Life and Other Inconveniences(24)

Garrison had had a little Paul Newman about him. Beautiful bone structure.

At any rate, the episode was several days ago. This morning, I’d been a bit dizzy; I hadn’t slept well, and who could blame me, with Emma coming back after all these years? Otherwise, I was fine. Just fine. Now dinner was in the oven, and a local girl was staying to serve and clear, though I had no idea if she knew how. We may have used her at Christmas, but I couldn’t remember.

The cleaning service had scrubbed the carpet where Carmen had relieved herself, and washed all the hardwood floors, scoured the kitchen and put fresh sheets on the beds. New towels in the bathrooms. Floral arrangements everywhere—Emma would have her father’s old room; I’d redecorated it in the palest, most feminine yellow to spite him when he didn’t come home for four years running. Also, I was rather known for my home décor. One had to refresh the look every few years.

Only Sheppard’s room remained the same.

And Emma’s, more or less.

I thought the child might like staying in her mother’s old room.

Riley. Not a real name, for heaven’s sake . . . Was there something wrong with Catherine or Elizabeth? I knew Emma’s mother’s maiden name was Riley, of course, but did one really want to saddle a child with the name of a woman who committed suicide? Apparently so.

I’d had my travel agent book their flights so they’d land after dark. The thought of an entire day with Emma and the anticipated accusatory glare was simply too much. It was nearly dark now, the sky that particular shade of heartache blue.

Garrison had died in early June, on an evening such as this.

The Missing gnashed its sharp teeth, ever hungry. Life would have been so different if Garrison were here, a distinguished grandfather in a tweed coat, eager to meet his progeny, smelling of pipe smoke and scotch. I would’ve been a better grandmother, had I not had to do everything alone. Alone, and emotionally hardened all these years.

Garrison had been so much more than my spouse. He was the only other person who had loved Sheppard nearly as much as I did. The only other person who felt the Missing the way I did.

The crunch of a car on the driveway announced their arrival. Unexpectedly, I felt a twinge of nervousness run through me. “Get the door, Donelle, won’t you?” I said. She rolled her eyes and got up. “Not yet!” I snapped. “When they ring the bell.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Donelle said.

“I’m sorry, have I overtaxed you today? Shall I rub your feet and spoon-feed you soup?”

“It’s not that. It’s you being all fake, like you’re not dying to see them.”

“I’m not dying to see them. I’m simply dying.”

Another eye roll. The urge to fire her was strong.

The bell rang, and I picked Minuet up from her cushion and stood in front of the fireplace, suddenly self-conscious. I was wearing a dress by Vivienne Westwood—summer white wool with black checks—and a vintage Tiffany carved jadeite cabochon necklace that had been my mother’s. The Cartier watch with a green leather band. The Stuart Weitzman black pumps. One did have to keep up appearances, and quality items aged well.

It was a pity that Emma hadn’t cared about those things when she was a girl here. Perhaps we could’ve been closer if she’d shown even a little interest in my work. My empire. My solace.

Instead, she’d been only interested in feeling sorry for herself and, later, obsessed with that boy.

They were inside now. The dogs were barking, all except perfect Minuet. Mac ran outside, but Charles would catch him. Besides, Sheerwater was a fenced-in property. The dog would be safe.

They were all in the foyer now. That wretched Paul, Emma, her bastard child. Donelle hugged them, the traitor, rather spoiling the moment, which I’d wanted to be a bit of a power play, to be honest. I set Minuet down on her red velvet pillow, where she curled up in a tiny circle, then looked at the tableau in the foyer.

For a second, my breath stopped, and I felt dizzy, as if I were floating. It must’ve been that brain tumor again, no matter what Dr. Pinco had said in his gentle, too-kind way.

Emma had grown up. She was a woman now, not a girl, and she’d turned out rather . . . well, pretty, if in a common way. She certainly hadn’t dressed to impress and wore jeans and a white oxford shirt. Valkyrie nosed her hand, and she petted her head idly, not looking away from me.

The child standing next to her was tall and lanky, with hair the color of fire. She looked over at me, and raised an eyebrow.

“You must be the famous Genevieve London,” she said, taking a few steps toward me.

“And you must be my great-granddaughter,” I answered. I looked her up and down. Leggings, for heaven’s sake, and a sweatshirt that said DePaul University. Hair in that maddening half ponytail, where the girl seems too lazy to pull her hair all the way through the elastic.

She offered her hand, and I shook it. At least she had a strong grip, and I felt an unexpected . . . connection. She smiled, and then I noticed her eyes.

They were gloriously blue.

Like Sheppard’s. The shape, the color, that pure, perfect blue, proof of God’s mighty hand, eyes into which one could stare for hours, marveling at the beauty and depth of that breathtaking color.

I pulled my hand back and drew in a shaking breath. To cover, I said, “Clearly, we must go shopping. You’re a young woman from an important family. There’s no need to look homeless.”