When We Were Bright and Beautiful(15)


At midnight, I’m studying at my desk when Eleanor enters my room. She’s so quiet, I don’t realize she’s behind me until I see her shadow in the mirror.

Startled, I let out a yelp. “Oh my God, Eleanor.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She shakes her head. “I can’t sleep, so I’m wandering around, trying to find a place to put myself.”

“That’s the problem with mansions,” I say. “Too many damn rooms.”

So it was Eleanor, not Maeve, in the hall last night. Poor Eleanor. In our family, Lawrence is the good cop. Eleanor is all the other cops. She isn’t given to overt emotion. To turn to me for comfort—to show up at my door—means she’s going insane.

Years ago, Eleanor went beyond the beyond to make me feel welcome here. One special gift was my bedroom. When I was old enough, she let me pick out the colors, mint green and white, and filled the shelves with my favorite books, stuffed animals, and toys. The animals and toys are gone, but the décor in this room has barely changed.

Turning on a lamp, I motion for Eleanor to sit. My floor is still a disaster site. Clothing, boots, belts, and books are strewn everywhere. I move to fold a sweater when Eleanor says “Leave it, dear. It’s not important,” which is another sign of her distress. Growing up, our bedrooms and bathrooms had to be immaculate, not that she ever set foot in them. I can’t actually remember the last time she was in my room, much less on my bed. Under normal circumstances, this breach of privacy would be unthinkable.

At fifty-four, Eleanor still shimmers with youthful glamour. Her golden hair is cut in a chic bob, and she moves with a dancer’s poise. Always impeccably styled, she’s wearing a teal Valentino robe that could double as a ball gown. Eleanor is a true Hitchcock femme fatale, though her regal bearing lends her a chilliness she doesn’t deserve. Perched on my white comforter, she looks lost and afraid.

Earlier today, in the car coming home, Lawrence mentioned, offhandedly, that it’s better if Nate and I don’t repeat everything DeFiore said. “Better Eleanor hears the ‘unconscious’ detail from me.” Eleanor isn’t fragile, just protective of Billy. I’d say “overprotective,” but how much protection is too much? That’s like trying to quantify love.

“I’m not entirely comfortable with our new attorney,” Eleanor says. The warm light illuminates her porcelain skin.

“Lawrence told you?”

“That he went behind my back? That he hired a lawyer for my son without my consent? That he, once again, acted impulsively, with no regard for my opinion?”

I hold up my hand. “I’m sorry, Eleanor, we should’ve said something.”

“Yes. You should have. It’s harder for Nate—I understand this. But I depend on you to keep Lawrence in check. Or, at the very least, to keep me apprised of his behavior.”

“I wish I could keep Lawrence in check, Eleanor. Believe me. And I’m not making excuses, I swear, but Billy is seeing the judge tomorrow morning. We needed someone fast. Plus, DeFiore is smart, his credentials are decent, and he’s handled lots of cases like ours.”

“Cassandra, please. His credentials are mediocre at best.”

“Rutgers isn’t Harvard, but Peter DeFiore is an expert on the local courts, which will be a defining factor in Billy’s case. Still, you can watch him in action. If you’re still uncomfortable, hire someone else.”

“I’m sure he’s a fine lawyer, but we need the best—”

“—of the best. I know, Eleanor.”

“Yes, someone at the top of his field. But, equally important, we need someone who understands families like ours. Money is not a concern,” she adds, as if I needed the reminder.

For Eleanor, money isn’t emotional nor is it pleasurable. Money isn’t even interesting. Money just is. Her family staked their claim in gunpowder during the French revolution, and then expanded to dynamite, plastic, oils, and chemical manufacturing—the raw materials of daily life. Their fortune has been compounding for generations. Eleanor Anne Stockton Quinn is a socialite. My peers consider this label unflattering; these days, we’re socialite-entrepreneurs and socialite-artists, with handbag lines, poetry collections, and podcasts. But Eleanor is first and foremost a lady who lunches. I don’t mean to suggest her lunches are vacuous, only to point out that her preoccupations are different from yours and mine.

“Eleanor, listen. His reputation is outstanding. Burt, in fact, recommended him. Would you feel better if you were the one who hired him?”

“If I hadn’t been told after the fact? Maybe. Even so, his coarseness doesn’t sit right.”

“You mean his girth.”

“Excuse me?”

“Peter DeFiore is fat.”

“Cassie, I didn’t see his body. Earlier, I saw him on video, but only from the waist up.”

“I’m sure you got the gist of him. DeFiore is ungainly and sloppy, and you’re wondering how a man who can’t manage his person will effectively represent your son. Here’s the thing, Eleanor.” My voice is as solemn as a priest’s. “Not only are fat people competent, but fat-shaming is très déclassé these days.”

“Do you really think I’m that shallow, Cassie?” Eleanor smiles.

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