Life and Other Inconveniences(27)

“Does this something special have arsenic in it?” Emma asked, confirming my prediction.

“Just the gruel and stale bread you grew up on,” I answered pleasantly. “I knew you’d want your favorites.”

“Interesting that you could get rid of your grandchild but not an incompetent cook.” She pulled out a dining room chair and sat down hard. Paul blew his nose in a napkin, and Donelle was already half in the bag.

From the backyard, I could hear Mac howling. I knew exactly how he felt.





CHAPTER 9


    Emma


Much to my surprise, I slept like the dead my first night at Sheerwater, waking when the sun hit my face. I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Too early. If her schedule hadn’t changed, Genevieve slept till eight thirty every day like it was a commandment. She did not appreciate noise before she had her café au lait.

I sat up and looked around. Last night, I’d been too tired and tense to take in any details, aside from the half dozen dogs running around, farting, scooting their butts on the carpet, wrestling, snarling.

I had nothing against dogs. I loved dogs. In fact, I’d begged for a dog when I lived here, and guess what? The answer had been no. Sheerwater was far too impressive a home to allow dogs to ravage the place. Now, Genevieve had five. Five.

Everything she did felt like a slap in the face. Then again, why would that be any different now?

I’d been put in what had been my father’s room, but Genevieve had changed it at some point in the past seventeen years. Whereas I remembered it being hunter green with white wainscoting, it was now the palest yellow, the window seat cushion upholstered in green, yellow and blue floral fabric, throw pillows in pastel shades. All my father’s things—his model airplanes and Hardy Boys books, knickknacks, Yankees pennant and an old musket from the Revolutionary War—were gone.

To be fair, he’d told me he never read the books. Funny that I’d remember that. In the ten years I’d lived with Genevieve, my father had visited only ten times: every Christmas Day. And while the house looked like a movie set, the holiday itself was always chilly.

I’d called Clark and told him I was coming here. Told him his mother was sick, which he hadn’t known. He didn’t seem all that concerned. “Guess everyone dies someday,” he’d said, which was about on par for my father’s depth. I’d long since stopped hoping he and I would bond, but it would’ve been nice to have an ally, the both of us united against Genevieve in some way. I reminded him that Genevieve was Hope’s guardian, and he’d grunted. Nothing more.

“Is it okay with you if I become Hope’s guardian?” I asked.

“I guess,” he said, and I gritted my teeth and said a terse goodbye.

I didn’t know why his lack of interest surprised me. He’d always been an absentee father. I wondered if he knew he was being cut out of Gigi’s will . . . or if in fact he was being cut. Gigi had never liked her second son, but she was a stickler for tradition.

Genevieve. Not Gigi. Gigi sounded fun and lively, like a young-for-her-age grandmother who’d play hide-and-seek or make a fort on a snowy winter day.

I wondered how she was with Hope, if she cuddled her and read her books, or if she just looked on, her mouth a razor slash of disapproval. Well. Hope had me, and I’d be visiting her later today.

I went into the adjoining bathroom (Sheerwater had eight full bathrooms). Mine had been updated—maybe they all had been, and it was now a lesson in fabulosity—all white marble and tile, plus white towels, tiger maple cabinets and a deep soaking tub where I could sit and look out over the Sound. There was a glass shower, towel warmer, indented shelves on which sat potted white orchids and a copy of Genevieve’s coffee-table book, Life with Genevieve. Ha. I should write a lurid tell-all. She was a cold bitch, really. I don’t remember a single hug.

At least I’d be comfortable here. Physically, anyway. Maybe later I’d take a bath, but first, I wanted to check on my daughter.

That view, though. That was a good view. The sky was pure blue, the Sound behind it smooth as glass. The grass was emerald and lush, cut on a diagonal by Genevieve’s gardener or yard service. Beneath me, the wisteria bloomed in what Genevieve called the bower—a huge trellis that sheltered an outdoor sitting area. I used to read there, curled into one of the wicker chairs, the smell of the blooms so sweet. If Genevieve found me, I’d get a lecture on posture and sitting with ankles crossed.

Sheerwater sat on the end of Bleak Point, jutting out into Long Island Sound. The lawn was probably at least a couple of acres, and the seawall was stone. There was a private dock, too. To the south of the lawn was the rose garden, set in a circle with rows extending like rays of the sun, and past that, a little forest of pine and oak trees. I used to be afraid of those woods, convinced someone would take me the way my uncle Sheppard had been taken. Or murdered.

I looked a little closer. Someone was out there. A man. He stared out at the water, hands stuffed in his pockets.

That was Genevieve’s land, and she wasn’t the sharing type. Could it be Jason? Was he here to see Riley? If so, he was early; we were meeting for lunch.

My phone chimed. A text from a patient, asking if we could reschedule.

When I looked back out at the forest, the man was gone. I’d ask Genevieve. Or Donelle, who actually seemed happy to see me yesterday. If he was a trespasser, someone should know, especially now that Riley was here.