We Were Liars(28)

“He does the estate,” says Granddad, by way of explanation.

“First grandchild,” says Thatcher. “There’s never anything to match that feeling.”

“She’s got a great head on her shoulders, too,” Granddad says. “Sinclair blood through and through.”

This speaking in stock phrases, he has always done it. “Never complain, never explain.” “Don’t take no for an answer.” But it grates when he’s using them about me. A good head on my shoulders? My actual head is fucking broken in countless medically diagnosed ways—and half of me comes from the unfaithful Eastman side of the family. I am not going to college next year, I’ve given up all the sports I used to do and clubs I used to be part of; I’m high on Percocet half the time and I’m not even nice to my little cousins.

Still, Granddad’s face is glowing as he talks about me, and at least today he knows I am not Mirren.

“She looks like you,” says Thatcher.

“Doesn’t she? Except she’s good-looking.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But if you want the full resemblance I have to tuft up my hair.”

This makes Granddad smile. “It’s from the boat,” he says to Thatcher. “Didn’t bring a hat.”

“It’s always tufty,” I tell Thatcher.

“I know,” he says.

The men shake hands and Granddad hooks his arm through mine as we leave the gallery. “He’s taken good care of you,” he tells me.

“Mr. Thatcher?”

He nods. “But don’t tell your mother. She’ll stir up trouble again.”





42




On the way home, a memory comes.

Summer fifteen, a morning in early July. Granddad was making espresso in the Clairmont kitchen. I was eating jam and baguette toast at the table. It was just the two of us.

“I love that goose,” I said, pointing. A cream goose statue sat on the sideboard.

“It’s been there since you, Johnny, and Mirren were three,” said Granddad. “That’s the year Tipper and I took that trip to China.” He chuckled. “She bought a lot of art there. We had a guide, an art specialist.” He came over to the toaster and popped the piece of bread I had in there for myself.

“Hey!” I objected.

“Shush, I’m the granddad. I can take the toast when I want to.” He sat down with his espresso and spread butter on the baguette. “This art specialist girl took us to antiques shops and helped us navigate the auction houses,” he said. “She spoke four languages. You wouldn’t think to look at her. Little slip of a China girl.”

“Don’t say China girl. Hello?”

He ignored me. “Tipper bought jewelry and had the idea of buying animal sculptures for the houses here.”

“Does that include the toad in Cuddledown?”

“Sure, the ivory toad,” said Granddad. “And we bought two elephants, I know.”

“Those are in Windemere.”

“And monkeys for in Red Gate. There were four monkeys.”

“Isn’t ivory illegal?” I asked.

“Oh, some places. But you can get it. Your gran loved ivory. She traveled to China when she was a child.”

“Is it elephant tusks?”

“That or rhino.”

There he was, Granddad. His white hair still thick, the lines on his face deep from all those days on the sailboat. His heavy jaw like an old film star.

You can get it, he said, about the ivory.

One of his mottos: Don’t take no for an answer.

It had always seemed a heroic way to live. He would say it when advising us to pursue our ambitions. When encouraging Johnny to try training for a marathon, or when I failed to win the reading prize in seventh grade. It was something he said when talking about his business strategies, and how he got Gran to marry him. “I asked her four times before she said yes,” he’d always say, retelling one of his favorite Sinclair family legends. “I wore her down. She said yes to shut me up.”

Now, at the breakfast table, watching him eat my toast, “Don’t take no for an answer” seemed like the attitude of a privileged guy who didn’t care who got hurt, so long as his wife had the cute statues she wanted to display in her summerhouses.

I walked over and picked up the goose. “People shouldn’t buy ivory,” I said. “It’s illegal for a reason. Gat was reading the other day about—”

“Don’t tell me what that boy is reading,” snapped Granddad. “I’m informed. I get all the papers.”

“Sorry. But he’s made me think about—”

“Cadence.”

“You could put the statues up for auction and then donate the money to wildlife conservation.”

“Then I wouldn’t have the statues. They were very dear to Tipper.”

“But—”

Granddad barked, “Do not tell me what to do with my money, Cady. That money is not yours.”

“Okay.”

“You are not to tell me how to dispose of what is mine, is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Not ever.”

“Yes, Granddad.”