The Cousins(52)

Aubrey hesitates, like she suspects a trap. “I…I hope so.”

Mildred turns back to Jonah, who’s been quietly cleansing his palate with miniature fruit tarts. “I hear your grades are excellent, Jonah. Will you be applying to Harvard?”

Jonah takes his time swallowing the tart, but looks relieved at the relatively easy question. “Yeah, probably.”

It’s a good fifteen minutes later before I fully grasp the pattern of the conversation. There are a half-dozen fascinating things we could be talking about right now, like our parents’ disinheritance, Dr. Baxter’s death, Uncle Archer’s reappearance, and, of course, the question that has to be foremost in Mildred’s mind: Why the hell are you three here? But none of those come up. My grandmother is dividing her laser-like attention between Aubrey and Jonah, asking them questions about their lives, their accomplishments, and their fathers. Sometimes her interrogation borders on the uncomfortable—she’s clearly fishing for something related to her two oldest sons, although she won’t come right out and say it—but her attention never wavers.

Jonah looks deeply uneasy the entire time, but he doesn’t give himself away. Aubrey unfurls like a flower in the sun, basking in the light of our grandmother’s unexpected interest.

I might as well not even be here.

My whole life, I’ve imagined what it would be like if my grandmother and I finally met. Yes, the shopping fantasies were silly, but beneath that, I used to think that me being her namesake might mean something. That looking so much like my mother might mean something. That wearing my grandfather’s watch every day might mean something. That caring about art and fashion the way she does might mean something.



And now, sitting in my mother’s favorite spot in the legendary Catmint House, watching whitecaps skitter on the horizon as I eat more than my fair share of brunch because I never have to answer any questions, all I can think is this:

None of it means anything at all.

Maybe she’s a racist who can’t be bothered with her only nonwhite grandchild. Maybe she’s sexist and only cares about her sons. Or maybe she just doesn’t like me.

“I need the bathroom,” I say, standing abruptly.

Mildred gestures at the French doors. “Take a left at the hallway. There’s a powder room two doors down.”

“Okay,” I say. But when I leave the room attached to the balcony, I turn right instead. To hell with Mildred’s directions. I’ve never been inside my mother’s house before, and I’m going to have a look around. I slip my sandals off and hold them in one hand, padding quietly through vast, beautifully furnished rooms that look like something out of a magazine. Art and fresh flowers are everywhere. When I peer into the kitchen, I marvel at the top-of-the-line appliances that sparkle as if they’ve never been used for anything as mundane as cooking. Then a soft voice catches my attention, and I follow it back into the hallway.

“I think it was excessive,” Theresa Ryan is saying. She’s in a room adjacent to the kitchen, and from my spot in the hallway I can see an entire wall of built-in bookshelves. “We’ve been down this road before. You think you’re getting rid of one problem, but all you’re doing is creating a dozen more.”

She sounds angry, which isn’t an emotion I associate with my grandmother’s placid assistant. I edge closer.



“They’re here now,” she says. “I’m trying to keep things short, but I’m not sure how soon I can pry her away. She has an almost—morbid curiosity, I suppose.” There’s a long pause, and then Theresa adds, “Well, what do you think? The same old obsession. And now is not the time for her to be distracted like this.” Another pause. “It would be best for everyone, I agree. All right. Let’s touch base later this afternoon.”

I hear the click of footsteps and quickly backtrack into the kitchen so I can duck behind the island. Theresa makes her way down the hallway without pausing, humming to herself. When I can’t hear her any longer, I ease out of the kitchen and peer into the room she exited. It’s an office, filled with books, filing cabinets, and an enormous carved wooden desk. I’m dying to look around, but I’ve already been here too long. I have just enough time to check something.

There’s a landline phone on the desk, the kind with a screen on the handset. My mother has something similar in her office; she can’t seem to let go of outdated technology. I press Menu on the handset, then Last Call.

A name pops up on the screen: Donald Camden.





Milly is a dream client for Kayla’s Boutique. “Everything looks so good on you!” the owner exclaims, hands clasped in front of her, as Milly steps out of the dressing room and onto a dais in front of a large mirror. “But I do believe we’ve found it. This is the dress.”

I think she’s right. Milly is wearing a stunning sleeveless gown with a plunging yet still tasteful black top and a billowing white skirt. At least a foot of fabric pools around her feet, which are encased in black high heels, but other than that she looks Oscar-ready.

Except for her face, which is closed off and remote. She’s been like that ever since our weird brunch at Gran’s two days ago, which ended abruptly when Gran declared a sudden headache. I thought shopping would for sure cheer Milly up, but she looks like she’s just going through the motions. Polite, but not really interested.