Life and Other Inconveniences(44)

Unexpectedly, there was a lump in my throat. The child had just offered more than anyone had in decades. “That would be so kind, dear.”

Soon, the Missing would end. That was the only thing I was looking forward to in suicide . . . seeing my son again. Surely God would grant me that.

I felt a hand in mine.

“Don’t cry, Gigi,” Riley said softly.

“I never cry,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Now. Tell me about your friends back home.”





CHAPTER 14


    Emma


I had a bad feeling about the trip to New York. Genevieve wasn’t being honest with me, not that this was a big surprise. But surrendering Riley to her for an entire day made me nervous. The best thing I had going for me in life was that my child loved, respected and liked me. I knew Genevieve shouldn’t be able to touch that, but the idea of my grandmother telling my daughter what a loser I was—in much more elegant prose, of course—made me feel a little sick.

We’d only been here a week, but it felt like an eternity. Genevieve seemed to like Riley. That made me nervous, too, because I remembered all too well how it felt to win that woman’s approval, only to have it yanked away. But when she gave a small smile, or said, “Well done,” it had been like winning an award in front of a thousand people.

I shouldn’t worry so much. Genevieve was different with Riley. If she wanted to spoil her a little bit, that would be fine. In essence, that was why we were here this summer . . . to get Riley away from the bitchery of the little coven and, yes, be able to claim her name. Genevieve London’s great-granddaughter. The only one.

Possibly the heir to all this.

It was a clear, bright day, and the rooms of Sheerwater were drenched in sunlight. I had to give it to Genevieve—she’d balanced sophistication with hominess, and while the house was a mansion, it felt . . . comfortable. Friendly and posh, the way I used to picture Garrison London.

I went into the formal library. I had some clients scheduled, but not until later.

Genevieve had updated almost every room since I lived here, and now the chestnut bookcases were lit from within, which made them glow, the books magical. White birch logs were stacked artfully on the fireplace irons, and there were a few photos on the mantel—Genevieve and my grandfather on their wedding day, looking happy and wealthy and in love. Her dress was the best of the fifties—white satin covered by handmade lace, a Grace Kelly type of gown.

I suddenly remembered Genevieve had told me I could wear her dress on my own wedding day. I’d been maybe . . . nine? Still unsure if I’d be staying in Connecticut, still hoping my father would come back for me. For some reason, I’d been crying . . . Maybe my other grandparents had called and I was homesick for Downers Grove? I remembered Genevieve had come home from work, taken one look at me and brought me up to the cedar closet, which was big enough to be a bedroom. Took out a giant box lined with tissue paper and held up the dress.

“This was mine,” she said. “It was one of the best days of my life. Someday, you’ll find a wonderful man like your grandfather and marry him, and you can wear this dress. It will never go out of style.”

The memory was so vivid I could smell the cedar. And she’d been right about one thing, anyway—her dress was a classic. I wondered if it was still in that closet.

I wished I’d met my grandfather. Life would’ve been a lot better for my father, and probably for me, if Clark had had a good male role model.

Here was another picture of Garrison, smiling into the camera. A nice face. A photo of my father, perhaps twenty, on the deck of a boat, also good-looking but without the confidence that shimmered in Garrison’s pictures.

Another photo of Clark and Sheppard, their arms around each other, Sheppard taller, my father still chubby with baby fat.

Poor Gigi. Losing a child, especially without any sort of closure, had to be brutal. An image came to me of a younger Genevieve, waiting by the phone, praying, calling her son’s name in the woods for weeks.

I had never counseled someone who’d lost a child. Twice a colleague had recommended me, and twice I’d recommended someone else. Maybe when I was more experienced. Maybe when Riley was grown. I was so paranoid about her safety that I’d practically had a chip put in her ear. Honestly, why didn’t they do that? You could track your dog, but not your kid?

I texted her. How’s the ride going?

She texted back. Fine. Don’t worry. Charles is a good driver. Better than you! LOL!

I smiled. Let me know when you get there, okay? Send pictures!

Okay! Have a nice day! I might get a haircut if that’s okay.

A haircut, huh? Riley had the most beautiful hair known to humankind. Who would cut it? People would sell their souls for long, curly red hair!

I sighed. Parents had to pick their battles, and hair wasn’t going to be one of mine. Whatever you want! Love you so much!

Love you too, Mama!

Mama. Love swelled in my chest. I sighed. It was only 9:37, and she wouldn’t be back for twelve hours.

Maybe I relied on my daughter too much, our girls’ nights watching Project Runway or The Bachelor, our biannual trips to Wicker Park and the fabulous thrift stores there. These past two years, when she started to have more of a social life, when I assumed she’d be home on Sundays, only to have her tell me she had plans . . . it had been something of a shock. Of course I wanted her to have a good social life, a nice group of friends, but I hadn’t realized that I’d feel a little bit . . . abandoned.