When We Were Bright and Beautiful(12)

“I’m sorry, Lawrence.” I watch the trees as we pick up speed. “I know you’re worried; I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

He squeezes my hand three times. “We’re fine, kiddo. Fine, fine, fine.” But he won’t look at me either.





8


THE PARKING LOT NEXT TO THE DINER IS PACKED, AND WE’RE lucky to find a spot. Inside, I spy a middle-aged man leafing through a file while forking eggs into his mouth. He’s heavyset and disheveled, wearing a suit jacket sized for a much smaller body over a green sweatshirt with JETS embroidered in white letters.

“That’s DeFiore,” I tell Lawrence and Nate. “In the back.”

Looking dazed, they follow my finger. Our encounter with the security guard shook us all up. We’re still getting our bearings.

“No.” Lawrence shakes his head. “I saw his website. That’s not him.”

“It is, I’m telling you.” Leaving them, I weave my way through the crowded tables.

“Cassandra Quinn,” I say when I reach him. “You must be Mr. DeFiore.”

“Peter.” He puts down his papers to shake my hand. “You must be Billy’s sister.”

“His favorite sister? Yes, I am.”

“His only sister, I hear.”

“He could have a thousand sisters, and I’d still be his favorite.”

Smiling, we size each other up. DeFiore looks like a fast-talking, low-level hitman. His oily hair, frayed jacket, and battered shoes suggest strip-mall storefronts and envelopes full of cash. But his eyes are ultra-cool as he studies my face.

I wave to Lawrence and Nate. “Over here!”

“Cassie was right,” Lawrence says as he approaches. “I wasn’t sure it was you.” He shakes DeFiore’s hand. “Lawrence Quinn. This is Nate, my older son. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“You were probably hoping I was someone else.” DeFiore gives Lawrence a once-over. “Maybe someone in a bowtie and wingtips.”

“You met Burt, I gather,” Lawrence says. “He’s a bit stuffy.”

DeFiore nods. “This morning, on video. I met your wife, too, but only to say hello. I had to rush off.” He gestures to his plate. “Apologies for digging in, but my kid will kill me if I miss one more soccer game. Please.” He motions to empty chairs. “Sit.”

We settle in and make small talk. While we try to flag down a waitress, DeFiore finishes his eggs, a blueberry muffin, and a buttered bagel. He eats ravenously, as if filling a bottomless pit. I marvel at the way he relishes his food. No one I know, not even my brothers, eats with that kind of abandon. As for me, every bite I take demands penance.

“So, what can you tell us about Billy?” Lawrence asks just as a ponytailed waitress appears with a notepad. “You guys ready?” She gravitates immediately to Nate and offers a sweet smile. “What can I get you?”

Nate smiles back. He gives her dazzling teeth, dimples—the full-court press, and the girl’s face reddens. “Pancakes, please,” he says. His eyes flicker to her breasts where a nametag is clipped. “Amanda. Bacon and coffee.” Like our father, Nate considers every encounter with a female an opportunity to showcase his charm.

“I’ll have coffee too, Amanda,” Lawrence says. “Two eggs scrambled dry. Orange juice. Oh—no toast, please. Cutting out carbs.” He gestures my way. “She’ll have egg whites. Dry toast. Tomatoes, no potatoes. Black coffee.”

“Seriously?” I snap after she leaves. “I can order for myself, thanks.”

He chuckles self-consciously. “Sorry, Cass. Old habits.”

DeFiore is watching us. “Hard to see them grow up, isn’t it, Lar?”

I’ve never heard anyone call Lawrence “Lar” in my life, and the absurdity of it cracks me up. DeFiore gives me a cocky grin. I like him, I decide. He knows what’s what.

“You have a daughter?” I hear Lawrence ask.

“Three, actually.” DeFiore sips his coffee. “Six, four, and two. The six-year-old runs the show.”

“They’re little,” Lawrence says. “You still have a few good years left.”

I turn to DeFiore. “At ten, we’re lovely. Around thirteen, we get moody. By sixteen, we’re monstrous. Defiant, uncontrollable, and mean as hell.”

“You?” He shakes his head. “Sorry, can’t see it. You’re too pretty.”

I shake mine back. “Guilty as charged, Counselor. I was gruesome.”

“Can we please focus on Billy?” Nate snaps. “He’s the reason we’re here, right?”

My brother is famished, which is clear from the way he rips open the plastic Saltine packets on the table with his teeth and devours the crackers, one by one.

I text him under the table: Sit up. Be nice. Act human. No joke.

His eyes shift from his phone to DeFiore. His face softens, tone shifts. “So, Peter,” he says amiably. “Tell us about Billy. Is he okay? We’re very concerned.”

*

Nate’s life’s ambition is to surf the Banzai Pipeline in Hawaii, where the waves run a hundred feet high. He loves the beach. He used to love sports, but then he went to boarding school. Now, he drinks a lot. He snorts cocaine, takes ecstasy, and smokes a ton of weed. He tries to cut back, though not very hard. If please, allow me is Lawrence’s personal brand, not trying hard is Nate’s. At Columbia, he had a negative GPA for two semesters. He transferred to Reed, then SUNY Binghamton, but gave up in the end. He has a similar job history. Nate’s longest stretch of employment was six months, including the time he tried, and failed, to intern for Lawrence. Our plan to join the foundation was predicated on me doing all the work, so when I took off, he didn’t see the point. One of the husbands in Eleanor’s set got Nate the position at Bessemer, and when he eventually quits, someone else’s husband will find him some other job at some other company. Or Lawrence will rehire him. Or he’ll go back to rehab. Or something. Nate doesn’t need a job because he needs the money; he needs a job because he needs a life. But he’s unwilling to feign interest in a phony career simply to fill up his days. So, he’s left with no purpose and nowhere to go. Other than surfing, Billy’s case is the first thing I’ve seen him get emotional about since he discovered Hawkins Cove, our childhood hangout in Southampton, when he was eight years old.