Nothing.
“If you don’t open this door right now, I swear to God, I’m calling the cops, and believe me, you do not want—”
The door to my mother’s study swung open, revealing not a hulking monster but a thin, hunched young man. He looked like he was in his midtwenties, even though he was gray-faced, like an old man, with a feathering of colorless hair. His neck was swaddled in a gauzy, forest-green scarf. Above the scarf, two bright spots of rosacea glowed angrily on his cheeks. I took another step back.
“Megan,” he said. Like a blanket of ants, a wave of pinpricks covered my body, the shock of it nearly knocking the breath out of me.
“Who are you?” I said.
“I’m Asa Bloch.” He held out a slender hand. “I’m Frances’s new assistant. I’m terribly, terribly sorry if I scared you. I was just doing some work, returning some correspondence for your mother.”
I looked down at his hand. It was gray like the rest of him, a gray uncooked chicken cutlet. He looked nothing like my mother’s past assistants—aggressive, strong-jawed kids from Westchester County, graduates of Ivy League schools who’d been plotting their takeovers of the publishing industry since they were in diapers. This guy looked so . . . anemic.
“Where is everybody?” I asked.
He withdrew his hand. “Beg pardon?”
I said it louder. “Where is everybody?”
A flicker of understanding and his mouth dropped open. “Oh, no.” He gulped. “I mean, of course. You’re here for the party.”
“Yes. I’m here for the party. Which is today, on my mother’s birthday, like it is every year.”
He flushed. “I’m an absolute idiot. I should have . . . I didn’t even think to . . . Your mother just assumed you weren’t coming. So I guess . . . well, it seems she didn’t tell you.”
He offered a weak smile, but I didn’t return it. I looked behind him instead, to my mother’s massive glass desk, reflecting the glow of her silver computer. Everything was in its place—the ivory leather desk set and the jagged, crystal-white rock she used as a paperweight. Which, incidentally, had never fulfilled its purpose, as Frances had always immediately filed any and every loose piece of paper.
The ivory leather chair, which cost somewhere in the five figures, was pushed back at an angle. He’d been sitting there, right at her desk. I’d never known my mother to let her assistants into her study. Or on her computer. My mother was a control freak about that computer. About her files. About everything in her life.
I looked at him. “The invitation wasn’t mailed ahead of time, like it should’ve been. It was hand delivered to me. Yesterday. By a pool in Vegas.”
He nodded, like this was new information he was mulling over. I could feel fury rising inside me.
“Why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”
He drew in a deep breath. “There was no invitation mailed to you because Frances decided not to include you this year.” He was looking out the window, at the black smudges of trees in the park, and I was glad. My eyes had suddenly, unexpectedly filled. “She thought it was for the best,” he went on. “But then, three days ago, Edgar had the stroke and they put him in the hospital. She told me she had changed her mind. She said she wanted to see you and that I should find you. It was too late to mail it, so I had the invitation messengered to you.”
My mouth went dry. “Wait, Edgar had a stroke? He’s in the hospital? All the note said was that he wasn’t well.”
“Yes, it was a stroke. Three days ago. Your mother’s been very upset about it. The stroke was serious, and he’s old. But, if I may, it seemed like she was really more upset about you.” His eyes locked onto mine like a tractor beam. “The whole situation between you two. Which is why she decided to invite you.”
The skin on my palms began to needle again. He was making all of this—Edgar and the ruined party—sound vaguely like it was my fault.
“She was distraught,” he went on. “She said she didn’t know if she could bear to host the party with Edgar in the hospital. And . . . she seemed convinced that even if you got the invitation, you wouldn’t come. She told me she was tired of being alone and . . .” He shifted uncomfortably.
“So she ran,” I prompted.
He nodded. “She canceled the party this morning. And flew to Palm Springs.”
“Of course she did. So then, as my mother’s humble assistant, you obviously called everybody and told them not to come. Except me. You didn’t call me. Why?”
“Frances said she would.”
“A tip. Don’t ever assume Frances will do what she says. You’ll just be disappointed.”
“And also . . .” He cleared his throat. “I thought you would want to see Edgar.”
My breath hitched. “Well. You were right about that.”
“There’s one more thing,” he said, and I tensed. “And I really shouldn’t be telling you this because I could lose my job, but . . .” His voice faded.
“What?” I demanded.
“It’s about Palm Springs.”
“Palm Springs,” I repeated dully.
“And Beno?t Jaffe,” Asa said.
Beno?t. A French artist Frances and I met at a show in Palm Springs about five or six years ago. I could see him, clear as day. Mop of black hair, thin nose, olive skin. Sexy in a disheveled, helpless kind of way. He’d been married at the time—to an American actress—and was far too young for my mother, but I had a suspicion she hadn’t let that stop her.
“Frances and Beno?t Jaffe went to Palm Springs. To get married,” he added, and I swear, I nearly toppled over, right onto the carpet of my mother’s hallway.
It was a new level of bad. Frances had gotten married without telling me.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 2
Kitten Murphy stood halfway up the wide staircase in the lobby of Ambletern, her hands twined around the carved oak banister, watching the guests from the ferry register at the big oak desk below. Her blonde hair hung in two even braids just past her thin shoulders.
From inside the door of the hotel, Fay watched her. The girl’s face didn’t move the way most girls’ did, all untamed flashes and fits. It appeared nearly immobile, almost preternaturally composed for a girl so young. Even her braids seemed carved in stone. She watched the incoming guests with wide, green, unblinking eyes, her lips curved in what some people might’ve called contempt, if she’d been of age. As she was only eight years old, Fay decided it was bashfulness.
Before she could introduce herself to the girl, Fay was swept into the crowd of guests. She met a lovely young couple, the Cormleys; a boy named Henrick and his gregarious mother; and an older lady, with an imperious air, called Miss Bolan. They were all so glamorous, Fay thought, far more than she. She considered herself lucky to meet such people.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Five