Page 58 of The Unfluencer

I don’t have to be present in her brass-and-brocade living room to picture her perched on that antique telephone chair, mauve-hued lips pursed tight with fury, pure indignance vibrating off her. I’m her granddaughter, the only one she got from her one and only black-sheep daughter, who skipped Zion & Zara, walked away from the inheritance Gertrude tried and failed to use as a leash, and went straight to bedding a married man. She never lets me forget that I’m the retributive byproduct of that scandal, the karmic justice she fully intended to “correct” by raising me herself to be a proper lady.

Until I stepped out of line.

“You’re not being honest with yourself,” she purrs, and it’s too much. The gall of this woman.

Not today.

My nerves are already stretched thin, and I truly can’t afford the stress. Not when I might be on borrowed time. Not when she never wants to discuss our capital-C medical history, and since my doctor’s “availability over the next few weeks is a bit unusual”—whatever that means—my follow-up appointment isn’t until next month. So I get to walk around like I’m fine, slowly stewing over my impending cryo and breast ultrasound, imagining my obituary.

“Right, I’m being honest with you, Gertrude.” I sit on the bottom step, setting my phone beside me as I slide on my heels. “I truly don’t know what else you want me to tell you.”

It’s quiet for a beat. She’s recalibrating.

Finally, my phone lights up with a text notification from Clive, and I’m just about to open it, hopefully tap on an address that opens up to Maps, and exit this conversation.

But Gertrude unleashes a deep, guttural throat clearing. And as much as I try to resist, the once-obedient child in me still reacts to the Pavlovian trigger.

“If you respected me,” she starts, tone flat with judgment, “which you clearly don’t, since you chased after that… gallery venture…”

A hollow laugh echoes in my throat.

“…you’d realize I’m not getting any younger.” Oh, here we go. “I’ll be eighty this year. And the state of your life, the way you’re choosing to veer down this unseemly, ill-conceived course… I can’t tell you how much it’s weighing heavy on my heart, Whitney.”

Try as I might, I can’t hold back. I’m bent over, breathless with laughter.

“What on earth has gotten into you?” she asks. Then she has the nerve to say, “Pull yourself together,” which only makes me laugh harder.

“This is too good,” I say, gasping for breath. “You said you can’t tell me, but then you did⁠—”

“I could die tomorrow.”

I’m cackling because, little does she know, so could I.

“Not for nothing, but ma’am, you’ve got to try a different tactic,” I say between shallow breaths. “Second I started funding my life, you couldn’t control me with your money. Then you went the same route. Now you’re stooping to guilt?”

“Well, I am seventy-nine.”

“Yes, and you host galas. You’ve also been both a senior swim champ at the country club and Ms. Black Senior Georgia.” When she doesn’t acknowledge any of that, I add, “All in the last two years. So no, I’m not falling for the ‘I’m not getting any younger’ tactic when you’re just getting started.”

And then something miraculous happens.

She’s speechless.

Gertrude Graves has no snap judgment. No diamond-encrusted zinger for me. Which feels like a good omen if ever I’ve seen one.

And on that note, I swipe my phone off the step and tap Clive’s text as I tell her, “All right, you have yourself a great night…” and then I disconnect the call, reading slowly.

Clive

I just double-checked the email he sent. No address was provided. But let me reply again really quick.

“At six”—I check my watch—“forty? Great.” I throw back my head, groaning.

For a few minutes, I gather my coat and purse, tossing in my iPad and making sure I’ve got everything to be ready to dash out, just in case.

Then my phone doesn’t ping, it rings, startling the hell out of me.

“Clive?” I say, wondering what he couldn’t tell me in a text.