Life and Other Inconveniences(25)

The child cut a look to Emma. “I’m a young woman from an important family, Mom,” she said.

“Of course you are,” that wretched old man said. “You’re a Riley.”

“And a London,” I said.

“Her important family didn’t care much for her when she was born,” Emma said.

“You resemble my mother,” I murmured for the girl’s ears alone.

Alas, Emma also heard. “And mine,” she couldn’t resist saying. There was the expected accusatory glare. But, yes, April had had red hair, as I recalled.

I looked once again at the girl, who raised an eyebrow at me, a smile playing at her lips. Riley. It might grow on me. Riley London. Her name represented both sides of Emma’s family, and I felt an unwilling twinge of respect for Emma. At least she hadn’t given her daughter the last name of Finlay. Why honor the boy who impregnated you and let you waltz off with your unborn child?

Jason Finlay was a waste of cells.

“If we’re done peeing on the kid to mark ownership,” said Donelle, “would anyone else like a drink? I know I’m ready. Mr. Riley, what will you have, hon?”

He looked at her a minute. “A beer, please.”

“You got it. Shaylee!” she bellowed. “Come out here.”

Shaylee, that was it, the girl from town. Donelle gave her our drink orders. The child was offered soda but asked for water instead, and I was pleased. Better for the complexion, and no calories.

“Shaylee, please take the dogs and put them outside,” I said. “No, not Minuet. She can stay.” Shaylee, silent as a stone, herded the dogs out of the room.

“How many dogs do you have?” the child asked.

“Five. I’m rather a soft touch.”

No one said anything. The point was made. Well. It was time to regain the upper hand.

“Riley, is it?” I asked, as if I hadn’t hired a private investigator a month after Emma left. Riley Olivia London. “It’s very nice to meet you, dear. This is Donelle, my housekeeper.”

“And best friend,” Donelle added.

“My companion,” I said. “And a dear friend.”

“It’s nice to meet you both,” Riley said. “Your home is beautiful.”

I smiled. At least she had good taste.

“So this is Minuet?” she asked. “Hi, cutie! Can I pick her up?”

May I. “Of course, dear. She’s three years old and quite friendly.”

“You’re adorable, Minuet! Mom, look! Isn’t she sweet? You are, little fluff ball.”

Emma glanced over and gave a stiff smile. She and Paul stood there, several steps behind Riley, like the Secret Service, protecting her from my nefarious plans.

“Would you like to wash up, Riley?” I asked. “Brush your hair, change for dinner?”

She smiled at me, clearly catching the hint. “Sure. Which room is mine?”

“I thought you’d enjoy staying in your mother’s old room. Go up the front staircase, take a left and follow the hall all the way down. It’s the pale pink room.”

“Thank you.” She put Minuet back on the window seat and left the room. Excellent posture, and none of that stomping so common in girls her age. Quite graceful, in fact, moving in that fluid way of a runway model.

“Does she take ballet?” I asked.

“Soccer,” Emma said.

“I see.” I took a deep breath and, for the first time, looked directly at my granddaughter. “Hello, Emma. You look healthy.”

“As do you, for a woman dying of cancer. How is your health, by the way?”

None of your business, I wanted to say. “I’m doing well, thank you, but let’s not discuss such a personal matter just now. Paul, you’re more than welcome to unpack and refresh yourself in a guest room. A man of your age must be quite tired after the journey.” I was older than he was, but why not go for a dig?

“I got a place in town.”

“Have you?” Thank heavens. “I hope you’ll be quite comfortable there. Charles will be happy to take you to your accommodations after dinner.”

“I don’t need your limousine, Genevieve. I’m only here for the summer to watch out for my girls and make sure you don’t mess with Riley. She’s a great kid, that one, so keep your hooks out of her.”

“Why would I put hooks in anyone? I’m dying, Paul.”

“Get on with it, then.”

“Thank you for your concern.”

“I’m not concerned. I’m eager.”

Honestly. The man had hated me since we’d first met, and frankly, the feeling was mutual. He and his wife . . . Betty or Ellen or Joan, something plain . . . had been so smug, so tender with each other. Granted, she’d been in a wheelchair because of her ALS, but even so. They rubbed their coupledom in my face. And the way they talked about their daughter (before her death, granted), how talented and creative she was—she’d wanted to be a chef, I now recalled—how she had ambitions, how Clark should do more than work on his novels (as if Clark had any skills at all). They made it clear, however; April had dreams as well, and Clark should do more to encourage her.

I did think they oversold her talents. April cooked for me a time or two when I visited, and it was decent enough, but hardly Michelin-star quality. How creative did one have to be in order to be a cook? Helga was a cook, and I was quite sure no one ever used the word creative in describing her cuisine.