He suddenly sounds sober. “You know I hate to get in the middle.”
“What middle?” Nell feels the unseen ice of family dynamics shifting under her feet.
He pauses, looking at the sparkly heap. “You might give Pansy some of it.”
Nell lifts up an old compact. “She can have whatever she wants.” Nell waggles the tarnished thing. “I mean, of course she can.”
He sighs, coming into the room. “You know she’s still a gigantic pain in the ass, right? It’s not like she’s changed.”
Nell says nothing. A brother has a right to criticize, but she knows he’d take umbrage at her piling on.
“And she was kind of shitty to you the other day.” He’s opening the door of the narrowest closet, recessed in the wall with hidden hardware, meant to store something valuable.
She hadn’t thought Pansy was particularly shitty to her. She’d thought that given the state of things, Pansy was pretty generous. But maybe Nell doesn’t know what shitty looks like, always happy with crumbs, with merely being included. Maybe if you were Emerson, you’d know from shitty.
He hauls out a disturbing fur coat that looks like a dead bear and dons it, doing a lurching Charleston on the faded rose-colored rug. Rhythm is not a Quincy family trait.
“It’s disintegrating,” Nell says, as bits of fur fly around the room.
“Raccoon.” He sneezes heartily. “It might have fleas, though.”
There’s a gray astrakhan with a pale pink lining hanging next to a glossy floor-length sable that’s shedding in the heat.
“Surprising,” Nell says.
“Oh, this wasn’t hers,” Emerson says, lifting a sleeve that shows the cracked hides underneath. “The good stuff never is. These have got to be theirs,” he says, referring to Ethan and May Quincy. “G-Lou was so upset, you know. Everything landing on her head. She couldn’t deal. I mean, the stuff,” he says, “it was nice stuff, but it was an avalanche. Plus, she wasn’t even twenty. That’s pretty young to be in charge of a kid.” He pauses only now, remembering that he’s talking to Nell. “Dad says that’s why she married Granddad Dicky. He stepped in and took control, protected her, I guess. Before they started fighting like gatos y perros.”
“I don’t think she really threw any of their stuff away,” Em continues. “Just pushed it to the back of the closet and put her stuff on top. Amazing, when you think of it. That she loved her brother that much. Imagine feeling that way.” Emerson stuffs the coat back in the closet. “Pansy would have my shit on the curb and hauled away chop-chop if I bit it unexpectedly.”
“She would not,” Nell says, smiling.
“Who are you trying to fool?” Emerson asks. “But you should do what you want,” he calls as he heads back into the bathroom. “Don’t you call the shots and stuff now?”
Nell crosses the room and opens Loulou’s closets with a deep sense of trespass, tempered by having Emerson in the next room to make her feel like everything’s on the up and up. He’s running the taps, washing his hands. The closet smells like the inside of an alligator handbag mixed with faded gardenia. Thin chiffon and dangling silks hang in organized rows, a crunchy lavender sachet tied to the top of each hanger. Loulou’s handbags neatly line the top shelf—some glossy, well-tended clutches and a Chanel in the classic style. There’s a tidy stack of silk scarves as well.
Nell gets it all down and spreads it across the bed, trying to make an enticing display. This will show how fair she can be, how magnanimous. It’s only a symbol, yes, but symbols are important, she tells herself as she essentially merchandises Loulou’s old things.
Back at the dressing table she opens the final drawer to find it packed almost exclusively with cards and letters. Nell unfolds them, thinking they might make for a nice token, too. She’s admiring a fancy dance card with a pagoda on the cover and a silken cord for the wrist when her hand grazes a dust-furred lump.
It gives her a shudder and, thinking it’s a dead mouse, she steadies herself. She takes a sip of warm Jack and, almost pulling the drawer out of the runner, sees it’s an ancient and faded Crown Royal whiskey bag.
When she finally gets the triple knot undone she steels herself to look inside, bracing for unknown horrors, but instead sees a glint of gold and sparkle.
A clear blue stone of immense size is set amid a surrounding circle of nine different jewels. She knows immediately that it’s the necklace from the will, her necklace. And yet it’s not at all what she’d imagined. She’d been expecting something refined, a bit more traditional. This is tribal and chunky, dull and totemic, with a spirit of its own. She spots a pearl, what looks like a diamond, coral, and other stones she’s unsure of surrounding the main stone, as big as any she’s ever seen. She flips it over and finds exquisite enameling on the back—so detailed against the skin, it’s a crime only the wearer sees it. Brittle metal ribbons are attached to the sides, and she spies an artlessly rewoven spot. “Condition issues,” that’s what Baldwin calls damage. “Makes it less valuable, but more sentimental,” he’d say, as if Quincys preferred it that way.
Without thinking too much about it, she props it under her chin and ties the cords at the back of her neck. Through the grime, a high shine sparkles, and even Nell can recognize that it looks good. It might be the first piece of jewelry she’s ever put on that actually feels right, that feels like she doesn’t want to take it off.
“That’s some hippie shit, right?” Emerson asks, coming into the room, toweling his hands. “Imagine old G-Lou in a sixties mode.” And then he seems to check himself, remembering that this is Nell’s inheritance. “It’s nice, though,” he offers.
“From Ethan and May?”
“Who knows?” he says, eyeing it suspiciously. “From what I’ve seen, most of their stuff is more understated.” Of course, thinks Nell. Of course, between now and yesterday he and Pansy have already been down to the safe-deposit box to check out her loot—the art deco diamonds with jade and onyx, the Edwardian emeralds set in platinum with pearls. Nell knows she would. “But I can’t imagine G-Lou ever buying that,” Em says, inclining his head.
Thinking some action will make her feel better, she takes it off before turning to go downstairs and invite everyone up to choose something.
She’s met with surprised quick nods, which indicate a desire not to participate. Never mind, once there’s a small exodus up the stairs, the rest begin to follow.
A small crowd of women gathers around the bed, looking at Loulou’s things, commenting on her taste, remarking on her penchant for quality. No one wants to go first.
When Pansy walks into the room she takes a slow stroll around the bed and then sidles up to Nell. “Can I speak with you?” Everyone averts their eyes as Nell follows her.