Tonight, being with Emma and Jason had been tough, Ashley’s ghost so close he could almost see her as he gazed across Sheerwater’s lawn toward her grave. When Jason started talking about how hard marriage was, he’d had to leave or he would’ve punched his cousin in the face.
But Tess had been so cute with Riley, and Emma, too, and that had outweighed his anger and loneliness. Moments like that—Tess going upstairs to play without screaming or kicking, letting herself be held by someone—gave him hope that his daughter might be normal.
On the iPod screen, Tess’s legs finally gave out, and she crumpled to the mattress, asleep. He watched for a minute to make sure she was breathing, then poured himself a finger of single malt and went to sit on the front porch, Luigi on his heels. The cat jumped up on his lap, purring.
“Hey, buddy,” Miller said, stroking the cat’s fur, which was considerably softer since his Desitin treatment. Latin music from the next-door neighbors drifted up, and he heard laughter. They were a happy family, the Oliverases, and Miller tried not to resent them for it. Sometimes, Mrs. Oliveras left food on his porch. It was always delicious.
For a builder, Miller didn’t have the most impressive house. His parents had, back when they lived in town, a sprawling McMansion with a four-car garage at the top of a hill in a development, appropriate for the owner of a construction company, Miller supposed. It had been more than comfortable growing up, but Ashley preferred older houses, and whatever she wanted, he did, too. They’d bought a fire-sale house, literally; a Craftsman bungalow that had been seriously damaged when the owner left a frying pan on the stove. Who better than a carpenter to reclaim it? They’d restored it, put on an addition with plenty of room for kids (pause for bitter laughter). Really good insulation, too, and double-paned windows, which kept the Oliveras family from reporting him to DCF, since they didn’t have to hear Tess’s screams.
He’d thought about selling the house a thousand times since Ashley died, but her spirit was here, her touches, the paintings she’d chosen, the ugly lamp shaped like an Easter lamb, her books, her cat. Tess would at least have something of her mother in this house.
Besides, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. “You don’t want to move, do you, Luigi?” he asked the cat, who answered by curling his claws gently into Miller’s leg. “I didn’t think so.”
The front porch was his favorite place—snug and deep with two comfortable chairs and a coffee table. Fat rhododendrons grew in front of it, hiding it from the road, from the sidewalk. In the summertime, he and Ashley used to sit out here. She’d offer commentary on the summer folks who liked to stroll and look at the houses. Back before she died, their front yard had had quite a garden, and it wasn’t unusual for people to take pictures of the flowers, not realizing the owners were sitting there, watching. Sometimes, Ash would fake a sneeze to scare them, which never got old for her. Now the garden was in sore need of weeding and pruning. He should get on that.
The air was cooling down, and the wind rustled the leaves, bringing the scent of moonflower and roses, both planted by his wife. Joe Oliveras was playing guitar, and one of his daughters was singing softly.
Miller sometimes wondered if he was the loneliest man on earth.
A woman stomped by, her pale shirt glowing in the dim light from the streetlamp.
It was Emma.
“Hey,” he said. She didn’t stop. “Emma.”
She turned. “Hello?”
“It’s me. Miller.” He suddenly felt stupid.
“Oh! Hi! I didn’t see you there.”
“Yeah. It’s . . . I’m lurking.”
“Is this your house? Or do you just sit on random porches at night?”
He smiled. “The former. Come on up. Unless you’re going somewhere, that is.”
“No, I was just taking a walk.” She came up the path and took in the house. “What a nice place.”
“Thank you. Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”
“Um . . . sure. If it’s no trouble.”
“Wine? I have both colors. Or scotch.”
She smiled, and he remembered that he’d always liked her. “I’ll have a glass of white.”
He went in and poured from a bottle he must’ve opened a month or two ago, hoping it wasn’t vinegar. On the monitor, Tess hadn’t moved and was still breathing.
He went back outside. Luigi had taken up residence on Emma’s lap, and was purring loudly.
“I like cats,” she said. “This one seems extra nice.”
“He is. Luigi, meet Emma.” He handed her the glass. “Hey, thank you for tonight. For dealing with Tess and, uh, for having a great kid.”
She smiled. “She is pretty wonderful. Yours is, too.”
“She’s a terror, but thanks.”
“She’s sleeping, I assume?”
“Don’t curse it, but yes.”
They sat there a few minutes in the near dark. “So why are you out walking the mean streets of Stoningham?” he asked. “You seemed like you might have been . . . stomping.”
“Oh, I was,” she said with a sigh. “Genevieve and I have issues, and she likes to slip in the knife whenever possible.”
“What issues?”
She glanced at him. “She kicked me out when I got pregnant.”
“Really?” He tried to remember if he’d known that. Three years of sketchy sleep had wreaked hell on his memory. He knew Jason had knocked up his girlfriend and that she moved to the Midwest. Oh, yeah. “Riley was born on my wedding day,” he said. “I remember now.” Jason, in a tuxedo, crying happy tears. Eighteen fucking years old. Ashley had hugged him and told him congratulations.
He hadn’t realized Emma had been banished.
“That must’ve been really hard,” he said.
She shrugged. “It was. It was harder that she never called or sent a card, but hey. People are complicated.”
“You would know, I guess. Being a therapist.”
“Yeah.” She laughed. “Somehow, though, I’m not immune. I make the same dumb mistakes as everyone.”
“Don’t we all.”
A car drove past, the bass thumping from the radio, then the quiet settled in again. Joe Oliveras had put his guitar away, apparently.
“You know what I hate?” Emma asked. “I hate when people say stupid but well-meaning things.”
He glanced at her.
“Like right now,” she went on. “I’m sitting here, thinking about how nice Ashley was and how I always felt special when she talked to me at a party, and how much you must miss her. Which of course you do.”
“Yes. I do. But thank you. She was . . .” Everything. “Special.” He took a sip of the whiskey, feeling it warm its way past his cold, dead heart. “But you know what it’s like. You lost your mom. People must’ve said stupid and well-meaning things to you, too.”
“They did,” she said cheerfully. “‘She’s watching over you’ was a personal non-favorite. I mean, I would’ve preferred she was still here and watching me live and in person, you know?”
“I do. People say that to me, too.”
“Do you also get ‘Be strong’?”
“God, yes. I hate that one.”
“I was eight when my mom died. I didn’t even know what being strong meant.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“And then when I had Riley, people would say, ‘You’re so strong, Emma.’ I felt like saying, ‘No, I’m pathetic and weak and my boobs hurt and please take my baby so I can sleep, and also do you have a few extra thousand dollars lying around?’” She laughed and rolled her eyes, and Miller found he was smiling a little at her honesty.
“‘Heaven’s got a new angel,’” he offered. “That one makes me homicidal.”
“That is a particularly horrible thing to say. Wow.”
He liked the emphat
ic way she talked. “Your turn,” he said.
“Okay. Um . . . ‘You’ll meet again someday.’”
“Gah.” He shuddered. “How old were you again?”
“Eight. Your turn.”
“Oh, here’s a good one. ‘It was God’s plan.’”
“You’re allowed to slap someone who says that, I’m pretty sure.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that next time.”
“I’ll post your bail.” She took another sip of wine. Miller’s whiskey was gone, and he was tired and knew he should ask her to go so he could try to sleep.
But it was nice, sitting on the porch with a pretty woman, one who wasn’t coming on to him or offering parenting advice.
“You and Jason get along pretty well,” he said.
“Yeah, we do.” She sounded noncommittal. “Although you were completely right about our . . . dynamic. He’s not a bad father, but his life didn’t change that much. He went to college, got a job out here, fell in love and got married, and I did one thing. I had Riley.”
“And got a couple of degrees, I hear.”
“Sure. But without my grandfather, I don’t know where we’d be.”
“I guess I don’t really know too much about what happened to you. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s fine. Um . . . your aunt and uncle didn’t want much to do with me. They’ve never met Riley, in fact.”
“Are you shitting me?”
She looked at him. “Nope.”
“I . . . wow. Emma, you must hate us. I always thought you went to . . . where was it?”
“Chicago. Downers Grove, to be specific.”
“I thought you went out there because you wanted to.”
She laughed a little. “No. I wanted to marry Jason and live here.”
“Are you bitter?” Listen to him, asking all the Oprah questions.
“Well, sure! I mean, have you met Jamilah? She’s stinkin’ beautiful.” But he could tell by her tone that she wasn’t bitter, which was fairly amazing.
“You’re a good kid, Emma.”
“I’m thirty-five and feel a lot older most days.”
“I’m forty and feel a hundred.”
“Yeah. I bet you do.” She set her wineglass down on the coffee table, causing Luigi to jump off her lap. “I should head home. It was nice talking to you.”
“You too.”
“I’m around if you need help with Tess. And Riley is not gainfully employed this summer, so if you need a sitter . . .”
“I kind of do.”
“Call.” She put her hand on his shoulder for a second. “Nighty-night.”
“Need a ride home?”
“Nah, I’ll walk. It’s gorgeous out. Bye, Miller.”
“Bye.”
He watched her go down the street until she turned the corner.
Then Tess began to scream, so, with a sigh that wasn’t quite as defeated as usual, he got up to see to his child.
CHAPTER 24
Genevieve
Five days after I was so rudely given the ultimatum by Emma, she and I went to my attorney’s office to fill out the paperwork while Riley waited in the foyer with Charles. Apparently, they played Words with Friends together.
Riley was a wonderful girl. I wish Emma had some of her sunniness. Granted, I heard them laughing together in the mornings. The natural affection that flowed between them, the way they hugged and touched each other, the compliments and little jokes that only they got . . . it constantly reminded me of what I didn’t have and had never been able to create with either Clark or Emma.
I’d thought—hoped—that once Emma went to college, matured a little—that she would see me differently and come to respect and admire me. I hadn’t enjoyed being Clark’s mother, we all knew that, and I hadn’t enjoyed having a ruined little girl thrust on me without warning, either.
But I’d hoped Emma and I might be friends one day.
Donelle, who had finally agreed to see a doctor about the small ecosystem growing out of her toenail, had reminded me of that just this morning in the breakfast room.
“You don’t have much time left, Gen. Do or die. Do and die, as the case may be.” She slurped up her cereal off the spoon, making the most horrible noise.
“She’s never receptive,” I said in my defense.
“Right. And you’re so warm and welcoming. Helga, can I have more coffee? My toe, you know?”
Helga got her a refill without comment, glanced at my empty cup and failed to ask if I needed anything. Honestly. I should fire her.
At any rate, here we were in the very tasteful office, waiting for my attorney to finish with another client in the conference room. Unlike too many lawyers’ offices, which were stuffed full of law books and piles of paper, Brooklyn (what had her mother been thinking?) had chosen a soft color palette to suit the bright and airy space. The walls were white, a lush gray carpet was on the floor, and her desk and bookcases were a honey-colored tiger maple. Several green glass sculptures sat on the shelves. A bit too modern and severe for my tastes, but very chic nonetheless.
Her Smith and Yale diplomas hung on the walls. “She went to Smith,” I said, in case Emma hadn’t noticed, and because apparently I couldn’t help myself. “Graduated a year after you would have.”
Emma turned her head and gave me a look.
“It’s simply a fact, Emma. You needn’t look so wounded.”
“I’m not wounded. I’m curious. It’s been seventeen years. Shouldn’t you be over it by now? I went to college. I have a doctorate in psychology.”
“From a no-name school, and such a silly degree. Therapist. You might as well be an Internet-ordained minister.”
“Trust me, Genevieve. You could use a shrink. And a minister. Speaking of that, do you have any funeral plans you’d like to share?”
I felt an unwilling burst of pride at her quick repartee. “Brooklyn has all the details.”
“Should we talk about the will while we’re here?”
“Don’t be crass.”
“If I have to sell Sheerwater, I’d like to make some plans.”
“You’re not the heir, are you? I fail to see where it’s your business.”
“The heir is sixteen and therefore a minor child. Do you want her in charge of millions of dollars, that house and all your belongings at her age? That’s a brutal responsibility. All that money could lead to a lot of trouble. Are there trustees until she’s twenty-five or something like that?”
I felt my face warming, much to my chagrin.
“Good morning, ladies!” Brooklyn came in, mercifully interrupting. I took in her outfit automatically—St. John sleeveless knit, a classic. The white fabric looked smashing against her dark skin and clung to her figure in a way that showed it off without coming across as trashy. She wore a wide gold cuff on her wrist, a gold necklace, no earrings. Too bad Emma still refused to dress herself well.
“Sorry to make you wait. Lovely to see you again, Genevieve. Ms. London, I’m Brooklyn Fuller.” She shook hands with Emma. “So nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” Emma said. “And it’s Dr. London. I have a PhD in psychology.”
“My apologies, I didn’t know. Dr. London, then.” Brooklyn sat behind her desk. “Before we get started, Genevieve, I just have to show you this.” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a buttery brown leather purse. “From your spring line. My favorite one yet!”
I suppressed the irritation. I had not designed the spring line. Granted, the purse was beautiful. But it wasn’t mine, no matter whose name was spelled out on the small gold tag.
Brooklyn smiled, put the bag back and opened the file. “Down to business. I’ve got all the paperwork here, and my assistant has filled out the basics. Really, the only question you need to answer is this one.” She read from one of
the pages. “‘Explain the change in circumstances that led the guardian/temporary custodian to file for resignation.’” She passed the papers over to me.
The change in circumstances. Could I say brain tumor? That sounded the most noble. I hated to say health . . . It sounded weak. No longer able to care for . . . Also demeaning. Old age. Please.
“And, Emma, these are for you. A petition for temporary guardianship here, and appointment as a trustee here.” She passed more papers across her impressive tiger maple desk. “The Department of Developmental Disabilities will have to do a study, so they’ll be contacting you to schedule that.”
“Got it. I’ve been asked to help on some of those back in Chicago.”
“Fantastic. Where’d you get your degree?”
“Rosalind Franklin’s where I got my doctorate. My undergrad and master’s were at Chicago State.”
“My cousin got her MD at Rosalind Franklin. She’s a pediatrician in Milwaukee now.”
“What a great field,” Emma said, looking up with a smile.
How very pleasant that they were bonding. I gave Brooklyn a frosty look, which she correctly interpreted as let’s get back to the issues.
She cleared her throat. “So you’re familiar with the process, Dr. London, which makes everything easier. Genevieve, has Hope’s father waived his parental rights?”
“No,” I said. I’d been unable to convince him to do that.
“He’s never even been to see her,” Emma said, and really, did she have to air our family secrets? Clark was an idiot and a terrible father, yes. Nevertheless, Emma didn’t have to hang from her cross and shout it out to the world.
“I just want to make sure he won’t be able to access Hope’s trust,” Emma continued. “Or any inheritance she might be getting. Can he contest my grandmother’s will?”
Brooklyn’s head jerked back the slightest bit. She glanced at me. “Uh . . . no, everything is ironclad regarding Hope’s trust. And I don’t . . . foresee a problem with anything else.”
“Great. Thank you.” She turned her attention back to the papers.
I looked down as well.
Life and Other Inconveniences Page 25
