The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(36)

“Am I legally required to be here?” Nina looked at Sarkassian. “I thought it was just an invitation.”

“It was,” he replied quickly. “I simply meant that they are legally still minors, and therefore not party to any action.”

Nina frowned at him, but before she could ask anything else, the woman across from her snapped, “And I’m your niece Lydia, your sister Katherine’s daughter, although I doubt we’re actually related at all.” She looked aggressively at Nina. “What proof do you have that my grandfather was your father and that you’re not a con artist?”

Nina gazed at her for a beat or two, then slowly raised one eyebrow, a skill she was rightly proud of. If this woman thought she could intimidate her by being rude she was about to be disappointed. Nina might battle crippling anxiety once or twice a week, but she also worked in retail, and rudeness is the special sauce on the burger that is the Los Angeles shopping public.

“Oh, I don’t know. My birth certificate? His own word? My mother’s word?”

Lydia smiled like the meanest girl in school about to comment on some underling’s shoe choice. “Well, that’s hardly sufficient, is it?”

“Legally it is,” said Sarkassian, briskly. “William Reynolds is listed on her birth certificate; he made provision for her in his will, proving he was aware of her existence, and her mother has confirmed he was her father. As far as the law is concerned, we’re good.”

“Well, who’s to say she is actually who she says she is?” Lydia looked scornful. “She might be some grifter pretending to be Nina Hill to get her hands on our money. She may have kidnapped the real Nina Hill and be keeping her in a basement somewhere.”

At this, the last remnants of Nina’s anxiety peeled away, revealing a cold center of anger. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Sometimes when her social anxiety got pushed too far, a strange confident madness would take over her mouth, which had led to some very unfortunate outcomes.

“Well,” she said, apparently completely nonchalant, “if I am a grifter, I’ve been playing a very long con, seeing as I went to school as Nina Hill, went to college as Nina Hill, got a job as Nina Hill, and have been working at it for six years, still pretending to be a totally unimportant and regular person. Presumably in case someone I’d never heard of dropped dead and left me a mysterious something.” She turned up her palms. “It’s a lovely blend of cynicism and optimism, but as a con it seems a little high intensity, don’t you think?”

Several people laughed, but Lydia didn’t seem amused.

“Also,” continued Nina, “I didn’t approach you guys; you came to me. I had no idea who my father was. He could have been anyone.”

“Is your mother a prostitute?” Lydia asked.

Nina paused. “No,” she replied evenly, “I didn’t mean it that way. She’s a news photographer. She won a Pulitzer.”

“Lois Lane won a Pulitzer, and she’s a fictional character.”

Nina happened to know that was true, and for a split second recognized that Lydia, for all her assholery, was a kindred trivia spirit. However, any fellow feeling quickly dissipated when Lydia kept talking.

“Where is your slutty single mother now?”

“She’s in China.”

“Convenient.”

“Not if you want to hand her something.”

Eliza spoke up from the end of the table. “This whole thing is ridiculous. If William left this woman something, isn’t that an end to it? He could have left anything to anyone, right?” She turned and looked at Nina. “I didn’t kill him, by the way. He died of a heart attack after years of smoking, drinking, and eating red meat with almost every meal.” She shrugged. “He stopped all that when we met, but the damage was done.”

“You brainwashed him,” said Lydia. “He became a vegetarian. He tried to talk me into doing a juice cleanse. It was horrible.”

Nina raised her eyebrows and looked at Sarkassian. “Is there any question about my father’s death?”

“Yes, the question is whether he was your father or not,” spat Lydia.

“No,” said Sarkassian, rolling his eyes. “There is no question. As Eliza correctly says, he was in his seventies and died of a heart attack.”

Eliza was staring at Lydia. “You barely knew your grandfather, Lydia. I’m not sure how you think you know anything about his health. When was the last time you visited him?” She was elegant in every way, this woman: pale blond hair, gray cashmere wrap over charcoal cashmere sweater, layers of gold necklaces and bracelets; but she was also irritated in a very human and somewhat ruffled way. Possibly because she was having to confront an insane ex-wife and a stepdaughter who was at least half basilisk.

“You wouldn’t let any of us visit him. You kept him hidden away so you could poison his mind against us.” It was remarkable how much anger Lydia was cramming into every syllable, while at the same time keeping a pretty even tone.

Peter finally joined the conversation. “Lydia, darling, this isn’t a telenovela. It’s amazing William lasted that long, to be honest, and attacking his widow is both tasteless and unattractive. Eliza loved William.”

Lydia whipped around. “Peter, you have no idea what’s attractive in a woman, so keep your nose out of it.”