Life and Other Inconveniences(29)

“Where are their rooms?”

“Donelle’s on the first floor. Genevieve has the master wing up here on the western side.”

“Of course she does.” Riley went into the bathroom, then poked her head out. “This bathroom is worth the whole trip, Mom.”

A minute later, we went down the hall, whispering, our bare feet silent against the walnut floor and soft runners. “This is a Toulouse-Lautrec,” I said, pointing to a sketch.

“That sounds very expensive,” Riley murmured, and I smiled. She knew who the artist was, and the relief that she was being herself again—happy, cheeky, sweet enough to get out of bed to spend time with her mother—filled me with gratitude.

I had to hand it to Genevieve—she really did have excellent taste. Nothing was garish, nothing shouted money, not like the Newport houses with their solid brass chairs and ceilings painted with gold leaf. . . . the “I have more!” school of decorating. No, Genevieve was old Yankee money. Every piece of furniture was beautifully made but functional as well, with clean lines and the best materials. She’d updated the look since I left, bought some new pieces, renovated here and there.

It was still the loveliest home I’d ever seen, comfortable and welcoming (unlike its owner) . . . a true home and not a showplace.

“Another guest room,” I said, opening a door. “Gloria Vanderbilt stayed here once. Genevieve’s friend.”

“Who’s Gloria Vanderbilt?”

Ah, youth. “Anderson Cooper’s mother,” I said.

“Really? Cool!” The room, like all the others, was tasteful, warm and impressive, with views of the water from nearly every window. “Can we go swimming later?”

“Sure. It’s cold out there, though.”

“I don’t care.” She opened the next door. “Whose room is this?”

It suddenly dawned on me that I should’ve given Riley a fuller history on the lost son of Sheerwater. Then again, I didn’t know a whole lot about him myself, not really.

When I was little, my father had told me that he’d had an older brother who had gone missing when Clark was five or six. Clark had no memory of him and didn’t talk about him. But living here, I’d picked up on the bigger story. No one was allowed to say that Sheppard was dead. Apparently, he’d vanished without a trace. Genevieve never had told me more about her firstborn. All she said was for me to stay out of his room. Which I had done.

Riley went right in, and I leaned in the doorway.

The room was preserved, and exactly as I recalled. I remembered peeking in here as a kid; I’d loved the wallpaper, which had blue and red race cars on it. Once it was outdated; now it was totally retro chic. My uncle had liked dinosaurs, based on the number of plastic creatures on the shelves. The twin bed was made up with same blue-and-red quilt I remembered, though its color had faded somewhat. A desk with a green-shaded banker’s lamp, a window seat, a red pedal car, a wing chair by the window.

I imagined Genevieve sitting there, staring out at the ocean, waiting for her little boy to come home, and my heart clenched with sympathy. I knew why she was the way she was, after all. It was a shame she’d only had room in her heart for one.

“This was my uncle’s room,” I said, clearing my throat. “Sheppard. He died when he was little.”

“Really?” came that voice, and I jumped. Genevieve stood in the hallway, her white hair perfect, a navy robe wrapped tightly around her still-damn-good figure, the tiniest of the dog pack clutched in her arms. “Don’t speak about what you don’t know, Emma.”

Anger radiated off her, her lips thin with it, her eyes arctic cold. The other, sloppier dogs charged down the hall, racing past us and clattering down the stairs.

“Just repeating what my father told me, Genevieve,” I said.

“Your father is an idiot.”

“So he’s not dead?” Riley asked. “Sheppard?”

Genevieve took a deep breath. “His body was never found, dear. It’s possible he was kidnapped.”

“Whoa. I didn’t know that. And you never found out what happened?”

“We never did.” My grandmother’s gaze slithered toward me.

“That’s so sad. I’m sorry, um . . . Grandma.”

She smiled a little at that. “You’re very kind. And you may call me Gigi,” she said. “Would you like a proper tour of the house? It’s your home for the summer, after all.” She paused. “I would ask that you stay out of this room, however. As you may be able to tell, it’s very special to me.”

“Of course.” Riley looked at me. “Do you mind, Mom?”

Genevieve set down the tiny dog and tightened the sash of her robe. “Helga will make you breakfast, Emma. She’s quite adept at an egg-white omelet.” Translation: You need to lose weight. Look at me. I weigh the same as I did on my wedding day.

I’d warned Riley about my grandmother and her subtle ways of undermining self-esteem.

It’s fine, Riley mouthed.

“Okay,” I said. “Have fun.”



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*

I ate the tasteless egg-white omelet. I’d tried to make my own breakfast, was denied, and when I asked for whole eggs, Helga looked me in the eye as she separated the whites and dumped the yolks in the sink. Unbuttered toast. Skim milk, no half-and-half.