Lea let Harry come home after two months. “Every dog gets one bite,” she said to him, “but only one. If you do it again, we’re through. That’s a promise.” Harry had been wretched away from Lea and his daughters. “I won’t do it again. I love you,” he said. “The girls don’t have to go to church.”
“I don’t know why I did it,” he said to Sam. “She came on to me.”
“That makes it less your fault, I take it,” Sam said. He stared at his brother. “You’re a good man, Harry, but you’re a schmuck. You need to take responsibility for what you do. And, for chrissakes, stop blurting. None of us, Lea, Mom, me, want to hear your confessions. Maybe you should become a Catholic. They have priests who’ll listen. Or try analysis.”
“I can’t help it. I say it before I know I’ve said it. I do it everywhere. It gets me in trouble at the law school too.”
“You could stop justifying what you’ve blurted. That is in your control.”
“I’m a lawyer, Sam,” Harry said. “I argue. It’s second nature.”
“You’re doing it again, schmuck,” Sam said.
—
Eleanor called Jack and laid out her plan for the trust. He thought it a great idea. “I liked those boys. If they were our brothers, we could be heroes, seven of us, like Seven Samurai.”
“How’s Kate?” Eleanor asked.
“Holding,” he said. “I think Ingrid has perfect pitch.”
“At seven months.”
Jack laughed. “An infant prodigy.”
Tom also approved of the trust. “Good day’s work, Mom,” he said. “Didn’t Freud say money was shit? We should spread it around, like manure, to make things grow.”
The phone went quiet. “Are you there?” Eleanor said.
“I’m changing the subject. I have news,” Tom said.
“Yes,” Eleanor said.
“We’re adopting a little girl. Lila. She’s three. She’s been in three foster homes. They all wanted to adopt her. Her mother wouldn’t allow it. She’s finally relinquished her rights. She told the social worker, ‘I wanted someone who’d educate her right.’?”
“Wonderful news. I’m so happy for you both. I wondered…” She stopped.
“Caroline wanted a baby but I couldn’t see it; too many humans already on the planet. This will be good. She’s very sweet.” Tom laughed. “She’s blond.”
As she hung up, Eleanor wondered at the self-centeredness of her sons. Only Will, most like his father, was exempt. When do they finally grow up? she asked herself. She had thought she had taken the long view with them. She had thought forty was the horizon. “Perhaps it’s fifty now.” She decided to go to the movies. Mystic River was playing around the corner.
—
Sam and Harry were both annoyed that Will had been named a Wolinski trustee. “Why Will?”
“He didn’t interfere with my plans,” Eleanor said.
“Aren’t you glad we met with Hugh?” Sam said. “You found out you’ll never find out.”
“He didn’t want the money,” Harry said. “You didn’t need to do it.”
“The money goes to them only if Vera doesn’t spend it all,” Eleanor said.
“I thought the trust can’t be invaded,” Harry said.
“Not without permission of the trustees,” Eleanor said. “We’ll give permission. Another reason not to have either of you as trustee.”
“Why are you doing this?” Harry said.
Eleanor stared at him. “I’m settling your father’s just debts.”
—
Gemma Bowles Phipps Falkes was born on October 18, 2003. Susanna and Sam were giddy with happiness. She was named for Granny Bowles. Sam handed out Cubans. He had a friend who had a friend who had an acquaintance who had a supplier. “It’s easier to get cocaine than Cubans,” he said to his mother. “Cheaper too.”
“I don’t want to know this,” Eleanor said.
Gemma was born with a thatch of black hair, “breaking the Rupert spell,” Eleanor thought. Four weeks later, her dark hair fell out; the hair coming in was white-blond.
A week after the birth, Andrew called Sam. “How could you do it,” he said. “How could you do it?” He was crying. “I wanted a child. We’ve been over and over this,” Sam said. He waited until Andrew caught his breath. “I hope you get what you want too.” He hung up.
“Who was that?” Susanna said.
“Rumpelstiltskin,” Sam said.
Sam and Susanna had moved into their Siamese apartments two weeks before Gemma was born. They kept the door between them open so Sam could come and go. He hired a full-time housekeeper. He bought groceries and wine and stacked both dishwashers. Eleanor gave them each a set of the Christofle silver.
“I sometimes feel bad about Andrew, but mostly not. He was awful to me,” Susanna said. She looked down at her baby lying on her lap, snuffling like a piglet. “Isn’t she beautiful,” Susanna said.
Sam reached down to stroke Gemma’s small head. “Who does she look like?” he asked. “Does she look like me?”
“Around the eyes,” Susanna said. “Isn’t she beautiful.”
“She’s funny-looking,” he said, “like all newborns.” Susanna glared at him. He backtracked. “Perhaps a little less.”
Susanna swatted his hand away. “I require adoration from her father,” she said.
“I didn’t have that kind of father. We had to do something to get his attention, let alone approval,” Sam said.
“I miss him,” Susanna said. Sam nodded.
“I still haven’t heard from my father,” she said. “Or my mother.”
“You are a miracle,” Sam said. “Gemma is a miracle.”
He went out of the room briefly, returning with a small box. “For you,” he said. “He’d have wanted it.” Susanna opened the box. Inside was Rupert’s Patek Philippe watch. “I can’t. It’s yours,” she said.
“You must,” he said. “It’s right. I claimed it for you.” He took the watch out of the box and fastened it on her wrist. It hung loosely, like a bracelet. Holding Gemma against her body, Susanna wept.
—
Hannah Bigelow’s letter, coming on the fourth anniversary of Rupert’s death, was a jolt. Everyone had finally settled down. Eleanor held on to it for two weeks before telling the boys. Carlo was indignant. “A Gypsy fraud if ever I heard of one.” He looked at Eleanor. “What is it?” he asked. She had closed her eyes.
“It’s the photograph,” Eleanor said. “Another wretched photograph.”
The photograph had come with the letter. It showed a young family, standing in front of a Gothic church, in coats, probably in the 1930s, a father, a mother holding an infant, and three small children, the oldest no more than three.
The letter read:
10 April 2004
Dear Mrs. Falkes,