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“Yeah, yeah.” Alana waved the remote as the television flashed on in front of them. Their older brother’s nightly news’ segment began at eight o’clock sharp every day and was best avoided. The sight of their arrogant and very rich brother’s face enlivened them, especially so soon after his disastrous visit back to Nantucket in April. If Greta spotted his face on television, she couldn’t move from the sofa for the extent of the hour and often burst into tears, aching to see her son. Apparently, since she’d backed away from their “deal” that she move to New York City, Quentin hadn’t bothered to call at all.
“Let’s watch trash TV,” Alana suggested, flicking quickly over Quintin’s channel and falling into a Kardashian-inspired reality show about an overly rich family with problems that seemed laughable.
“She looks like she’s never operated a washing machine before,” Julia commented, eyes peeled on the screen before her.
“I’m sure she hasn’t,” Alana shot back. Truthfully, Alana hadn’t had to do anything like laundry or sweeping or dishwashing since Asher had made it big. She often struggled with it, watching Julia’s every move as she wiped down the plates and glasses, hoping to relearn these important life skills without giving herself away.
“I sometimes remind myself how hard that all was,” Julia continued, “when I had three kids and a husband at home. The laundry piled up. Saturday morning, I was hard at work, doing load after load of sweatshirts, jeans, and t-shirts as I scrubbed the kitchen, made pancakes and made sure the kids got to their soccer practice or ballet rehearsal on time. Now, it’s just me. I barely have laundry to do.”
“You must be relieved,” Alana tried.
Julia remained quiet. Probably that word, “relieved,” wasn’t quite right for what Julia now felt. Probably, there was a hollowness in only caring for yourself after so many years of caring for four others.
“Are you relieved to be done with Asher?” Julia asked quietly.
Alana hadn’t confessed her obsession with going through tabloid websites to catch some sight of where Asher was in the world.
“I don’t know,” Alana breathed. “It all feels so unreal.”
“Life?”
“Yes,” Alana agreed. “Sometimes I think that that sense of unreality started that night of Jeremy’s accident and just continued on till now. Like if I blink too hard, I might wake up on the morning of the bonfire party, still Jeremy Farley’s girlfriend.”
“I know what you mean,” Julia whispered. “Especially now that I’m Charlie Bellows’ girlfriend again, even after having children and this whole other life with Jackson.”
The women held the silence for a long time as, on television, the reality TV family bickered about what kind of low-carb snacks to ask for on their private jet. One girl was a staunch vegan and told her mother that she was “demonic” for eating animals. Alana felt nauseous.
A commercial gave them a break from the horrible show. Julia made a strange sound in her throat. Maybe it was better that they go to bed and give up on the day.
But a split-second later, a brief news segment broke through the rest of the advertisements.
A blonde, blue-eyed gossip journalist stood in a pair of six-inch heels at the center of a brightly lit TV studio. Music played out “dum dum dum” to elevate the drama.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the journalist began. “My name is Audrey Plinkin, and I come to you this evening with an update on a story we, here at Entertainment Forever Station, have been obsessed with for weeks.”
Suddenly, like a nightmare that wouldn’t quit, the video appeared: Alana in the Parisian gallery space, tossing her glass of wine across the portrait of herself.
“Oh no,” Julia moaned, reaching for the remote.
But Alana held to it tightly, refusing to give it up. “She says they have an update. On my life! What do they know that I don’t know?”
“It doesn’t matter, Alana,” Julia countered. “They’re just low-lives, hungry for any scrap of stupidity they can get their hands on.”
Block letters appeared at the bottom of the screen, announcing:
ICONIC, DESTROYED PAINTING SELLS FOR 50 MILLION
“Fifty million?” Julia and Alana cried in unison. Their spines straightened as they leaned up from the back cushions of the couch.
“But I destroyed it,” Alana whispered.
The gossip journalist continued to speak over the video. “Last month, Asher Tarkin’s jealous wife discovered that he’d had numerous affairs and threw wine across the painting that had made him famous. Incidentally, that painting was of her.”
“Ugh…” Alana moaned.
“The painting was said to be destroyed,” the journalist continued. “But today we received word that it’s been sold for fifty million, with the buyer citing the newly-destroyed painting as a part of cultural history and thus worth far more than its initial one million price tag.”
“Are you kidding?” Julia quipped.
