Pineapple Street(32)
“Well, some of it they inherited—”
“So your family got rich off being rich.”
“No, my grandfather worked hard.”
“And what did he do?”
“Real estate investment.”
“Gentrification.” Curtis nodded smugly, as though this had proved his point.
“You are an ass.”
“I probably am. But at least I am self-aware enough to know it. Have fun ridiculing people who didn’t come over on the Mayflower.” And with that Curtis shoved back his chair and stalked out of the banquet hall. Georgiana’s cheeks were aflame, and to her horror she felt a tear rolling down to the corner of her mouth. She wiped it quickly and picked up a random glass from the table and filled it with vodka before taking a gulp. What a prick.
That night, as the party bus rumbled along the Belt, Georgiana looked around her. Of course her friends were lucky, of course they had completely unfair advantages, but she knew them and they were good people. Lena and Kristin would lie down in the street for her. They voted Democratic, they gave to Planned Parenthood, they had museum memberships. Their families sat on boards, they paid for tables at benefits, they tipped generously. Her own parents had even paid for both of Berta’s kids to go to college. Curtis McCoy was a pompous hypocrite. But their conversation still left Georgiana shaken, and in the morning when she woke, stinking of pickles and booze, she couldn’t tell how much of her hangover was physical and how much was left over from Curtis’s casual cruelty.
* * *
—
She couldn’t manage to shake the mood. All day Sunday she walked around in a state, feeling like she had just been delivered some terrible news, like her apartment had burned down or they had discovered avocados caused cancer. It was stupid, honestly. A billionaire jerk whose family sold bombs to the government called her a bad person. It was laughable, really.
Georgiana walked over to Pineapple Street that evening and dropped her mother’s silk dress off at the dry cleaner. The rule was that she could borrow whatever she wanted as long as she returned it clean, but Georgiana had discovered a loophole: the dry cleaner had her mother’s credit card on file and delivered to her door, so as long as she dropped the clothes off with them, it was as good as done.
Cord and Sasha were hosting family dinner at the limestone, and Georgiana momentarily thought about stopping at the wine store to pick up a bottle, but she knew her mother would bring plenty for everyone. She still had a key to the house, so she let herself in and took off her shoes by the door.
“Cord! Darley! I’m here!” she called, wandering into the kitchen. Sasha was spinning in circles, pulling a roasted chicken from the oven, sprinkling slivered almonds on a salad, emptying a pot of steaming rice into a bowl. Her mother was stationed over her Le Creuset, guarding what looked to be a leg of lamb and a ragout while Darley carefully placed fish sticks on the foiled sheet in the toaster. It was hot and busy, and Georgiana could sense the discord like an invisible force field that repelled her instantly back out of the kitchen and down the hall toward her father in the parlor. Malcolm was hiding in there as well, Poppy and Hatcher fighting over who got to be the dog in a game of Monopoly.
“Hi Daddy, hi Malcolm, hi guys.” Georgiana kissed everyone hello and flopped down on the floor next to her niece and nephew. She half-heartedly listened to her father try to teach them the rules of the game, and as she played with the fringe on the Oriental rug she let Curtis’s words run through her head: So your family got rich off being rich. Of course, it was true. Her father couldn’t be faulted for it, though. He wasn’t lazy, he wasn’t selfish; he was a real estate investor, and he helped make places for people to work and live. What was he going to do? Let old buildings go to seed? It was his job to move the city forward. He cared about his partners, he worried about them when the market turned, he worked until late at night, he was up early every morning. It was personal for him; he knew that it was within his power to make the city more beautiful, and he left his mark. It was easy to say that money was the root of all evil, but so many of the things money could buy provided dignity, health, and knowledge.
Georgiana looked at her brother-in-law playing with his children. Malcolm hadn’t inherited in the same way, but his father was an analytical chemist, he grew up in comfort, and he worked in finance now. He wasn’t saving people’s lives every day—he worked for a bank—but his knowledge and research helped keep the airline industry functional, helped smooth the mechanics of a sector that essentially connected people around the world. There was honor there. And nobody could question how hard Malcolm worked. As far as Georgiana could tell, Malcolm was always either working or spending time with Darley and the kids. He lavished his family with his love. He was maybe the nicest man Georgiana had ever met, and if he weren’t married to her sister she’d be half in love with him herself.
This was the kind of marriage Georgiana wanted one day, that both she and Darley wanted for Cord, so it killed them a little that Sasha had behaved so badly over the prenup, that she would never be a real sister, would never have the level of trust that Malcolm had earned in the Stockton family. They had started calling Sasha “the Gold Digger” or “the GD” for short after she moved into the Pineapple Street apartment. It wasn’t kind, but it seemed fair.
* * *