The Cousins(90)

“I’m trying,” Mom says.

A cellphone on the table between her and Uncle Archer rings. “Who’s Charlotte?” Mom asks, looking down.

“An associate in Donald Camden’s office,” Uncle Archer says. “I asked her to get in touch if she heard about any interesting developments. On the down low, of course. So don’t tell.” He puts a finger to his lips as he picks up his phone.



“How do you know everyone?” Mom asks wonderingly.

“I talk to people. You should try it. Hey, Charlotte,” Uncle Archer says, getting up and walking toward the beach. “What’s up?”

Silence falls between me and my mother. Then, to my surprise, she reaches down and strokes my hair. I can’t remember the last time she did that, but I definitely wasn’t more than six years old. “Being pregnant that summer was so lonely,” she says reflectively. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell my mother, but I kept wishing that she’d guess, somehow. Milly, if you are ever in a situation like that, I hope you know that you have my full support.”

I push aside my natural inclination to say, God, Mom, please don’t talk about that, because I want her to talk about it. Just not in relation to me. But I’ll take what I can get at the moment. “I know.”

“Do you?” Her laugh is brittle. “I’m not sure I’ve done a very good job of showing you my support over the years.”

“Well, you’ve had a lot going on,” I hedge.

“I’ll take that as affirmation that I could improve my parenting,” she says dryly.

“Mom, did you…” I hesitate, then decide to plunge right in. “Did you ever tell Dad what happened?”

“Not all of it.” Mom tucks a strand of hair behind my ear before withdrawing her hand. “Your father is the kindest man I’ve ever known. He did so much over the years to help me come to terms with what happened to Matt, and with the pregnancy. But I couldn’t finish the story. I never could tell him what Anders had done, or that I’d protected him.” Her voice dips low. I twist my neck to get a look at her face, but the moonlight is too dim. “The truth was like a cancer inside me by that point, and I’d shoved it down so far that it wouldn’t come out. It just…festered, and made me angry. Your father took the brunt of that without ever knowing why.”



Sadness settles over my chest, at the thought of what life could have been like if my mother had ever unburdened herself. “I think he would have understood.”

“I think you’re right,” she says quietly.

We’re silent for a minute, listening to the waves lapping against the shore and the indistinct murmur of Uncle Archer’s voice. Then Mom clears her throat and says, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Milly, how impressed I am with the way you pieced the truth together. You have a sharp mind.” I wait for the inevitable follow-up—if you applied yourself that way at school you’d have an A average in no time—but it doesn’t come. “And a good heart” is all she says, and I feel the soft sting of tears behind my eyes.

Uncle Archer comes back then, holding his phone and breathing hard. Mom gets to her feet and hurries toward him. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Does your shoulder hurt? You keep overextending yourself.”

“I—no.” Uncle Archer’s voice is strained. “That was Charlotte.”

“I know,” Mom says. “You told us.”

“Right. The thing is…” He stuffs his phone into his pocket and runs a hand through his hair. “I asked her to let me know if anything important came up. It has. The bigwigs aren’t telling us yet because there’s still a lot of paperwork to go through, but—Allison, Catmint House wasn’t insured. Neither was any of the art or jewelry or furniture.”



I turn toward my mother, who’s blinking in confusion. “What? Why?” she asks. “How on earth is a house like that not insured?”

“Nothing is,” Uncle Archer says. “All the policies have lapsed. No bills have been paid on anything for more than a year. The other houses our family owns—including this house—are in foreclosure. The investment accounts are empty. Donald and Theresa have been selling art to live on. Anything they hadn’t sold yet went up in literal flames last week.”

My mother doesn’t say a word. Uncle Archer puts his hand on her shoulder and speaks slowly and patiently, his voice full of kindness and concern, like a doctor delivering a diagnosis that’s going to hurt like hell, but not actually kill you.

“They spent it all. Every last penny. The Story estate is gone.”





Milly breaks, and balls go flying across crisp green felt. She just keeps getting better and better at pool. The last time I visited her in New York—when she took me to some swanky “entertainment complex” where all the tables were rimmed with fluorescent lights—she came uncomfortably close to beating me.

“Somebody’s about to give you a run for your money, Jonah,” Enzo calls from behind the bar. He returned to work at Empire Billiards right after Thanksgiving, although he still does a couple of shifts at Home Depot every week. Just in case.

“You’ve been practicing without me, haven’t you?” I ask as Milly watches the last of the balls drop into a corner pocket.