“Johnny’s only three weeks younger.”
“That’s my point. Johnny’s a boy and he’s only three weeks younger. So write the letter.”
I did as she asked.
On Beechwood summer fifteen, the aunties filled in for Gran, making slumps and fussing around Granddad as if he hadn’t been living alone in Boston since Tipper died in October. But they were quarrelsome. They no longer had the glue of Gran keeping them together, and they fought over their memories, her jewelry, the clothes in her closet, her shoes, even. These affairs had not been settled in October. People’s feelings had been too delicate then. It had all been left for the summer. When we got to Beechwood in late June, Bess had already inventoried Gran’s Boston possessions and now began with those in Clairmont. The aunts had copies on their tablets and pulled them up regularly.
“I always loved that jade tree ornament.”
“I’m surprised you remember it. You never helped decorate.”
“Who do you think took the tree down? Every year I wrapped all the ornaments in tissue paper.”
“Martyr.”
“Here are the pearl earrings Mother promised me.”
“The black pearls? She said I could have them.”
The aunts began to blur into one another as the days of the summer ticked past. Argument after argument, old injuries were rehashed and threaded through new ones.
Variations.
“Tell Granddad how much you love the embroidered tablecloths,” Mummy told me.
“I don’t love them.”
“He won’t say no to you.” The two of us were alone in the Windemere kitchen. She was drunk. “You love me, don’t you, Cadence? You’re all I have now. You’re not like Dad.”
“I just don’t care about tablecloths.”
“So lie. Tell him the ones from the Boston house. The cream ones with the embroidery.”
It was easiest to tell her I would.
And later, I told her I had.
But Bess had asked Mirren to do the same thing,
and neither one of us
begged Granddad
for the fucking tablecloths.
61
Gat and I went night swimming. We lay on the wooden walkway and looked at the stars. We kissed in the attic.
We fell in love.
He gave me a book. With everything, everything.
We didn’t talk about Raquel. I couldn’t ask. He didn’t say.
The twins have their birthday July fourteenth, and there’s always a big meal. All thirteen of us were sitting at the long table on the lawn outside Clairmont. Lobsters and potatoes with caviar. Small pots of melted butter. Baby vegetables and basil. Two cakes, one vanilla and one chocolate, waited inside on the kitchen counter.
The littles were getting noisy with their lobsters, poking each other with claws and slurping meat out of the legs. Johnny told stories. Mirren and I laughed. We were surprised when Granddad walked over and wedged himself between Gat and me. “I want to ask your advice on something,” he said. “The advice of youth.”
“We are worldly and awesome youth,” said Johnny, “so you’ve come to the right end of the table.”
“You know,” said Granddad, “I’m not getting any younger, despite my good looks.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said.
“Thatcher and I are sorting through my affairs. I’m considering leaving a good portion of my estate to my alma mater.”
“To Harvard? For what, Dad?” asked Mummy, who had walked over to stand behind Mirren.
Granddad smiled. “Probably to fund a student center. They’d put my name on it, out front.” He nudged Gat. “What should they call it, young man, eh? What do you think?”
“Harris Sinclair Hall?” Gat ventured.
“Pah.” Granddad shook his head. “We can do better. Johnny?”
“The Sinclair Center for Socialization,” Johnny said, shoving zucchini into his mouth.
“And snacks,” put in Mirren. “The Sinclair Center for Socialization and Snacks.”
Granddad banged his hand on the table. “I like the ring of it. Not educational, but appreciated by everyone. I’m convinced. I’ll call Thatcher tomorrow. My name will be on every student’s favorite building.”
“You’ll have to die before they build it,” I said.
“True. But won’t you be proud to see my name up there when you’re a student?”
“You’re not dying before we go to college,” said Mirren. “We won’t allow it.”
“Oh, if you insist.” Granddad speared a bit of lobster tail off her plate and ate it.
We were caught up easily, Mirren, Johnny, and I—feeling the power he conferred in picturing us at Harvard, the specialness of asking our opinions and laughing at our jokes. That was how Granddad had always treated us.
“You’re not being funny, Dad,” Mummy snapped. “Drawing the children into it.”
“We’re not children,” I told her. “We understand the conversation.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, “or you wouldn’t be humoring him that way.”
A chill went around the table. Even the littles quieted.
Carrie lived with Ed. The two of them bought art that might or might not be valuable later. Johnny and Will went to private school. Carrie had started a jewelry boutique with her trust and ran it for a number of years until it failed. Ed earned money, and he supported her, but Carrie didn’t have an income of her own. And they weren’t married. He owned their apartment and she didn’t.
Bess was raising four kids on her own. She had some money from her trust, like Mummy and Carrie did, but when she got divorced Brody kept the house. She hadn’t worked since she got married, and before that she’d only been an assistant in the offices of a magazine. Bess was living off the trust money and spending through it.
And Mummy. The dog breeding business doesn’t pay much, and Dad wanted us to sell the Burlington house so he could take half. I knew Mummy was living off her trust.
We.
We were living off her trust.
It wouldn’t last forever.
So when Granddad said he might leave his money to build Harvard a student center and asked our advice, he wasn’t involving the family in his financial plans.
He was making a threat.
62
A few evenings later. Clairmont cocktail hour. It began at six or six-thirty, depending on when people wandered up the hill to the big house. The cook was fixing supper and had set out salmon mousse with little floury crackers. I went past her and pulled a bottle of white wine from the fridge for the aunties.
The littles, having been down at the big beach all afternoon, were being forced into showers and fresh clothes by Gat, Johnny, and Mirren at Red Gate, where there was an outdoor shower. Mummy, Bess, and Carrie sat around the Clairmont coffee table.
I brought wineglasses for the aunts as Granddad entered. “So, Penny,” he said, pouring himself bourbon from the decanter on the sideboard, “how are you and Cady doing at Windemere this year, with the change of circumstances? Bess is worried you’re lonely.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Bess.
Carrie narrowed her eyes.
“Yes, you did.” Granddad said to Bess. He motioned for me to sit down. “You talked about the five bedrooms. The renovated kitchen, and how Penny’s alone now and won’t need it.”
“Did you, Bess?” Mummy drew breath.
Bess didn’t reply. She bit her lip and looked out at the view.
“We’re not lonely,” said Mummy told Granddad. “We adore Windemere, don’t we, Cady?”
Granddad beamed at me. “You okay there, Cadence?”
I knew what I was supposed to say. “I’m more than okay there, I’m fantastic. I love Windemere because you built it specially for Mummy. I want to raise my own children there and my children’s children. You are so excellent, Granddad. You are the patriarch and I revere you. I am so glad I am a Sinclair. This is the best family in America.”