“Really?” Pansy asks. “You’ll want to be nicer to me. Connie Rensselaer is making those spinach things for tomorrow. I told her they were your special favorite.”
Emerson groans. Connie Rensselaer’s mini spanakopitas were a bland and soggy mess, which isn’t surprising, given that the Rensselaers aren’t Greek and none of them have ever cared a whit about food despite having “hot and cold running help,” as Loulou used to say.
“You did not.”
“No, I didn’t,” she admits. “But don’t tempt me. I told her the caterers were taking care of everything, but she insisted.”
If Louis hears this sibling back and forth, he doesn’t show it, and Nell recognizes a fellow pro. She’s honed similar political skills in depositions and courtrooms and knows exactly how much effort is required to make this look natural. As she watches his finesse, she decides that if one of the most expensive firms in town, plus Loulou—who’d been a notorious snob—can trust him, then she’ll keep an open mind.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Louis says, calling this meeting to attention. Tactfully dealing with death is a requirement in his area of law. He sits on an overstuffed chintz loveseat, the bottomed-out springs forcing his knees up to his chest as he roots through a document bag, unpacking clipped stacks of paper onto the floor until Pansy clears the coffee table.
Emerson slumps in his chair, the caning long ago busted out on the sides. He scrolls through his phone, so big it’s like a piece of toast. Emerson works for one of the big New York banks, a fact Baldwin enjoys strategically wedging into conversations. He’s taken a hit in the downturn, but managed to save his job by working twice as hard. His phone is now an appendage.
His slumped posture and distracted manner say “I don’t see why we have to do any of this.” His attention to his phone says “We all already know what’s in these documents.” And Nell feels that familiar mix of envy and yearning she’s often felt when confronted with Emerson’s place in the family.
Louis’s email had said he wanted the three cousins, Emerson, Pansy, and Nell, here to go over procedure and process since they’d be in town already for the memorial service and wake. He’d have private meetings with each of them later.
He passes out copies of the will. In her reply email, Nell had requested to be given a copy as right at this meeting and the others had followed on. She’d probably annoyed this Louis lawyer with that, but the pro shows no inkling of it as he hands her a stack.
As a warm-up, he walks them through small gifts to the nurses first, then moves on to a few charities where Loulou had long served on the board, followed by token legacies for well-remembered godchildren. She had about a half dozen of them. It’s not something they need to go over, and Nell recognizes that he’s leading them in slowly. After a diplomatic amount of time, and proper mutterings about the propriety of all this, Louis continues.
“The firm has been privileged to work with this family. This is just going to be a preliminary discussion about the timelines moving forward.” He passes out more papers, which are flipped and shuffled in earnest.
“And as you know, the firm has a long track record with families such as yours—”
“Nell’s the executor?” Pansy’s voice is calm, her back ramrod straight, feet on the floor now. “Daddy, did you know?” Like a jailhouse lawyer who’s picked up enough law to advocate for his fellow inmates, being an old-line WASP means Pansy’s picked up enough legalese to read a will. She looks at her father. “What does that mean?”
They’ve all zeroed in on Nell’s status first. Nell feels the effort they’ve been putting into appearing friendly while they were controlling their curiosity. She rifles the papers in her lap for something to look at, shock and a slight edge of excitement racing through her. She can feel Baldwin’s eyes on her.
He leans back. “I did, honey. Your grandmother and I discussed it.”
“You’ll see,” Louis says, cutting off this topic, “she left very specific bequests to each of you.”
The prized Canaletto goes to Emerson, along with the first-edition Emersons, which is only fitting.
To Pansy she’s left the jewelry in a safe-deposit box downtown. Louis hands Pansy a tiny key and a printout of passcodes and PINs.
And to Nell she’s left a necklace.
“We haven’t managed to find it yet,” Louis is saying to her. “But I’m sure it’s here somewhere. I apologize,” he says, perhaps noticing Nell sit up straighter as her lawyer brain kicks into gear. “But your grandmother—” Nell starts at the word; she was Aunt Loulou to her. “Sorry, your great-aunt was easily upset at the end and it was decided it was best not to have a bunch of strangers in the house looking for it.” It’s then that Nell’s lawyer armor fully slips on, because if he were her associate, he’d be getting a dressing-down right now. As the lawyer for the estate, he should be on this. He should have made sure someone found it, whether or not Loulou was acting cranky.
“She was pretty loony tunes at the end,” Baldwin says to Nell, and then turns to his children and says, more loudly, “She was hoarding scrap silver.”
“We did manage to clean out the basement. We had a team that was very sensitive,” Louis says directly to Nell, as if she is already in charge.
“Found a whole room filled with nothing but quart mason jars filled with rancid water, like a typhoid version of an air-raid shelter,” Baldwin is saying. “And then the scrap silver, of course.” He nods his head at Louis. “Bins and bins of it. There was a shoebox with some gold Krugerrands, too. Couple of cases of Chartreuse as well.”
Nell’s picturing Ali Baba’s cave in that dirt-floor basement, but filled with gold formerly under international sanction, tarnished flatware, and liquor that tastes like a Swiss cough drop.
“The gold has been valued and included in the statements,” Louis says, trying to sound thorough. “The silver is going to be dicey.”
“She was concerned with the collapse of Western civilization, like, legitimately concerned with a coming Armageddon,” Pansy says, and Nell can’t tell if Pansy shares this belief or is just protective of her grandmother.
“Like the zombie apocalypse?” Emerson says, eyes still on his phone. “You guys couldn’t have had her in some blue chips or something?” he says to Louis, who holds up both hands in defense. Lawyers don’t handle investments, and it was Loulou’s money to do with as she liked, however ill-advised. They all know this.
“So who knows if that necklace is real,” Baldwin continues, turning to Nell. “I never saw Mother wear it. Not once.” He stops stitching when he looks up and says, “I think she said it was cursed, but that could just be more bats-in-the-belfry stuff. Seems like you got the delusional gift.”
His quick dismissal of her single legacy makes her feel like this should be expected. She didn’t really think she was here to receive anything legitimate, did she? Nothing besides some leftovers or a mix-up should be expected, even if she is executor.