Life and Other Inconveniences(28)

I went down the hall. To think that my kid might inherit this place was overwhelming. This was Kardashian-level money. Well, not that, maybe, but a lot of money. The artwork in here had to be worth a ton in itself. The Turkish carpets (despite whatever dog secretions they were infused with), the signed first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird, the furniture, both the new and the antiques.

I almost hoped it wouldn’t go to Riley. Money had a tendency to ruin people, to alienate them and isolate them and make them wretched and alone or, worse, surrounded by people who only wanted a piece.

Well, as Pop had said, Genevieve’s true intentions wouldn’t be clear until she was dead and the will was read. For a woman with a brain tumor, she sure looked healthy. Three martinis last night, and not a wobble in her step. I’d asked Calista for info and read up on her condition, but Genevieve would need to tell me the stage, the location, the plan of treatment. I planned to go to her doctor’s appointments with her.

If nothing else, Riley would have a memorable summer of privilege. A summer away from those abruptly nasty girls.

For a second, I stood in front of my old room. When I’d first come here, a heartbroken eight-year-old, I’d had a lot of hope. After all, orphans fared okay, right? Annie of the brain-worm songs about tomorrow? Anne of Green Gables? Surely my grandmother would love me just as much as Anne and Annie had been loved.

I’d been wrong about that.

I opened the door. Riley was sprawled like a starfish on her back, sound asleep, and I crawled into the king-size bed and looked at her. Those perfect lips, so red and curved, open a little, as she was a mouth-breather when sleeping. The space between her front teeth I loved so much. Her freckles . . . When she was little and they began to pop up, I’d kiss each new little speck and tell her it tasted like cinnamon or chocolate. I loved the smell of her, a little salt, a little morning breath, her citrusy shampoo.

Dinner last night had been endless. The table was set with full pomp, a low flower arrangement of hyacinths, roses and ivy (the color scheme matching the china and dining room décor, naturally). A twentysomething woman had served without speaking as Helga, my grandmother’s cook, brooded in the kitchen. Helga nodded when she saw me. That was all, which was exactly how I remembered her—silent, morose, a terrible cook, able to drain the flavor from every food group, every time. The server may have been under orders not to speak, or, knowing both Genevieve and Helga, mute. They’d prefer it that way.

Donelle had been lively, Pop grumpy, Genevieve and I warily staring at each other, or not staring at each other. Riley had been oddly at ease, asking both Genevieve and Donelle questions about the house, Connecticut, the town.

And Genevieve asked questions as well, each of them a veiled insult.

Do you have a beau, Riley? Your mother was quite precocious that way. Lest my daughter forget I was in high school when she was conceived. No blame for Jason, of course. It was as if I’d gotten myself pregnant.

You don’t mind playing such a masculine sport? Concussion rates are quite high in soccer, I hear. That was directed at me, implying I didn’t know how to keep my child safe. Ironic, coming from a woman who’d lost her child. Literally lost him. I raised an eyebrow a centimeter, just to let her know what I was thinking, and she’d looked away, coming back with another question for Riley.

And the one that got to me the most: Do you mind having red hair? No? Good for you.

My mother had had red hair, and I’m sure Genevieve remembered that. The implication was, Hopefully that’s all you inherited from her.

Genevieve and I had a language all our own.

“Her hair is beautiful,” Pop growled. “People stop her on the street to tell her so.”

“Of course they do,” Genevieve murmured. “It’s quite distinctive.”

My death grip on my fork tightened, and I stabbed my tasteless roast beef with gusto, wishing it were my grandmother’s petrified heart.

But Riley answered blithely. Didn’t want a boyfriend yet. Loved having red hair. Never had a concussion, knock on wood, and had started playing varsity her sophomore year.

I knew my daughter. She’d want Genevieve to like her, and Genevieve would like her just enough to stab her with disapproval as soon as Riley thought she was in. It had been the pattern of my life here.

Riley stirred now, groaning a little. Her thick red-gold lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes a crack, smiled, then rolled against me. “Hi, Mama,” she said.

Mama. The word nestled against my heart, warm and precious. “Good morning, angel. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, but this creepy stalker lady was lying in my bed when I woke up.”

I smiled. “I’ll tell her to get a life and leave you alone.”

Riley stretched and yawned. “This bed is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in,” she said. “Don’t tell Pop.”

Pop had made her bed himself. It was a twin, not like this king-size monster.

“Nothing but the best for Genevieve,” I said.

“It’s like the nicest hotel in the world.”

“Want me to show you around before Genevieve gives you the historical importance tour?” I asked.

“Okay!” She bounced out of bed.

“We have to be quiet, though,” I said, getting up as well. “Genevieve will be asleep for another hour and a half, and Donelle longer than that.”