact.
None of that happened, of course. Carried on a wave of incredulity, somehow stripped of her picnic basket shield, forced to air kiss Mary after all, she found herself planted firmly between Janice’s husband and Pauline on a couch in the living room.
There was no escape.
“Is this an intervention or something?” she asked, taking in the faces all around her. Frown, frown, frown, wobbly smile, frown. “A...Gran intervention?”
“You could call it that,” Tony said. “Yo
ur family has asked me here today because they’re worried about you.”
“Me?” They never worried about her.
“Well, more specifically your responsibility as caretaker of your grandmother.”
Ah, yes. That made much more sense.
Janice, clearly unable to bear the thought of losing the floor, got to her feet and launched into some kind of weepy tale about an old woman, living in filth, unable to care for herself and no longer capable of making decisions, falling into the hands of a suave gigolo who masqueraded as a life coach. It was so far removed from the truth that Gretchen had a hard time following along, though she could see rather clearly what was going on.
Janice was building a case. Her case.
Gretchen’s phone buzzed about halfway through the tirade, and, as it was clear she wasn’t expected to actually participate in the conversation, she felt no qualms about pulling it out to check her text.
If you’re feeling sore at all from last night, I recommend you see me for a full workup. That’s an official medical opinion, by the way.
Her irritation ebbed out, hopefully finding a home in either one of her couch companions. It seemed Jared was back to adorable medical texting.
And sore, in that context, could mean one of two things. Granted, her muscles had taken quite a beating last night on the floor, and there was a killer bruise along her side that she’d taken a picture of and added to her scrapbook. All the girls kept a book of their best bang ups, as some things needed to be recorded for posterity. But she had the suspicion Jared didn’t care in the slightest about her purpling around the ribcage. He was referring to a pounding of an entirely different order.
Men. Give them fancy medical degrees and decades of noteworthy service and the ability to twist a lady’s knickers in knots with one look, and they were still the same. God love them.
With a snicker, she texted back. Not sure I can afford your fees. Please advise.
“Are you sure now is the best time for that?” Pauline jerked a thumb toward Janice’s increasingly red face. “If she sees you’re not paying attention, she could very well sit on your phone. She did it to mine once. Shattered the case.”
“I’m not scared of Janice,” Gretchen said mulishly. That Tony fellow, though—he was making her a little nervous.
Her phone buzzed again. Ignoring Pauline’s lifted brow, she peeked at the screen.
You forget I’m a big proponent of charitable medical care. Will work in trade. Possibly for chickens.
Gretchen couldn’t help but giggle. Unfortunately, sounds of joy were immediately filtered through the ambient noise of the family squabble, and every pair of eyes turned to stare at her.
“This involves more than just you. We’re all worried about her,” Janice said coldly. “Could you at least give us the courtesy of your attention?”
“That depends,” Gretchen said, feeling emboldened by Jared’s texts. “Is it my turn to talk yet?”
“Please.” She gestured for Gretchen to take the floor. “Enlighten us with your wisdom.”
“You’re wrong. All of you.” Gretchen turned to face the sisters Gran had effectively banished, one by one. She’d always thought her grandmother had overreacted when it came to them, that maybe she pushed a little too hard to keep people away, but Gretchen was beginning to understand the motivation behind the older woman’s crotchety starts. There was a dearth of people in this world who were willing to accept a girl as she was, who took real pleasure in her company, no questions asked, no expectations raised.
And once you found one of them? Spending time on anyone else seemed like such a waste of a sunny Saturday afternoon. And lemon raspberry tarts.
“Gran doesn’t need to be in a nursing home,” she said, pausing on each face turned her way. “And even if she was, she’s more than capable of making that decision for herself. Freddy was hired to help with her recovery. She’s recovering. That’s all that matters.”
“You know this for a fact?” Mary asked. Poised and collected in ways her sisters could never be, Mary spoke quietly yet retained considerable power. Gretchen suspected it had to do with the fact that she always dressed in head-to-toe black. It was like talking to the grim reaper. “You’re absolutely certain she’s not being preyed on...financially?”
“Have you seen the will?” Janice’s husband added, leaning close.
“Of course not.” That wasn’t strictly true. She had seen it—she saw it every time she looked in the cavern under the kitchen. Since it was sealed in a large manila envelope and she was no snoop, however, its contents remained a mystery.
She wanted to peek. She almost had peeked on more than one occasion. But as Gran had hinted on several occasions that the family fortune—or what remained of it—was earmarked for an obscure charity, she thought it was better not to get involved. When in doubt, ask no questions, make no demands.
“But you know where it is,” Mary said leadingly.
Gretchen shrugged. “I’m not telling you, if that’s what you’re getting at. I don’t understand what the big deal is, anyway. Yes, the house is big and historic, but it’s rundown enough that you’d have to invest several tens of thousands of dollars to even put it on the market. And none of you have been inside in years. It’s so full of furniture and random antiques that I’d put money on the whole thing burning down sooner rather than later. Why do you care so much who gets it?”
Her sisters shared the Look. Oh, how she remembered the Look, those rare moments of unity when they banded together against her. She had many memories of losing her share of dessert to it.
“She doesn’t know.”
“She has no idea.”
“She’s got to be joking.”
“Okay, guys. I get it.” Gretchen frowned. “I’m a clueless freak. What does this have to do with anything?”
Janice finally gave in and slumped to a chair, resigned. Holy crap—were all her sisters sitting calmly in one room? Was Pauline actually taking food from Janice’s sandwich tray and putting it in her mouth?
“I think I hear all Four Horsemen galloping by,” she muttered.
“That’s just Carrie practicing her dance routine upstairs.” Janice clasped her hands in her lap. “Now. Who wants to tell her?”
That was Janice-speak for Naturally, I’m going to be the one to tell her. She segued into it with a question. “How much does Gran pay you to be her caretaker?”
“Pay me?” Gretchen let out a soft huff. “I know you guys think I’m living like a queen over there, but it’s not all champagne for breakfast and satin pillows under my feet. She pays the utilities. I pay the taxes. I’m in charge of the grocery shopping and cooking—thank goodness—and do general upkeep where I can. In exchange, I don’t have to pay rent.”
Mary stopped toying with her gold watch. “That’s it?”
“Why would it be more?” Did they seriously think she was living in the lap of luxury over there? Did they think she worked two part-time jobs for the fun of it? “It’s not as though I have that much to do with Gran. She’s like a roommate—a cranky roommate who doesn’t take out the garbage and has to be reminded to take her medications.”
“And you never talk about...stuff?” Pauline asked, frowning.
“Stuff meaning money? No.” Stuff meaning whether or not they should cancel American Idol and how they used to test girls for virginity when she was young? Sure. Gran had an opinion on everything. Having a conversation with her was like gambling—some days, you won. Some days, you wished you’d stayed in bed and talked to your pet lobster.
Pauline put her hand over Gretchen’s. “Sweetie, Gran is worth somewhere near three million dollars.”
“Sure she is.” Gretchen offered a knowing wink.
“We’re not kidding.” Not a muscle in Janice’s face twitched. “I’d put her
closer to five, myself, but Mary thinks I’m not accounting for the hit she would have taken at the start of the recession.”
Laughter bubbled in Gretchen’s throat. If this was what her sisters honestly believed, it was no wonder they acted so crazy about Gran. Had they crossed the threshold at any point in the past ten years, they’d know better. There was a tarp over part of the upstairs bathroom floor to cover a patch of linoleum that had long since eaten away, for crying out loud. A few years back, Gran had forced her to pull out a ladder so she could scale the north side of the house and steal cable from the neighbors.
“No one is denying the house is big, and I’m pretty sure we could get a few thousand for the furniture. I’m guessing she has some jewelry she hides that might be worth quite a bit, but it’s probably got some kind of sentimental value, so we may not want to hock it.”
“You can look it up, Gretchen,” Mary said. Like Janice, her face was grave. “The sale of Grandpa’s fastener company is a matter of public record. She sold her shares back in the nineties, and they were worth quite a bit then. Unless she’s spent it all...”
Janice, resenting Mary’s intrusion, leaned over. “She’s loaded. There’s no other way to put it. Maybe you really don’t know anything about the money—and I’m not saying I believe that’s true—but the fact of the matter is, she’s putting the entire family in jeopardy by not telling us where it is or what she means to do with it. What’s to stop this Freddy character from swooping in, putting a ring on her finger and running away with every last cent?”
Gretchen finally released the laughter billowing inside her.
The idea of Freddy stuffed into a tuxedo alongside Gran in an effervescent white gown was too much—especially since she had the feeling that if he did manage to wrest her down the aisle, he’d have more than earned his money. But as she took in the somber, nodding faces of her nearest and supposed dearest, a heaviness settled in her stomach.
Her sisters didn’t agree on anything. Not how to raise children, not where to spend holidays, not even how to pronounce the word colonel. The fact that they were aligned on this particular subject could only signify a foreboding of the worst kind.
The Derby Girl Page 17
