The Cousins(50)

He’s probably right. It’s been thirty-six hours since we left Uncle Archer’s bungalow, and we haven’t heard from him once. All our texts have gone unanswered, and any calls go straight to voice mail.

“Gran must know about Uncle Archer by now, right?” Aubrey asks. “I mean, she has to have seen the article.”

“I’m sure she did,” I say. I can’t imagine a piece of gossip like that not being brought to her attention straightaway.

Aubrey chews her lip. “Should we tell her that he’s the one who brought us here?”

“No,” Jonah and I both say at once. Then he grins at me, head cocked, and my stomach flutters. I’m not sure what would have happened in his room yesterday if we hadn’t gotten distracted by the news about Dr. Baxter. A not-small part of me wishes I’d found out.



“I know my reason,” he says. “I’m trying to hang on to this job as long as possible. JT’s already in a panic about the Archer thing. What’s yours?”

I lift my chin. “We don’t owe Mildred anything. She can figure it out on her own, just like we did.” It hits me, as I say it, that I really do think about Aubrey, Jonah, and me as a “we” now; an odd little team, caught up in something that only the three of us can understand. This summer keeps twisting in ways I never expected, and it’s a relief to have them along for the ride.

Aubrey and I are sitting side by side, facing forward, and when her breath hitches in her throat, I can tell she’s been distracted by the sight of Catmint House. “Oh, wow,” she says. I crane my neck so I can see what she’s seeing, but within seconds there’s no need. The driveway straightens, and the house is directly in front of us.

The back of the house that we glimpsed from the road was all sparkling windows and modern lines, but the front is pure New England mansion. Two symmetrical wings, each the size of a typical house on Gull Cove Island, flank a midsection dominated by vast white pillars leading to a Juliet balcony. The roof is dark slate and dramatically sloped, with a widow’s walk on top framed by four stone chimneys. All of the windows—I lose count as we approach—are tall, white-paned, and green-shuttered. A four-door garage attached to the left wing is constructed of the same stone as the chimneys, with a trellised wall covered with contrasting pink shades of honeysuckle. Behind the house, dark-blue ocean meets a paler blue sky that’s dotted with lacy white clouds.



I’ve seen pictures, but they didn’t prepare me for the real thing. It’s stunning. For a second I can’t breathe, imagining an alternate universe where I’d spend every summer here under the watchful eye of a doting grandmother.

A woman in a shapeless gray dress and clogs stands between the columns flanking the front door, looking out of place amid all the grandiosity. The chauffeur parks, and Theresa Ryan waves as we exit the Bentley. “Welcome, welcome,” she calls. Aubrey is the first to reach her, and Theresa grasps Aubrey’s hand in both of hers. “You must be Aubrey. And this is Jonah, of course.” I hang back as they exchange greetings, since I’ve already met Theresa.

When I talked to Mom last night, she sounded wistful about her mother’s assistant. “Tell Theresa I’m feeling good about the Yankees bullpen this year,” she’d told me. “It almost reminds me of 1996.” But when Theresa extends a welcoming hand to me, the words won’t come. It feels too much like I’m trying to kiss up to her. She’s the most pleasant person in Mildred Story’s inner circle, but she still picked her side years ago. And it wasn’t ours.

Theresa puts one hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn it. “If I could have a quick word before we go inside,” she says, her brow knitted in concern. “This has been a very trying weekend. Fred Baxter was one of your grandmother’s oldest and dearest friends. She’s devastated by his death. And on top of that, I suppose you’ve seen coverage about your uncle being back in town?” She gives us a searching look, and I keep my expression carefully neutral.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “So strange.” Aubrey and Jonah both look at the ground.

“It’s a lot to take, all at once,” Theresa says. “I hope you understand that we may need to keep brunch brief.”



I nod. “Of course.”

She pushes the door open, and gestures us into a grand foyer. The walls are pristine white, the ceiling soaring, and the space is full of the most exquisite collection of paintings, sculptures, and vases that I’ve ever seen outside of a museum. A slim man dressed all in black is peering intently at one wall, jotting something in a Moleskine notebook. I’ve spent years hanging out at my friend Chloe’s mother’s art gallery, and I’m pretty sure he’s looking at an original Cy Twombly painting.

When the man sees us, he snaps the notebook closed. “I’m sure we can work something out,” he says to Theresa. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Wonderful, thank you,” Theresa says, backtracking to open the door for him. They converse briefly in low tones, and when she returns, she smiles brightly at us. “Your grandmother is considering divesting some of her art collection.”

Divesting. That’s a word I recently learned when Mom berated me into studying for the ACT; it means rid oneself of something that one no longer wants or requires. That painting Mildred is about to divest might be on the smaller scale of Twombly’s works, but it would still pay for all of our college tuitions at Ivy League prices.