The Children(16)

“I’m glad someone is having fun.” Regina was having fun, too. There was nothing she loved more than damage control. Sure enough: “Now that we’re square on that, let’s talk damage control. I’m working closely with Fern while we get you back on solid ground. Honestly, I can’t believe you let Brice of all people get to you. I once saw that woman bring an entire cooked turkey on a plane. It had its own seat. It was summer! What was I saying?”

“Damage control.”

“Right. Okay. Remind me, what’s the deal with your brother’s work?”

“Large-scale immersive installations,” Guin recited. “Painting is part of it, with elements of set design, theater—”

“Got it.” Regina cut her off sharply. The thing about Regina was that she was contemptuous of all art, including the books she promoted. What she loved was people, their flaws and hang-ups and figuring out all the ways she could hook them. She went about her work with a savage, addicted pleasure that had nothing to do with a love of literature. “So he’s opening an arty installation. About your mother. And you melted down about it on live TV.”

“I froze up! That’s the opposite of melting down.”

“Good, yes, very helpful hairsplitting. And what about the lawsuit? That isn’t going anywhere, is it?”

“It won’t stand up.” Hearing herself echo Candy, Guin made a face. “I mean, it’s awful. But it’s clearly not his fault. The girl who died, she had a, um, history. Of poor mental health.”

“Oh. Then I guess his ass is covered.”

The disgust in her voice, barely disguised, made Guin’s stomach turn. Regina went on before she could mount any kind of defense. “Given the timing, the show will be taken as a direct response to the memoir.”

“We don’t know it’s about Edith. I really can’t believe he would—”

“Honey, he’s opening a show called Mother. It’s absolutely about Edith. I’m anticipating dueling narratives, and on the bright side a boost in sales. Which, to be honest, we could use. But if his narrative is in total opposition to your narrative . . .” Regina paused. “There could be a backlash.”

“What would it matter? He could be lying. He would be lying.” Guin curled her tongue behind her teeth. “It’s his word against mine. It’s not like there are any living witnesses.”

“See, it’s statements like that that make me think there are things you’re not telling me.”

Guin felt her mouth trembling with the effort of holding her smile. Even when she was alone, she couldn’t let it drop. “Regina, you were there. You’ve been at Hart & Crane since the nineties, you watched the books blow up. You knew my mother, you knew—” She didn’t want to say his name. “Her editor,” she finished.

“Rest in peace,” Regina muttered.

“Sure. What I’m saying is, are you worried about something coming out that you already know?”

“Of course not.” There, now it was Regina on the back foot. “They didn’t have me on Ninth City until it became backlist. Not that your mother will ever be backlist.”

“Of course not.” Guin had a fading bruise on her upper thigh, from running into Hank’s dresser in the dark. Below it ran an alternate memoir of her childhood, written in the dots and dashes of old scars. She flicked the dark lake bed of the bruise and said, “So we’re on the same page?”

“That better not be a pun. But yes. On to next steps. I’m sending you out for a chat with a journalist who’s a friend, and you’re going to give her the full story on your relationship with Ennis Sharpe.”

“Wait.” Guin slid off her perch on the kitchen stool. “What?”

“Figure of speech. You’ll tell her nothing that isn’t in the memoir, while providing the illusion of transparency. And you’ll address two things. First, your freeze-up on Brice. Second, the show. Mother. Maybe you say something like, ‘I’m as excited as the rest of the world to see how my brother explores our mother’s phenomenal legacy.’ Yeah? Can you make that sound natural?”

“Without the phenomenal, maybe?”

“Great, bring your own adjective. Check your inbox. Go over the talking points and likely questions, see my suggestions on how to answer them, and nail this interview. We good?”

“Yes. Good. When’s the interview?”

“In an hour, bright eyes.”

“An hour? That’s a little—I’m feeling a little . . .” Fragile. A word Regina would despise her for. What are you, a butterfly?

“Nah, you’re good. You’re a trooper.” Regina sounded chipper now. Guin could hear her typing away. “Details are in the email. Go be your sunny self, and call me when it’s done.”





Ten

1998




Guinevere and Ennis were gathering sticks. They had to be long—at least two Guineveres in length—and as wide around as her arm. Which looked different these days: sunbaked and strong, laced with scrapes all the way to her T-shirt sleeve.

Dutifully she presented each find to her brother, who nodded or shook his head. This had been going on since May. When Guinevere couldn’t sleep she thought about their beautiful pile of sticks. Orderly and hidden, a ward against the vale of worries she walked each night on her way into dreaming.