Georgiana looked at her brother-in-law playing with his children. Malcolm hadn’t inherited in the same way, but his father was an analytical chemist, he grew up in comfort, and he worked in finance now. He wasn’t saving people’s lives every day—he worked for a bank—but his knowledge and research helped keep the airline industry functional, helped smooth the mechanics of a sector that essentially connected people around the world. There was honor there. And nobody could question how hard Malcolm worked. As far as Georgiana could tell, Malcolm was always either working or spending time with Darley and the kids. He lavished his family with his love. He was maybe the nicest man Georgiana had ever met, and if he weren’t married to her sister she’d be half in love with him herself.
This was the kind of marriage Georgiana wanted one day, that both she and Darley wanted for Cord, so it killed them a little that Sasha had behaved so badly over the prenup, that she would never be a real sister, would never have the level of trust that Malcolm had earned in the Stockton family. They had started calling Sasha “the Gold Digger” or “the GD” for short after she moved into the Pineapple Street apartment. It wasn’t kind, but it seemed fair.
* * *
—
When Cord announced that dinner was served, Georgiana had to laugh. Nothing went together; there were tiny portions of twelve different things, the tablescape was pathetic, and everyone seemed tense and grumpy about the whole affair. Tilda looked particularly piqued. Georgiana served herself with an eye to politics, making sure to take a big helping of lamb and only a small piece of chicken, complimenting her mother loudly on the ragout. The kids each ate one fish stick and then slithered under the table before vanishing off to one of the bedrooms to play.
As they ate, they talked about the Icelandic singer Bj?rk, who put her Henry Street apartment on the market for nine million dollars （she and her ex, Matthew Barney, had been parking their big black yacht in the East River）; her mother’s tennis partner （Frannie had hurt her wrist and there was a chance she’d have to miss a few weeks on the court, rendering Tilda bereft）; and the weird tunnels that connected so many of the former Jehovah’s Witnesses’ properties in the neighborhood （the tunnels made sense when they were all part of the same organization, but what were you supposed to do when there was a whole underground lair full of laundry rooms and storage cages connecting your apartment building to a stranger’s?）。 When they asked Georgiana about Sebastian’s birthday party, she told them about the dance hall, about the music and the food, but she held back on mentioning anything about Curtis.
“I do wonder, though,” she mused. “The theme was Oligarch Chic. Do you think that’s offensive?”
“When I was a junior, a couple of students got called to the disciplinary committee because they had a Cinco de Mayo party with sombreros,” Cord said, cutting a bite of chicken. “I feel like it was a little much to take disciplinary action, but I wouldn’t host that party now.”
“Freshman year they had a Pimps and Hos party, and everyone dressed up in tank tops and hoop earrings, and the guys tried to give all the girls money to kiss,” Darley announced with wide eyes. “Nobody even thought about reporting it, but I am so horrified every time I think about it.”
“Did you go?” Sasha asked.
“I went, but I didn’t go in costume,” Darley said, biting her lip. “I think I wore a sweater from Brooks Brothers.”
“But, like, do you think Oligarch Chic is offensive?” Georgiana pressed.
“I think maybe it’s like if the party was Mobsters and Mob Wives or something,” Malcolm ventured. “Like, it’s not so much about offending the mafioso or the oligarchs, it’s more about perpetuating harmful stereotypes of Italian Americans or Russian Americans.”
“That makes sense,” Georgiana agreed, privately mortified that it was the one person of color in their family who had to explain ethnic stereotyping to her. The conversation veered off from there, onto The Sopranos and The Americans and then, as every conversation about film and television eventually must, to her father describing to everyone why he never thought Woody Allen was funny in the first place, like his lack of a sense of humor had meant he had intuited the director’s misdeeds through some great omniscient power rather than just not liking Annie Hall.
Georgiana was rolling her eyes with Cord when Poppy came running into the room screaming. “Hatcher is throwing up!”
Darley was off like a shot, and they all stampeded through the apartment up to Darley’s bedroom, where Hatcher was on his knees on the floor, crying pitifully over a puddle of clear vomit with a white stone glistening in the middle.
“What on earth is that?” Tilda asked.
Darley, now a mother and immune to the horrors of most bodily fluids, reached into the puddle and held the white stone to the light. “It’s a tooth.”
“A tooth?” Malcolm asked with alarm, patting Hatcher’s back. The kids were five and six and had not lost any teeth yet. “Let me see, buddy. Which one was it?” He peered into Hatcher’s open mouth. “I can’t see anything.”
“Here, take my flashlight.” Georgiana swiped the flashlight on her phone and they shined it into Hatcher’s mouth to find the spot where a tooth had been.
“None of his teeth are missing.” Malcolm frowned.
“We found it in the drawer,” Poppy whispered.
“You found what in the drawer?” Darley asked. “Which drawer?”
“We thought it was a bag of gum. In there.” Poppy pointed to a dresser drawer that was slightly ajar. Malcolm reached in and pulled out an ancient plastic baggie full of something white.
“Are these teeth?” he asked in horror.
“Oh.” Darley bit her lip with embarrassment. “Those are my baby teeth.”
“Oh my God.” Georgiana felt a laugh building deep inside her and fought to contain herself. “Your son found your thirty-year-old baby teeth in a bag and thought they were gum and ate them and then threw up. Oh my God, Dar, this is amazing.” Unable to control herself any longer, she dissolved into peals of laughter, her anxiety evaporating into the air. As she looked around at her family, Poppy and Hatcher giggling uncertainly, Malcolm and her father looking mildly disgusted, and Darley mortified, she caught Sasha’s eye. The GD looked absolutely victorious.
* * *
On Tuesday as she and Brady walked to the tennis courts, she told him all about her weekend—about the dance hall and Curtis’s remarks, though not about the tooth. The tooth was too disgusting to share with a man she hoped to continue to have sex with.
“So my friend Sebastian had a birthday party this weekend out in Brighton Beach and he invited this guy, Curtis McCoy.” Georgiana paused at the traffic light and Brady leaned over and took her heavy bag off her shoulder. He was always doing that—carrying her stuff or paying for her coffee—and each time it made her stomach flip happily. They didn’t say “I love you,” not even close, but she knew she loved him without a doubt, and she was starting to think he might love her too. “Curtis is this total asshole. His family lives in Wilton and has, like, horses. His father is the CEO of one of the country’s biggest defense contractors. They own half of Martha’s Vineyard and—”