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Suddenly everything about my sister makes perfect sense.
It’s always about control for her.
She can control how hard she works. She can control what positions she applies for and how well she interviews for promotions.
She can’t control failed birth control. She can’t control that it’s two babies instead of one. She can’t control that the next eighteen years of her life have suddenly been written for her, without her having any say in the matter.
“It’s not about deserving this or that,” I say. “You’re allowed to be happy about all of this. Maybe it’s not what you had planned, but all you can do is adjust your sails and go from there. One day at a time, one thing at a time.”
She pulls in a ragged breath before moving her hand to her lower belly.
“It’s weird, right? All of this?” she asks. “I keep trying to picture myself as a mother, and then I think about all the houseplants I’ve killed over the years. I’m not sure I’m capable of taking care of two human beings when I can’t even keep a plant alive for more than a month at a time.”
“The plants died because you forgot to water them,” I say. “Let’s not compare apples and oranges. Also, when are you going to tell Mom?”
Margaux massages her temple. “Soon, I guess. Now?”
Our mother has a tendency to worry herself sick—quite literally. It’s uncanny. Whenever she’s stressed or upset or worried about something, her body breaks out into a fever, and she can hardly keep food down. Other times, she’ll have debilitating migraines for days. She’s a sensitive soul, and she’d have definitely fretted herself into a frenzy over Margaux’s situation a week or two ago. Now that Ethan’s mother is coming in clutch, this whole thing will be much easier for our mom to stomach.
Rising from the sofa, I grab her phone from her bag in the entry and carry it back.
“Here.” I take a seat beside her. “We’ll do this together.”
She’s dialing our mom’s number when my phone begins to ring.
My breath catches when Roman’s name appears on my screen. I press the option to autorespond to his call with “I can’t talk, can I call you later?”
We have plans to get together this coming Thursday, so I’m not sure what he could possibly be calling for right now. All I know is my stomach somersaults when I think about hearing his voice, and maybe I shouldn’t . . . but I’m already counting down the minutes until I can return his call.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ROMAN
“You realize you’re living my dream, don’t you?” Margaux steps inside my front entrance Thursday afternoon. “A limestone prewar town house with a mansard roof on a gorgeous, tree-lined street in a historic neighborhood. A lifetime ago, you would’ve been neighbors with Jackie O.”
“My father knew her, actually,” I say. “This home has been in my family for generations.”
“Did you grow up here?” She points down.
“I did.”
“And now your daughters get to grow up here?” She rests a hand over her heart, her pretty face tilted to one side. “I love that so much.”
Turning around, she peeks out the sidelights that flank my front door.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m thinking about all the people who have probably walked this sidewalk before,” she says with a wistful sigh. “Truman Capote, maybe. Jean Shrimpton. Edith Wharton. Margaret Sanger. Andy Warhol.”
“Al Pacino lives around the corner. I see him walking his dog sometimes,” I say. “My mother was good friends with Beverly D’Angelo. I think Oprah has a place the next street over. I’m sure there are more, but I don’t really pay attention to that sort of thing.”
Turning back to me, she says, “It doesn’t matter how many years I’ve lived here, sometimes I still feel like a tourist . . . just a starstruck small-town girl from Ohio taking everything in with stars in my eyes.”
“Hold on to that with everything you’ve got,” I say. “Don’t ever let the city take your sense of wonderment away.”
One of my favorite art professors fed us that line back in the day, though he was speaking in the context of art. It’s solid advice either way. I’ve seen far too many people move to the city and become hardened, jaded, and cynical. New York will do that to a person, though. It’s a kaleidoscope of everything that’s right and wrong in this world, all the ugly and beautiful things.
Margaux steps out of her black heels and places them neatly off to the side of the rug.
“Everything is on the sixth floor,” I tell her as she follows me to the elevator. We step inside, and I press the button. “I like to think of it as my own private art gallery.”
The elevator slows to a stop when we reach the top floor, and I tap in my code. Years ago, I had the elevator replaced with a more security-oriented option. No one can access my art gallery without a code, and no one can access the floor my daughters sleep on without a code as well. On top of that, I’ve taken great measures to fireproof both priceless spaces.
