“Of course, my dear,” Tilda agreed.
“So, what did you do when you felt that way?”
“Well, lots of things, dear,” Tilda reflected. “When I’m really blue, I like to buy myself a bouquet of flowers. Not the ones at the deli on Clark Street, though those are certainly better than you’d expect, but I go down to that florist on Montague, the one that sometimes has the table of succulents out front, and I have the little woman who works there put together something fresh from the refrigerated case—not the ones they already have premade, they always put too much green in there—but I have her put together something really bright and fresh, and just smelling that bouquet and looking at the flowers can work wonders for the soul.”
“That’s not at all what I am talking about, Mom.”
“Oh, well, some people like to look at the ocean,” Tilda considered, nodding her head wisely.
“Mom, let me try something else. Were you ever in love before Daddy? Did you have anyone you really fell for before him?”
“Well, I was engaged, you know.”
“Um, no, Mom, I did not know that,” said Georgiana, shocked.
“Oh, well, yes, I was. His name was Trip.”
“How did you never tell me this?”
“Well, you never asked!” Tilda replied indignantly.
“What? I never said, ‘Hey Mom, were you previously engaged to a man named Trip?’？”
“Right! You never asked that.”
“Well, I didn’t realize how specific I had to be in my inquiries about your past, Mom!” said Georgiana sarcastically.
“You know I am an open book to you children,” Tilda said magnanimously. “You all just never think to ask about me!”
“Oh, okay. Got it. I need to ask better questions.”
“Maybe you do,” Tilda sniffed.
“Okay, so do I have any secret siblings or half siblings I don’t know about?”
“No! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Um, have you ever been arrested for possession of illegal drugs?”
“No! God, no!”
“Was it you who secretly farted that time we were in the elevator at the Carlisle with Martha Stewart?”
“GEORGIANA!”
Georgiana started laughing in spite of herself. Their food arrived, and they set it up in the dining room and as they ate Georgiana started over and, in the way she had opened up to Bill Wallis, a man she barely knew, in his office in a glass tower, she tried again, this time to the woman she’d known her whole life, the woman who made her the angriest, the woman she couldn’t always understand, who had nursed her and grown her in her belly and yet often felt so very far away. Tilda listened.
EIGHTEEN
Darley
Darley knew she was an orange. Growing up, her group of friends amused themselves by deciding who was the “Charlotte,” the “Samantha,” or the “Carrie” （nobody was Miranda）。 They decided who was the “Blanche,” the “Dorothy,” or the “Rose.” But Darley had a different game she privately played with her siblings, where they were the fruits of their neighborhood. Cord was the pineapple, obviously. He was joyful bordering on goofy, he was thrilled to be the center of attention, he made every gathering more festive. Georgiana, meanwhile, was the cranberry. She was the baby of the family, she was bright and beautiful, but she was not entirely sweet. That left Darley to be the orange—boring, dependable, always around, rarely celebrated. Also, she knew, protected by a thick layer of rind, only truly accessible to those willing to put in the time to peel it away.
* * *
—
Darley had awakened midlife to the knowledge that she was entirely impotent, and she blamed it entirely on that blue-blooded twit Chuck Vanderbeer. If Chuck Vanderbeer hadn’t leaked to CNBC and gotten Malcolm fired, then Malcolm would still have his job, and they would still be able to afford their co-op fees, and Darley would never have to face the realization that she had given up her fortune, given up her career, and no longer had any agency in her own life. But no, that little idiot had gone and forced a reckoning, and she had half a mind to go burn down his house. When Malcolm told her that he hadn’t gotten the private equity job, she tried to act like it didn’t matter. She told him she couldn’t have moved to Texas. She told him it was better for the kids to stay at the Henry Street School. She told him he had nothing at all to worry about. For the first time in their marriage, she was lying to him.
It made her mad all over again that her parents had given the limestone on Pineapple to Cord. Sure, Cord and Sasha were expecting a baby, but what if they only had one? She had two. （Not three. Never three.） She wanted so badly to raise her children in her childhood home. Why hadn’t anyone ever asked her if she wanted to live there? She wanted to feed them scrambled eggs in the kitchen breakfast nook, she wanted to read them bedtime stories in the mahogany four-poster bed, she wanted to host the class potluck in the parlor with the Capodimonte porcelain chandelier, she wanted to see Poppy walking down the stairs to meet her date for her deb ball. She loved that home, and she knew, thanks to the hideous gender reveal party, that Sasha didn’t. Why did she take a home she didn’t even like? Why did she hide Georgiana’s breakdown? To Darley it was unfathomable. Georgiana was a child. She was an innocent, a shy kid who hid behind tennis and schoolwork and her parents. She’d been seduced, she’d fallen in love, she’d suffered a terrible loss, and when she reached out for help, when she confessed to her brother’s wife, she was met with silence. It killed Darley that Georgiana hadn’t confided in her when she asked about the crash. It killed her that Sasha buried the secret while pretending to be her friend.
If she could go back in time, she would do so many things differently. She would have had Malcolm sign the prenup. She would have told her parents she wanted the house. She would have watched her sister more closely. And she would have made herself keep working when she got pregnant with Hatcher. She would have thrown up every morning in the trash can at the Canal Street subway station. She would have carried her cooler of breast milk past the bullpen of associates mooing like cows. She would be deep into a career, she would have her own income, and she would hold all the cards, no longer entirely at the mercy of a racist, nepotistic system blackballing her husband for a foolish boy’s mistake.
* * *
Darley was awake after midnight, lying on the sofa in the living room scrolling endlessly on her phone, when an email from Cy Habib popped up on her screen. Darley scrambled into a seated position and swiped it open.
Darley,
I found your email in the Henry Street School directory. I hope you don’t mind me writing out of the blue. It was lovely talking to you at the auction. It’s not often I meet people as smitten with SR22 avionics as I am. Any chance you and your husband are free for a drink next week?
Cy
Darley had, of course, Googled Cy after the auction. She had studied his LinkedIn profile, the mentions of him in The Wall Street Journal, the photos of him smiling at a charity gala at Lincoln Center. She contemplated waiting until the morning, but instead she quickly, impulsively replied.
Cy,
How wonderful to hear from you. We’d love to meet up next week. Just let me know where and when.