“I’ve got a new chanting group for healing you might like,” Pansy continues. “You should try it while you’re here.”
Louis is packing up his much slimmer document case. Paper is strewn around the room as if he’s detonated a bomb. Nell tries to catch his eye as he moves toward the door, but he won’t look at her. She has questions, and she wants to ask them away from Pansy. She gives up any pretense of disinterest and follows him to the front hall, ditching her gum in the wrapper and stashing it in her empty glass.
“You don’t know where this thing is?” she asks his retreating back.
He turns and holds up his hands, as if to say “Search me.”
Nell doesn’t want an enemy, so she won’t challenge his handling of the inventory. “Did she have any other messages for me? As executor, maybe?”
His forehead furrows and lines crease the corners of his intelligent eyes, drawing them down and giving him a competent look, as if he can handle anything thrown his way. She suddenly wonders what he thinks of this whole business, if he finds them all ridiculous. “She was sure of what she was doing, if that’s what you’re asking.” He places both of his bags at his feet and widens his stance, bracing for an inquisition.
“I’m glad she knew what she was doing. I have no clue.”
“She didn’t really confide in me,” he says. “I mean, beyond the professional.” Nell doesn’t doubt that. Loulou confided in few people. “But you being a lawyer certainly had something to do with her choice of executor. She did mention that a few times.”
“Loulou was a Libra,” Pansy says, coming up behind them, and not even pretending she didn’t overhear. “The scales, you know.” She holds her hands up with an imaginary set of weights. “They have an acute sense of fairness.” She addresses Louis as if Nell isn’t there. “As they define it, of course.” With that, she walks out to retrieve something from her car.
“She was kind of an outcast, my mom.” Nell tries to feel normal as the intricate gears of her family are revealed to him. But she shouldn’t feel uncomfortable. In his role as estate attorney, Louis’s already had an eyeful.
“From what I can tell, your mother was very much on Loulou’s mind,” he says generously.
“Are you staying?” Pansy asks, coming back from the car with a saddle leather tote. When Nell doesn’t answer, she says, “Brian’s out of town and I’ve scheduled sleepovers for the boys. You really should, you know.” She breezes past as if she is Lady Bountiful distributing largesse.
After Pansy passes them, Louis trains his blue eyes on Nell, so light they’re almost gray. “Yeah,” he says, not unkindly. “Shouldn’t say it. But even the little exposure I’ve had to your family, I’ve gotta say—I’m glad I’m not you right now.” And with that, he hefts his bags and leaves.
1925
THE BOOTLEG CHAMPAGNE
May insisted on throwing Ambrose a party at the farm, as if she were auditioning for the role of wife, showcasing her skill as a hostess, trying to change his mind about leaving on his trip. He wanted to tell her that her strategy was obvious, and that no one doubted her abilities, least of all him. But he wouldn’t say that to her now; tomorrow he’d be gone.
She’d arranged it all perfectly, yes. The food was supposedly Chinese. The guests were avoiding it. She’d even found some recipe for milky Indian tea with spices, which everyone ignored in favor of illegal champagne. Little maps hung off the portico and fluttered in the hot breeze—Japan, Korea, all of Africa. A large poster shaped like a postage stamp, with “Bon Voyage, Ambrose!!!” written on it in May’s girlish looping script, was propped against the bandstand—the three exclamation points at the end like jabs.
Given that she wanted a real party, and that meant cocktails, she’d convinced his brother, Ethan, to throw the shindig at his newly built country place instead of her parents’ house in town.
Ambrose settled an arm across Ethan’s heavy shoulder as they watched the guests on the lawn. Ambrose felt a sudden wave of anticipatory nostalgia. He’d invited his brother on the trip only once, and Ethan had declined with certainty. But two brothers off to see the world, really that made such an engaging picture, didn’t it? Standing there now, Ambrose felt he should have pressed. His brother should be coming with him. He’d have taken their sister, Loulou, with him if she’d been older. Poor thing was dying for adventure and had been a willing audience as he planned his trip, living vicariously through his many choices as if they were her own.
“Wonder what Father would think of this.” Ambrose joggled his glass. The smell of the sharp pine water Ethan used for shaving mixed with the astringent bubbles from their champagne in the heat.
Their father, Israel Quincy, would not be pleased to see them drinking. He was a well-known teetotaler, a throwback to his Puritan ancestors, and a man who publicly supported Prohibition despite his two sons sitting at the hub of the young social whirl, which included illegal liquor.
“Sober mirth and controlled rapture,” Ethan said.
“More like ecstatic piousness and wanton boredom.” Ambrose enjoyed needling his older brother, something he’d been doing since they were boys. Teasing Ethan made him feel closer to his brother, as if they were on the same team. And today Ambrose wanted to confirm that they were still on the same team. He’d never outright thank Ethan for the party; that would only make them both uncomfortable.
“He disapproves of excess of any kind,” Ethan said, reflexive in defense of his father, in defense of anyone, really.
Yes, the teetotaling made Israel seem fussy and, Ambrose hated to admit it, a bit feminine. Temperance was a women’s issue.
“Except excess money in his bank account,” Ambrose said, and nodded deeply in mock solemnity.
“And your bank account,” Ethan said, clipped. “Your travel accounts.”
The brothers sipped their drinks in silent acknowledgment of their father’s munificence.
“It looks good,” Ambrose finally said, gesturing toward the house. “All it needs is a moat.”
Ethan kept his eyes on the house across the lawn, but Ambrose knew his brother recognized the olive branch in the backhanded compliment. It was the only type of compliment tolerated between the brothers.
It was then a third joined their group, shouldering into Ambrose, and sloshing a good amount of his drink on the lawn.