36
There’s a funny flurry in the air around us all that morning.
Maybe for me it’s two flurries. The flurry of Sam, but probably more predominantly, a weird feeling like we’re on our way to talk to a dead man.
My mom is quiet in a way that seems subdued, and I wonder whether maybe she’s on something? Debbie is with her again, and while I don’t like her, I can appreciate how supportive she and her husband have been to my mom. She’s made everyone breakfast, she’s helped my mom pick out an outfit, and she’s driving Mom over.
Maryanne’s dressed for mourning again, and I stare at her black dress from J. Crew and wonder whether her neck is perpetually itchy from all those high collars.
She gives me a dark look when she sees me, but she’s not even aware she’s doing it, I don’t think. It’s as though her aggression toward me is deep-seated and barely conscious. Her eyes flick up and down the little black Stern mini dress from Staud I’m wearing (it has sleeves, so everyone calm down!) and she rolls her eyes. I’m appropriately dressed, I just want to say.
It’s not quite summer yet, but we’re in the Carolinas. It’s hot here. I look fine to sit uncomfortably in a room with people I don’t really like and probably get left a disproportionately low amount of inheritance compared to the two favored siblings.
It’s Tennyson who corrals us out the door, pointing. “Mom, you go with Debbie—Oliver, you ride with Georgia. Maryanne and Jase, do you want to come with me, or will you take your own car?”
Maryanne doesn’t like being told what to do ever, so she rolls her eyes and fishes for her own keys in silence, muttering about how this is a hard day for her and Tennyson should be nicer, and I wonder if it’s actually possible that she can block out that he was Tenny’s dad too.
And mine and Oliver’s, but he was a different dad to us, so I think it’s incomparable.
But Maryanne and Tens, they had the same dad.
This day might legitimately be difficult for Maryanne, but because of who she is and what her personality disorder means, she’ll pit her grief against everyone else’s and hers will be worse and harder, even if it isn’t. She will take center stage in this meeting with our father’s lawyer.
She might let Mom have a minute in the spotlight, not because it was Mom’s husband who died, but because it’s what a narcissist would do to gain the upper hand. Letting the grieving widow grieve is the right thing to do, and because we’ve all spent so much of our lives accommodating Maryanne—it’s innate to our mother at this point—it’ll dupe Mom again, like it has a thousand times before.
It’s like Maryanne knows how and when to preload people with tokens, and she does it with such foresight that when it’s time for them to regurgitate the loyalty or the yielding she so requires, they just do it. My sister can pull strings in people they don’t even know they have.
Sam comes down the stairs, pushing Oliver in front of him, both hands on his shoulders, and my heart stops in its tracks, because I guess it just does that around Sam now.
He’s making him walk down the stairs, I can tell that much. There’s trepidation all over my brother.
Oliver’s wearing tight black jeans, a white T-shirt with the sleeves cuffed up, and Gucci loafers, and Maryanne’s husband eyes him like he’s weird, but actually Oliver just looks handsome. He looks perfectly handsome.
And how his face looks right now is breaking my heart. His jaw is tight and his brows are lowered; his eyes can’t settle. It’s how he looked every Sunday we’d go to church and he knew everyone in this stupid town was whispering about him before he had even come out. Mom and Dad would drag him there for his sexuality to be bound and his spirit to be trampled, and this is how he looks now, like he’s walking into the lion’s den. Maybe he is.
Sam keeps his hand on my brother, steadying him because Oliver needs it, but he looks over at me, his eyes more intentional and raw than they probably should be. His eyes flick down me the way eyes do once you’ve seen a person naked. I grab my keys from the key bowl and say, “Let’s go,” and walk out the door because something in my chest catches with how Penny’s staring at me.
Like my whole life has been a corset done up too tightly, and slowly he’s unlacing me.
He opens the passenger door for Oliver and then wordlessly climbs into the backseat of my car, which I didn’t want him to do, but he had to, because why would he sit in the front instead of Oliver?
It’s maybe a forty-minute drive to Beaufort, and I look over at my littlest big brother in the passenger seat. Oliver’s got his head leaning back against the headrest, staring out the window, and the soundtrack to this moment is “(No One Knows Me) Like the Piano” by Sampha, which is bitter in its irony because nothing in our mother’s home knows either of us.
“You look nervous,” I tell him.
“I’m not.” He frowns at me more than he already is, accidentally accentuating my point.
I sigh and roll my eyes. “Can you like, just do me a solid this morning and not make me work for the truth?”
Oliver gives me a long look, a bit resentful but mostly just afraid. “What if it’s like last time?”
“Then it’ll be like last time.” All I can do is shrug. “And I’ll give you half and we’ll never talk to these people again.”
He nods absentmindedly, but I know his question isn’t about the money, and I’ve wondered about it myself. Not just about him, even though definitely about him—but me too. What if they reject us—again?
Like they have a thousand times before, in a million different ways. What if our father’s Last Will and Testament is a document immortalizing his rejection of us?
I don’t have an answer. I don’t have a way to soften the horrors that may lie before us. I have nothing comforting to say to my brother beyond the trifling “we don’t need them” shit I’ve thrown him too many times before, which is both true and irrelevant all at once.
We don’t need them. But we would like them.
We get there last because my sister drives like the rules of the road don’t apply to her, and I’m also still used to driving in England, so I’m being extra careful.
I’m disappointed everyone’s already inside when we get there, because Dad’s lawyer is a vibe.
It’s hard to tell whether Desmond Clarke is an older gay man or just, like, very into purple? For someone of his generation, in a town like this, even if he was, I don’t know whether he’d feel like he actually could be, so I’ve never asked and he’s never told and it doesn’t actually matter, anyway. All you need to know is that he’s eccentric and flamboyant and so wonderful and charming and warm. He makes my mum and Maryanne megauncomfortable, so naturally I’ve always really liked him.
I was hoping to get to see them dodge his attempts to hug them, but when we arrive, they’re all already seated.
“Darling.” Desmond grips both my arms. “Always a vision.” He gives me the dead-dad smile.
I shift my hair backward and over my shoulders because I don’t feel like being a vision today.
“And I’ve not met this one before.” He looks past me. “Which one are you with?”
“Me.” Oliver smiles brightly, and how happy he looks to say that pangs me with a guilt I probably should feel all the time at this point. Dull, like a butter knife in the stomach.
Instinctively, in that moment, Sam and I would want to look at each other; that’s just what this particular circumstance asks for. We’d be glancing at each other in an attempt to self-affirm that what Oliver just declared was, in fact, false. Sam is not Oliver’s. Bodies always give us away.
But not mine. I know where my eyes will want to look, and I know the little things other people pick up on without meaning to that give them “just a feeling” that something’s going on, so even though Sam looks at me when Oliver says that, I just look at Oliver with a disinterested but somewhat apparent smile.
Oliver sits down, Sam following, and Desmond whispers to me, “That boy’s not gay.”
I sniff a laugh. “I know,” I whisper back.
More than you realize, old man.
Violet moves through our family to get to me, and she gives me a big squeeze, then brings my hair back forward over my shoulders, and I know she does this on purpose. It’s not to belittle me but to affirm me. I have hot-girl hair. I know I do. Boys love it; girls hate it.
Maryanne despises it.
Violet used to say you could tell what mood Maryanne was in by how I wore my hair. Out, pleasant. Ponytail, cloudy. Bun, look out.
My aunt boops me on the nose. “You look good, baby. You feeling good?”
I give her a tight smile and a shrug because I don’t know how to answer that. “Are you?”
She breathes in and sighs. “Not really.”
I squeeze her hand.
“Thank you everyone for coming here today,” Dessie starts, sitting behind his desk. “And can I first off just express my deepest and most heartfelt condolences to each of you, but particularly you, Peggy.” He reaches for my mother’s hand.
Maryanne sniffs loudly, and I roll my eyes before I can get a hold of them.
She glares over at me and I discreetly flip her off, which I think I’ve done a million times in my head but never outside of it, and her eyes widen and her nostrils flare: AU9.
Contempt. So, nothing new then.
I stare her down for a second longer and then shift away, thoroughly enjoying not being under her thumb. As I shift my gaze back to Des, I see Sam in my periphery, looking straight ahead but trying not to laugh.
Des clears his throat. “Shall we get started then?”
There’s a murmur of agreement, and we all nod or something of the sort, and I find myself crossing my arms over my chest because I’m more afraid than I want to be.
It’s not about the money. I don’t care about the money. It’s about it being written down for all the world to see that my dad loves me and my brother less than the other two.
And it occurs to me just then, that my dad died thinking I slept with Maryanne’s boyfriend. He’ll never know I didn’t. I’ll always be a slut to him.
Dessie flips through some papers then peers around the room and flashes us a mass apologetic smile, “I, William Marcus Carter, resident in the City of Okatie, County of Beaufort, State of South Carolina, being of sound mind and body, not acting under duress or undue influence, and fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereof, do hereby inscribe, publish, and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, and hereby revoke any and all other wills and codicils heretofore made by me.” Des glances back up at us again before proceeding.
“I devise and bequeath my property, both real and personal and wherever situated, as follows: To my wife and the mother of my children, Margaret Elizabeth Carter, I leave our family home in Okatie, Beaufort, SC. 207 Callawassie Drive, as well as a 10% share of my company, W. Carter Air, and the deed to our vacation home in the Florida Keys—”
Mom shifts in her seat and I think she looks uncomfortable, or in the very least, underwhelmed.
Admittedly, I don’t know a lot about their estate. I don’t know what they own, I don’t know what they have in the bank, I don’t know where they’ve invested. I know that dad has an airplane parts company that makes bank, the boat, a little jet, the Keys house, and more cars than it’s sensible for one man to own.
Des continues, shifting his gaze to Vi. “To my sister Violet Carter-Reed, I gift Panfilo Nuvolone’s Still Life with Grapes, Peaches, and Pears .”
Clay gives her a knee a squeeze and a kind smile.
Des turns now to Tennyson, who swallows—his eyes that have become increasingly sweet to me are all big and nervous. “To my eldest son, I leave the remaining ninety percent of W. Carter Air and my 1963 Shelby Cobra. To my youngest daughter”—Desmond’s eyes fall on me—“Georgia Carter, I leave Lot 42 of Adams Shore Drive in Moultonborough, New Hampshire.” Oliver’s face scrunches up as he mouths “what?” to me, and I just shrug because like fuck do I know. I quickly glance at Tennyson—even he looks confused.
Des keeps going. “My first-edition copy of The Love Affairs of Lord Byron by Francis Gribble”—Sam snaps his head in my direction at that, and our eyes catch even though they shouldn’t, and his face tells me that he believes this is incontrovertible proof that his theory was right, and maybe it is, but what the fuck does that even mean?—“and my Adirondack cedar guide boat, The Saint Emilion .”
At that, my mother breathes out her nose probably a bit louder than she means to and flicks her eyes upward, which I believe was her absolute best effort at not rolling them all the way.
Desmond clears his throat. “To Alexis Beauchêne, I bequeath my lake house—”
The room goes still.
“What lake house?” Oliver asks first, and for a second it makes me sad, because he’s so removed from the rest of our family that he hasn’t noticed the most integral bit of information we were all just delivered.
Dessie rattles off an address I clock in my memory (I also clock Adams Shore Drive, Moultonborough), but I’m not looking at him anymore. I’m looking at Maryanne, whose face has contorted into the most extreme version of annoyed a person could be, and then proceeds to loudly ask the question the rest of us are all thinking:
“Um, who?”
Des clears his throat. “Alexis Beauchêne,” he says again, and then, upon realizing none of us know who that is, he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
Tennyson’s gone stiff as a board. I can see it all over his face. Who else could it be? It’s the girl. It’s that girl he told me about. It has to be.
“Hold on.” Maryanne shakes her head. “Who is that?” She looks around at everyone. “I’ve never heard of her, who is she?”
“I—” Desmond starts, and his eyes are darting around to each of us.
My mom’s very still.
Tennyson’s going to give himself away if he doesn’t pull his face together in a hot minute. He’s like a rabbit caught in a fence, but he’s lucky because no one’s focusing on him at all; the rest of our family is staring at Desmond Clarke like he just announced he has a third nipple.
My mom cranes her neck at the papers. “Who is that? Can you—tell me? Who is—who is it?” She swallows.
“Uh.” Desmond blinks, and I wonder whether attorney-client privilege is coming into play. “Ms. Carter—”
“Mrs.,” she clarifies sharply.
“Mrs.” Des nods. “Mrs. Carter—I…I’m so sorry, I can’t. But I can assure you that this will was drafted up only a little over nine months ago, and the preceding wills for the duration of the time I’ve been your husband’s lawyer have always included Alexis Beauchêne.”
“Okay.” My mom shakes her head—so, not okay. “So this lake house, it’s what? A small house on a swamp in Florida or something?”
“Er.” Desmond clears his throat again, but I’m already typing the address into Zillow.
“It’s estimated value is four-point-seven million dollars,” I say.
“WHAT?” Maryanne yells.
“What?” Oliver blinks.
Tennyson pales more. Violet’s blinking a lot, and Mom looks nauseous.
I glance over at Sam because I want a split second of a reprieve. His brows are low and he swallows heavily once, and my heart slows a little, probably in sync to his blinking.
I look back at my bug-eyed family.
“Who cares?” I swat my hand. “It’s fine.”
“Speak for yourself.” Jase rolls his eyes.
“Son.” Des gives him a look. “You’re not even in the will.”
I give Jase a smug smile. “Who cares if Dad wanted to leave someone a lake house? It’s not our money, anyway—it’s up to him what he does with his stuff.”
“Shut up!” Maryanne bursts. “You didn’t even know him.”
In my periphery, I see Sam arc up a bit, and I want to look at him to tell him it’s fine—and also just to look at him—but both actions would give us away.
“Yeah, well whose fault is that?” I spit.
“Why are we having this conversation again?” my sister growls. “I said I was sorry; I told you that I didn’t—”
“Yeah, but you’re a fucking liar,” I interrupt.
“Guys.” Tenny touches my arm, but I shrug him off.
“You just need to let it go,” Maryanne tells me. “I can’t keep going around in circles with you—”
“It’s been three days!” I yell.
“Four-point-seven million dollars?” Oliver says loudly.
“Wait”—Jase—“I’m not in the will?”
“You guys—” Tenny.
“You’re incorrigible.” Maryanne.
“And you’re a fucking asshole.” Me.
“Who’s Alexis?” Clay.
“Why aren’t I in the will?” Jase.
“You’re filthy,” Maryanne spits at me.
“And yet, my hands are cl—”
And then there’s a loud whistle.
“ENOUGH.” Tennyson stands up. “We’re done here.” He shakes his head, looking at Des. “I’m sorry, we’re going to have to come back—we can’t—we’ve gotta have a talk.”
Desmond nods quickly, probably quite relieved by the out just extended to him. “Of course.” He shuffles the papers away.
My mom’s sitting there, still in her chair, hands in her lap, staring off into space. Violet touches her arm gently, helping her up, but my mom moves her arm away. It’s not a jerk; it’s not reactionary or even necessarily conscious—she looks so dazed and out of it.
Maryanne flies through the office door, storming ahead, and Debbie walks toward my mom—
“What happened?” She blinks, looking around. “I heard yelling.”
But I don’t stay to take the blame for the downfall of that meeting. I’m jogging to my car.
Oliver runs after me. “Gige?” He calls out, worried.
Sam jogs behind him, and in my periphery it looks like slow motion because that’s just how attractive he is. “Are you okay?” he calls, also worried—those cuties.
I look back at him and throw him a quick smile. Absolutely I am—I’m great. This, right here—this is my sweet spot.
“Four-point-seven million dollars!” Oliver calls out to no one in particular, and I don’t respond. “Why are you running?” He yells again.
I reach my car. “Because someone here knows something and they’re lying about it, and I need to get to them before they work out how to make it look like the truth.”
“What?” My brother blinks as he climbs into the car.
I start the engine and look over at him, bright-eyed. “The game is afoot, Oliver!”