impulsivity, I dash inside the
cottage and head upstairs to my girlhood room. The space remains more or less
unchanged since I left. Everything is still in its place, including my vast
book collection. I run my eyes along the titles arrayed on my book shelf, and
finally locate the story I’m looking for. Tenderly, I lift my old copy of The
Hobbit off the shelf and slip it into my purse. Someone else needs it a lot
more than me right now.
“Come on, Lee. Let’s get moving,” my dad calls from
downstairs, “I’m sure the reception’s almost over by now. That’s what we get
for taking the scenic route home.”
I hurry back down to the ground floor, stopping to give Gigi
a quick scratch behind the ears, and join my dad on the front porch.
“You gonna be able to make it across the lawn in those
things?” my dad asks skeptically, raising an eyebrow at my expensive stilettos.
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” I reply, looping my arm through his,
“Lead the way, Frank.”
A hundred hushed voices echo around the marbled interior of
the King home as the memorial reception unfolds. I recognize plenty of faces
from my years at King Enterprises—this somber party is a who’s-who of New York
entertainment. As my dad peels away to avail himself of the lavish buffet, I
peer through the crowd in search of the younger Mr. King. I want to try and steal
Jamison away for a moment, offer him a reprieve from what I know to be the
exhausting experience of presiding over a memorial as the next of kin. But
before I can locate Jay in the crowd, another familiar face springs up in my
periphery. It’s been years since I last set eyes on her, but I’m recognize
those sandy blonde tresses and pouting lips anywhere.
“Oh, Leah!” cries Cordelia King, throwing her alarmingly
thin arms around my shoulders, “It’s so good of you to be here.”
“Of course, Delia,” I say softly, returning her embrace.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Yes,” she sniffs, pulling away from me to catch a tear
before it smudges her mascara, “It’s just terrible, what’s happened. No
warning, nothing.”
I lay a sympathetic arm on Cordelia’s bony shoulder. Growing
up, I only knew her as Jamison’s bratty older sister. Her main interests were
lounging by the pool here on the estate and sneaking boys into the mansion when
her parents were away. On the occasions she was left in charge of “babysitting”
Jamison and I, we spent the entire time plotting out elaborate pranks for her
to step into. If anyone united me and Jay by providing a common enemy, it was
Cordelia.
But of course, that was a long time ago. Now, Cordelia’s all
grown up and married to a young hedge fund manager in New York City. She and
her husband live in TriBeCa, a far cry from my secluded corner of Morningside
Heights. Delia’s husband makes enough money for three families, and she still
receives a monthly sum of money from her parents’ estate. Even with all that
financial security, Cordelia has a fleet of assistants and housekeepers at her
beckon call. I realize now that it’s rather a mystery what she does all day…
but this is no time for judgmental thoughts, is it?
“He really loved you know,” Cordelia sighs, regarding me
wistfully, “Daddy, I mean.”
“I really loved him too,” I tell her, “He was a wonderful
mentor.”
“Well. I’m glad he had someone to take under his wing,” she
shrugs lightly, her eyes flashing with just a hint of resentment. “I was never
going to be smart enough to take on the family business. Who knew the
housekeeper’s daughter would end up being the bright one, huh? I mean, what are
the chances?”
I do everything I can to tamp down my flare of anger at her
words. Cordelia has always been a master of the subtly slicing remark—just
painful enough to cut you, not blatant enough for you to call out. These quick
attacks come out of nowhere, too. One minute she’s giving you a lingering hug,
the next she’s tearing
cottage and head upstairs to my girlhood room. The space remains more or less
unchanged since I left. Everything is still in its place, including my vast
book collection. I run my eyes along the titles arrayed on my book shelf, and
finally locate the story I’m looking for. Tenderly, I lift my old copy of The
Hobbit off the shelf and slip it into my purse. Someone else needs it a lot
more than me right now.
“Come on, Lee. Let’s get moving,” my dad calls from
downstairs, “I’m sure the reception’s almost over by now. That’s what we get
for taking the scenic route home.”
I hurry back down to the ground floor, stopping to give Gigi
a quick scratch behind the ears, and join my dad on the front porch.
“You gonna be able to make it across the lawn in those
things?” my dad asks skeptically, raising an eyebrow at my expensive stilettos.
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” I reply, looping my arm through his,
“Lead the way, Frank.”
A hundred hushed voices echo around the marbled interior of
the King home as the memorial reception unfolds. I recognize plenty of faces
from my years at King Enterprises—this somber party is a who’s-who of New York
entertainment. As my dad peels away to avail himself of the lavish buffet, I
peer through the crowd in search of the younger Mr. King. I want to try and steal
Jamison away for a moment, offer him a reprieve from what I know to be the
exhausting experience of presiding over a memorial as the next of kin. But
before I can locate Jay in the crowd, another familiar face springs up in my
periphery. It’s been years since I last set eyes on her, but I’m recognize
those sandy blonde tresses and pouting lips anywhere.
“Oh, Leah!” cries Cordelia King, throwing her alarmingly
thin arms around my shoulders, “It’s so good of you to be here.”
“Of course, Delia,” I say softly, returning her embrace.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Yes,” she sniffs, pulling away from me to catch a tear
before it smudges her mascara, “It’s just terrible, what’s happened. No
warning, nothing.”
I lay a sympathetic arm on Cordelia’s bony shoulder. Growing
up, I only knew her as Jamison’s bratty older sister. Her main interests were
lounging by the pool here on the estate and sneaking boys into the mansion when
her parents were away. On the occasions she was left in charge of “babysitting”
Jamison and I, we spent the entire time plotting out elaborate pranks for her
to step into. If anyone united me and Jay by providing a common enemy, it was
Cordelia.
But of course, that was a long time ago. Now, Cordelia’s all
grown up and married to a young hedge fund manager in New York City. She and
her husband live in TriBeCa, a far cry from my secluded corner of Morningside
Heights. Delia’s husband makes enough money for three families, and she still
receives a monthly sum of money from her parents’ estate. Even with all that
financial security, Cordelia has a fleet of assistants and housekeepers at her
beckon call. I realize now that it’s rather a mystery what she does all day…
but this is no time for judgmental thoughts, is it?
“He really loved you know,” Cordelia sighs, regarding me
wistfully, “Daddy, I mean.”
“I really loved him too,” I tell her, “He was a wonderful
mentor.”
“Well. I’m glad he had someone to take under his wing,” she
shrugs lightly, her eyes flashing with just a hint of resentment. “I was never
going to be smart enough to take on the family business. Who knew the
housekeeper’s daughter would end up being the bright one, huh? I mean, what are
the chances?”
I do everything I can to tamp down my flare of anger at her
words. Cordelia has always been a master of the subtly slicing remark—just
painful enough to cut you, not blatant enough for you to call out. These quick
attacks come out of nowhere, too. One minute she’s giving you a lingering hug,
the next she’s tearing
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