Life and Other Inconveniences(122)

Sometimes, Miller would come over when Kimmy could be convinced to babysit. Miller . . . I loved Miller Finlay. I hadn’t said it to him yet, but he probably knew just the same. He’d told me about the day Tess ran away, his panic, the realization that he loved her with every molecule no matter how much she shrieked, destroyed the house and kicked him. Which, of course, everyone already knew and had known from the start. Parenting isn’t always a peachy-colored glow. Half the time, it’s just showing up and doing your best.

Some nights, Beth and Jamilah came over, and Jamilah could get Genevieve talking about women in the corporate world, start-ups and fashion, while Beth and I scrolled through Facebook, looking for a father for her future children.

Genevieve, even when she was with it, was quiet. She’d taken to carrying a picture of Sheppard with her, which broke my heart . . . In it, he stood in Sheerwater’s backyard in the spring, his smile huge, his blond hair cut short. He looked so happy.

In the evenings, we’d sit in the conservatory or on the screened-in porch and watch the sunset, the dogs milling about, yacking up grass, always rubbing their butts on the carpet, shedding, ever shedding. I didn’t mind. I’d come to love Mac, the poor old guy, and Carmen. Minuet was firmly Genevieve’s dog, and Allegra the wheezy pug had taken to Riley. Valkyrie was Helga’s dog, having the same personality. Donelle would tap away at her iPad or go to watch TV—I had the feeling that it was too painful for her to see Genevieve’s decline.

Pop, on the other hand, had gotten to be quite the fixture at the house. When I asked if he planned to stay in Connecticut, he brushed off the question. “Can’t wait to get rid of me?” or “None of your business, little girl.” He’d taken to doing some gardening, digging up the dahlia tubers, cutting back the hydrangeas, even though the yard service still came each week.

Most nights, though, it was just Gigi and me. The fact that she was no longer infallible (in her own mind) had made her gentler, and I’d never felt closer to her. Some nights, she’d ask if Garrison would be home soon, or she’d call me Melanie, who was her assistant way back when. She got lost in her closet one day, unable to find her way out, and another day, Donelle found her eating dog kibbles, thinking it was cereal. She forgot how to button things and needed me to cut her food for her.

But she was still Gigi. On her better nights, I’d ask her about her life, her work . . . and Sheppard. For the first time in my life, I got to learn a little bit about my uncle. Sometimes, she’d laugh, recounting his antics, or pride would light up her face as she discussed his talents.

“You must miss him so much,” I said.

“It’s been almost sixty years,” she said, “and I think of him more than any other person.” She was quiet a moment. “I never thought I’d die without finding out what happened to him. To see him again . . . or at least to bury him . . .”

“Oh, Gigi,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

She sniffed, then turned to me, once again the consummate conversationalist. “What about your mother, dear? Do you mourn her still?”

“Yes. I wish she’d met Riley.”

“Of course.”

“She was a good mom. I know it sounds strange to say that, but she was. She tried so hard to make life fun for me. I never really understood what depression took from her.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do more for her,” Gigi said. “I knew she was unsteady, but I never thought she’d . . . kill herself.”

“And you, Gigi? Do you still wish you could end it?”

She looked at me and raised her chin, and for a moment, she was the Genevieve London of old. “It was a momentary weakness,” she said, her tone regal. “Then again, I thought you’d be abandoning me at the end of summer. I didn’t think to ask you to stay.”

“You never know what you’ll get if you ask,” I said.

“Ask me something,” she said. “Whatever you’ve always wanted to know. Quickly, before my brain melts and I can’t answer.”

I was surprised by her question. Chances like this didn’t come that often with her. Thinking a minute, I took a sip of my wine and petted Mac’s enormous head, watching a clot of his fur drift to the floor. Now or never. “Are you proud of me, Gigi?”

She looked at me a long minute, then took a sip of her martini (against doctor’s orders, but hey; a person had to have some vices). “You turned out nothing like what I’d hoped,” she said.

Super. Should’ve known. “Thanks.”

“You’re much, much more, Emma. I’m rather in awe of you.” She looked away, a little embarrassed, as the words sank into my heart. “You’re the best mother I’ve ever met.”

I got up, went to her chair and knelt in front of it. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’ve made you cry, have I?”

“For the best reason.”

She patted my head. “Well. Let’s not get sloppy, shall we? Be a good girl and make me another drink.”

And so I did, my heart as full and happy as it had ever been.



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The Thursday before Columbus Day weekend was the kind of day that proved the Northeast was the best part of the country to live in. The leaves were golden and red, the sky utterly clear and blue. The Sound was calm, the air cool, the sun warm. The Talwar family was coming up tomorrow, and we were planning to have dinner here at Sheerwater, so I was going to have to bring my A game to the kitchen and start by cooking dessert tonight. Apple pie, I was thinking. ’Twas the season.