Life and Other Inconveniences(65)

“There is no treatment.”

He looked down. There’d been no treatment for his wife, either. ALS. Such a dreadful end.

“It’s not easy, getting old, is it?” he asked.

“No.”

“I came out this summer to make sure the girls would be all right. She won’t admit it, but Emma loves you, even if you don’t deserve it. And I’m begging you, don’t mess with Riley. She’s had a hard year.”

“She alluded to that. Friend trouble?”

“She’s not like other girls. She’s better. Got a good heart, that one. And it’ll go unappreciated until she’s older, I’m afraid.”

“Are you concerned she’s depressed?” I asked.

“I’ve been on the lookout since she was two.” He swallowed, and without thinking, I leaned forward and covered his hand with mine.

Two old hands, age spotted and gnarled, his rough, mine wrinkled.

I took my hand back. “I quite like Riley,” I said. “She’s a delightful, smart young woman. I won’t mess with her, as you so delicately put it.”

“Don’t ruin her with money, either. After you’re gone, I mean. Be smart about it.”

“She won’t be ruined.”

The baby birds in the hedgerow began their furious twittering as the mother robin came with food. We listened for a second.

“I was very sorry when your wife died,” I said, apropos of nothing. “And April, of course.”

He didn’t answer right away. “It’s a terrible thing, to outlive your child. I don’t know how you’ve done it all these years.”

His words were like a spear in my heart. “We never knew what happened to Sheppard. He may well still be alive.”

The kindness—and pity—in Paul’s eyes was like a Molotov cocktail on a simmering fire, and I was suddenly furious. How dare he feel sorry for me? My son disappeared. Paul’s daughter had felt so worthless she took her own life.

Irony slapped me in the face.

I was hoping to take my own life, too. And soon.

“Well,” I said, standing up. “I must change for cocktail hour, and I’m sure you’ll want to do the same. See you at five.” I took off his shirt and tossed it on the chair behind me, angry for no good reason.





CHAPTER 19


    Riley


I’m gonna find out what happened to Gigi’s son.

Being sixteen has its advantages. Who else knows how to work the Internet better than a teenager?

Okay, backing up a little—against my will, I kind of adore Genevieve, even if she kicked Mom out way back when. Let’s face it: My parents were totally stupid, and sure, Mom had it hard, but look at me now. Pretty well adjusted, high honors student, varsity soccer, and if the bitches formerly known as my best friends ditched me, I’m better off without them.

That sounds really badass, right? I’m faking. The truth is, I miss them. A lot. The old them, before they became a pack of mewling coyotes, as Gigi called them.

Second thing—I am surrounded by old people here, not counting my brothers, who are wild demons (and I totally love them for it). So I need something to do other than look at Donelle’s big toe and see if her nail fungus is gone yet, and if not, would I smear it with Vicks VapoRub. I’m serious. This happened. The struggle is real. Pop and I went fishing the other day. That killed four hours. He’s working for my father’s company doing handyman stuff. My seventy-eight-year-old grandfather is totally living the midwestern work ethic.

Third thing—I don’t have much to do here. It’s been three weeks, and aside from that fabulous, fabulous trip to New York, I watch the aforementioned wild demons, swim in the heated pool, do yoga with Gigi sometimes and reassure my mother that I’m fine. I’m a little bored. It’s nice to be bored in paradise. I’m not complaining. Life at Sheerwater has been pretty incredible, I’m not gonna lie. Living in a house with a name, a cook (even a bad one), a driver (Charles is super nice), a pool, an ocean view . . . incredible is the exact right word.

I’ve discovered stuff I didn’t know existed. A heated towel rack so I don’t catch a chill getting out of the soaking tub (soaking tub, another richie-rich thing). My closet has revolving racks. There are warming drawers in the kitchen, a cold storage pantry, a dry goods pantry (who knows?), and a fridge just for wine. There’s a wine cellar. An outdoor kitchen and bar by the pool, because one must have that, mustn’t one?

Every day since we got here, I’ve had this tingly feeling in my stomach, like coming down the stairs on Christmas morning. I just wish Mikayla, Jenna and Annabeth could see this. Especially Mikayla, who always managed to work how much money her parents had into every conversation. I’ve been posting on Snapchat and Instagram here and there. Let them see.

I try not to think about them, but I have too much downtime. My father is busy working, though he took me to a construction site the other day (not really my thing, but it made him happy to introduce me around). Mom is taking every client she can get through the interwebs, and when she’s not, she’s trying to oh so subtly take my mental health temperature. Gigi works every day in her office and takes a nap every afternoon from four till five. I take care of Donelle and her toe, but she’s kind of addicted to the Home Shopping Network, so I limit my time there. Helga hasn’t said a word to me since the first night, so I think our bonding is pretty much complete. I hang out at Jamilah’s house as much as I can, but as nice as she is, I don’t really want to push it there. I mean, I’m a stranger, and she and my father are separated, so having me taking up space might not be her happy place.