We Were Liars(13)

We Liars used to roll our eyes at these pronouncements—“Be decisive; no one likes a waffler”; “Never complain, never explain”—but we still saw him as full of wisdom on grown-up topics.

Granddad is wearing madras shorts and loafers. His legs are spindly old-man legs. He pats my back and demands a scotch and soda.

We eat and he talks about some friends of his in Boston. The new kitchen in his Beechwood house. Nothing important. Afterward, Mummy cleans up while I show him the backyard garden. The evening sun is still out.

Granddad picks a peony and hands it to me. “For my first grandchild.”

“Don’t pick the flowers, okay?”

“Penny won’t mind.”

“Yes, she will.”

“Cadence was the first,” he says, looking up at the sky, not into my eyes. “I remember when she came to visit us in Boston. She was dressed in a pink romper suit and her hair stuck up straight off her head. Johnny wasn’t born till three weeks later.”

“I’m right here, Granddad.”

“Cadence was the first, and it didn’t matter that she was a girl. I would give her everything. Just like a grandson. I carried her in my arms and danced. She was the future of our family.”

I nod.

“We could see she was a Sinclair. She had that hair, but it wasn’t only that. It was the chin, the tiny hands. We knew she’d be tall. All of us were tall until Bess married that short fellow, and Carrie made the same mistake.”

“You mean Brody and Jonathan.”

“Good riddance, eh?” Granddad smiles. “All our people were tall. Did you know my mother’s side of the family came over on the Mayflower? To make this life in America.”

I know it’s not important if our people came over on the Mayflower. It’s not important to be tall. Or blond. That is why I dyed my hair: I don’t want to be the eldest. Heiress to the island, the fortune, and the expectations.

But then again, perhaps I do.

Granddad has had too much to drink after a long travel day. “Shall we go inside?” I ask. “You want to sit down?”

He picks a second peony and hands it to me. “For forgiveness, my dear.”

I pat him on his hunched back. “Don’t pick any more, okay?”

Granddad bends down and touches some white tulips.

“Seriously, don’t,” I say.

He picks a third peony, sharply, defiantly. Hands it to me. “You are my Cadence. The first.”

“Yes.”

“What happened to your hair?”

“I colored it.”

“I didn’t recognize you.”

“That’s okay.”

Granddad points to the peonies, now all in my hand. “Three flowers for you. You should have three.”

He looks pitiful. He looks powerful.

I love him, but I am not sure I like him. I take his hand and lead him inside.





20




Once upon a time, there was a king who had three beautiful daughters. He loved each of them dearly. One day, when the young ladies were of age to be married, a terrible, three-headed dragon laid siege to the kingdom, burning villages with fiery breath. It spoiled crops and burned churches. It killed babies, old people, and everyone in between.

The king promised a princess’s hand in marriage to whoever slayed the dragon. Heroes and warriors came in suits of armor, riding brave horses and bearing swords and arrows.

One by one, these men were slaughtered and eaten.

Finally the king reasoned that a maiden might melt the dragon’s heart and succeed where warriors had failed. He sent his eldest daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, but the dragon listened to not a word of her pleas. It swallowed her whole.

Then the king sent his second daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, but the dragon did the same. Swallowed her before she could get a word out.

The king then sent his youngest daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, and she was so lovely and clever that he was sure she would succeed where the others had perished.

No indeed. The dragon simply ate her.

The king was left aching with regret. He was now alone in the world.

Now, let me ask you this. Who killed the girls?

The dragon? Or their father?



After Granddad leaves the next day, Mummy calls Dad and cancels the Australia trip. There is yelling. There is negotiation.

Eventually they decide I will go to Beechwood for four weeks of the summer, then visit Dad at his home in Colorado, where I’ve never been. He insists. He will not lose the whole summer with me or there will be lawyers involved.

Mummy rings the aunts. She has long, private conversations with them on the porch of our house. I can’t hear anything except a few phrases: Cadence is so fragile, needs lots of rest. Only four weeks, not the whole summer. Nothing should disturb her, the healing is very gradual.

Also, pinot grigio, Sancerre, maybe some Riesling; definitely no chardonnay.





21




My room is nearly empty now. There are sheets and a comforter on my bed. A laptop on my desk, a few pens. A chair.

I own a couple pairs of jeans and shorts. I have T-shirts and flannel shirts, some warm sweaters; a bathing suit, a pair of sneakers, a pair of Crocs, and a pair of boots. Two dresses and some heels. Warm coat, hunting jacket and canvas duffel .