It strikes me then that everyone is gone; all the adults have left the room. After all, my father has never acted like a true “adult.” Now it’s just the two of us, holding down the fort. And we’re doing a shitty job at it. We barely even speak, besides the occasional text about her hypochondria and a forced holiday gathering.
“Are you happy?” I ask, looking at her heavy makeup, her bright, optimistic hair.
She’s turning fifty-six in October. She has friends, and she and Dad travel more than they can afford to, but is this what she wanted? She’s never been able to hold down a job or find a career she’s passionate about. I picture us as kids. She was the same egotistic, bossy girl of our youth, but there was such determination about her. I thought she would grow up to be a CEO, or maybe a dictator, but after our mother died, it’s like she left the window open and now, the fear has come in with the draft.
“I’m okay,” is all Elizabeth says, and for the first time in years, I can sense a mask has slipped off, leaving her vulnerable. “Someone had to take care of Dad, right?”
I hear him, in the shower still, continuing to sing: a long, operatic belt.
“Oh, Elizabeth,” I say, putting a hand on either side of her shoulders. “Is that what happened? You thought you had to stay to take care of Dad?”
“Of course,” she whispers, and her pretty eyes look sad. “Besides, you had Lottie. The two of us were never close.”
I look back at the past from this perspective, imagining what Elizabeth might have thought. I felt neglected in our home, she and Dad always so alike and critical. But maybe she felt abandoned, too. Maybe she was jealous of how untethered to it all I seemed.
“I’m sorry,” I say with warmth. “I’m sorry you felt that way.”
The flatness is back in her eyes, but when she looks away, a tear slides down her left cheek. “Relax,” she says. “At least my hair doesn’t look like a greasy mess.”
I laugh as she takes the twist of my hair again and pretends to cringe.
We hear the shower turn off in the bathroom. My father still whistling. I wonder what will happen when he’s gone, how Elizabeth will cope. He’s the foundation on which her life is built. I need to be a better sister and check in more, let her know that they’re not alone. Maybe she can come here more often, use the guest half of the cottage once the summer is over.
When we hear the door shut behind my father and the sound of his large footsteps departing, Elizabeth pushes me into the small bathroom. “Now, please, for the sake of our family’s good name, get yourself together.”
I laugh and follow her orders. In the shower, the hot water works wonders on my stress, untying all of my knots. Tonight is going to be okay, I tell myself. It’s going to be great.
Chapter Thirty-OneLily
After leaving the letter at Henry’s, I spend the rest of the day helping my mom prepare for the event.
I get dressed early, letting my grandfather and aunt use my room to get ready. I pick up Rose’s dress from the dry cleaners, a gold silk gown with a matching wrap. I’m wearing a midnight-blue one my mom picked out.
I make sure the pamphlets for the event are printed and stack them all neatly in cardboard boxes. The auction items for the fundraising portion have been packaged and delivered to the venue, the ballroom at the Great Harbor Yacht Club, downtown.
Now it’s almost six, less than half an hour before the event, and I have just dropped off Rose. She is making sure the sound system is in place, the microphones work, the tables are laid out with the items on sale, and most importantly, that the bar is fully stocked. Rich people always donate more when they’ve had a few too many.
My fingertips are lined with stinging paper cuts from the pamphlets. Upon arriving, we realized there wasn’t enough ice, so I wassent on a mission to grab some at the supermarket just two blocks down the road.
That’s when it happens. As I’m driving back with the ice, my phone rings. The car shows on the dashboard the caller’s name: Clive Bozeman. I’ve been waiting for this call. I knew it would eventually come once I sent the email, but I forced myself to ignore the impending confrontation. As soon as his name appears, I feel the thump of my heart racing. My hands become slick on the steering wheel.
I let it ring for a few seconds before answering.
“Hello?” I swallow.
“Hi, Lily,” says Clive in a neutral, calm voice.
I try to picture where he might be. It’s Friday, so I assume he’s at the office. Are his legs crossed atop his desk? Is he playing with the fidget spinner he always used? Or is he back at home in his Tribeca loft?
“Hi,” I repeat in a less certain voice.
“I received your email,” he says. He sounds almost amused, sardonic, and maybe even a little… impressed? “Quite the theatrics. I must admit I didn’t know you had it in you.”
His tone is smug and condescending—it’s how he always sounds. But at least he doesn’t seem particularly resentful.
“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. Bikers pass in front of the car, and I try to stay focused on the road. “I was told you had some choice words when Marie Chen called. It’s one thing to fire me, but you and I both know that it’s not fair for you to ruin my future career prospects after all I did for you.” I do my best to sound confident and stern.
“Interesting,” says Clive in that same amused voice. It immediately takes me back to how it felt to be his assistant and personal punching bag for three years: the snide remarks, his perfectly manicured eyebrows always raised in a snobbish expression. The belittling.
