Big Summer(79)

My head was throbbing, and my face still felt frozen and numb. “And Drue was okay with the whole left-at-the-altar thing?”

Stuart cleared his throat. “My impression was that maybe she had someone else, too,” he said. “She wasn’t going to be alone.”

“So why didn’t she just marry that guy? She could have been with someone she loved and gotten the money.”

“Winning,” Corina said. “That wouldn’t have been winning. She couldn’t just marry any guy, it had to be a guy like Stuart, and taking him away from someone else was, like, icing on the cake.” She went back to her spot on the couch, curling against Stuart, who caressed the side of her head, murmuring something I couldn’t hear.

“Did you ever love her?” I asked him. “Did you even like her?”

Stuart was silent for a long moment. “Drue was fun. When I met her at Croft, she was, you know, always up for a good time. But in the end…” His voice trailed off. “She had a goal, and I was her way to get there.”

All three of us turned at the sound of the door opening. Lily Cavanaugh stood in the doorway. Her face was as blank as a wiped-off whiteboard. Her eyes were sunk into deep grayish circles. They widened as she took in the sight of Stuart and Corina on the couch together. Then her body sagged against the doorframe, her eyes rolling up until only a crescent of white showed. Stuart raced across the room, fast enough to grab her by the shoulders, an instant before she would have hit the floor.





Chapter Seventeen


“Get a nurse!” I said as Stuart eased Drue’s mom onto the couch. I heard feet pounding away—Corina’s, I hoped.

“Can you get her some water?” Stuart asked. I was starting out the door when Mrs. Cavanaugh’s eyes fluttered open. She looked at Stuart, then at me, and her lips started to tremble.

“My baby,” she whispered. I knelt down beside her and took her hand.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh, I’m so sorry,” I said. I could feel her fine bones, frail beneath her skin. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

When she nodded, Stuart and I helped her to her feet and into the room down the hall. When we settled her on the bed, she looked at Stuart from out of her haunted eyes and pulled herself upright. “I want you out of here,” she said, her patrician voice sounding like a whip’s crack. “Out of this room, out of this hospital. I never want to see you again.”

Stuart’s eyes widened, but he didn’t respond. He backed out of the room, shutting the door gently behind him. Mrs. Cavanaugh collapsed back against her pillows, looking old and unwell.

I looked around for water. The bedside table and the windowsill that ran along the side of the room were crammed with white flowers: delphinium and roses, snapdragons and lilies. I wondered if any of them had been meant for Drue’s wedding bouquet.

I finally located a pitcher amid the greenery and blooms and poured a cupful of water. Mrs. Cavanaugh took a sip, grasping the cup with both hands. I settled myself on the edge of the bed. Up close, I could see her hair, with strands of gold and honey and butterscotch, and the tiny scars at her ears and underneath her chin. I remembered how once, in high school, she’d gone to the hospital for a few days. Drue told me that she was getting her face lifted and her saddlebags sucked, and that she was also having some work done down south. “Face, ass, and cooch,” Drue had gleefully announced. You’re lying, I told her, and she’d smirked and said, “It’s called vaginal rejuvenation. Look it up.” At the party, Lily Cavanaugh looked chic, hair and skin and teeth all displaying the sheen of good health and the best products and care money could buy, like she could have been anywhere from forty-five to seventy. Now she looked every year of her age and more.

Mrs. Cavanaugh took another gulp of water and set the cup down. The door opened, and Darshini stood there, holding another plastic water pitcher. Nick was behind her.

“The doctor is coming,” he said.

“Daphne,” Mrs. Cavanaugh whispered, and grabbed for my hand.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling helpless. Looking at Darshi, I mouthed, Mr. Cavanaugh? Darshi shook her head.

“That Stuart,” she whispered, so quietly that I could hardly make out the words. “I knew what he was.” She shook her head again. “But Drue wanted…” Her hand drifted up from her chest, where it had been resting, and wavered, describing a circle in the air. “A big wedding. Press. All of it. She kept telling me it would all pay off in the end.” Her chest rose as she inhaled. “And her father…” A tear slid out of the corner of one eye and inched its way down her cheek, magnifying age spots and tiny wrinkles as it rolled toward her chin. “He got mad at me for spending so much, but he was the one who wanted it to look like a million-dollar wedding. Even though he didn’t have a million dollars.” She gave a dry, coughing sound that it took me a minute to recognize as laughter. “Drue wanted to save him,” she said. “So he’d love her.”

I said, “I don’t understand.”

Mrs. Cavanaugh sighed and slumped against her pillow. “All her life, all she wanted was for her father to love her. But he was busy. Distracted. With work. With all of his women.” Her lips thinned over her teeth. “That’s why we had to leave the place where my family’s spent summers for six generations. My favorite place in the world, and he had to ruin it.” Her hands tightened on the blanket. “The year Drue was five, he got two different au pairs pregnant. Had to pay for two different abortions.” She closed her eyes, sagging back into the pillows. “I should have left him,” she said. “Part of me wanted to. But I wanted Drue and Trip to have a father, even a poor excuse for one. And I knew he’d never leave. My money,” she replied, to the question I hadn’t asked. “Before he lost it all.”