At fifty-four, Eleanor still shimmers with youthful glamour. Her golden hair is cut in a chic bob, and she moves with a dancer’s poise. Always impeccably styled, she’s wearing a teal Valentino robe that could double as a ball gown. Eleanor is a true Hitchcock femme fatale, though her regal bearing lends her a chilliness she doesn’t deserve. Perched on my white comforter, she looks lost and afraid.
Earlier today, in the car coming home, Lawrence mentioned, offhandedly, that it’s better if Nate and I don’t repeat everything DeFiore said. “Better Eleanor hears the ‘unconscious’ detail from me.” Eleanor isn’t fragile, just protective of Billy. I’d say “overprotective,” but how much protection is too much? That’s like trying to quantify love.
“I’m not entirely comfortable with our new attorney,” Eleanor says. The warm light illuminates her porcelain skin.
“Lawrence told you?”
“That he went behind my back? That he hired a lawyer for my son without my consent? That he, once again, acted impulsively, with no regard for my opinion?”
I hold up my hand. “I’m sorry, Eleanor, we should’ve said something.”
“Yes. You should have. It’s harder for Nate—I understand this. But I depend on you to keep Lawrence in check. Or, at the very least, to keep me apprised of his behavior.”
“I wish I could keep Lawrence in check, Eleanor. Believe me. And I’m not making excuses, I swear, but Billy is seeing the judge tomorrow morning. We needed someone fast. Plus, DeFiore is smart, his credentials are decent, and he’s handled lots of cases like ours.”
“Cassandra, please. His credentials are mediocre at best.”
“Rutgers isn’t Harvard, but Peter DeFiore is an expert on the local courts, which will be a defining factor in Billy’s case. Still, you can watch him in action. If you’re still uncomfortable, hire someone else.”
“I’m sure he’s a fine lawyer, but we need the best—”
“—of the best. I know, Eleanor.”
“Yes, someone at the top of his field. But, equally important, we need someone who understands families like ours. Money is not a concern,” she adds, as if I needed the reminder.
For Eleanor, money isn’t emotional nor is it pleasurable. Money isn’t even interesting. Money just is. Her family staked their claim in gunpowder during the French revolution, and then expanded to dynamite, plastic, oils, and chemical manufacturing—the raw materials of daily life. Their fortune has been compounding for generations. Eleanor Anne Stockton Quinn is a socialite. My peers consider this label unflattering; these days, we’re socialite-entrepreneurs and socialite-artists, with handbag lines, poetry collections, and podcasts. But Eleanor is first and foremost a lady who lunches. I don’t mean to suggest her lunches are vacuous, only to point out that her preoccupations are different from yours and mine.
“Eleanor, listen. His reputation is outstanding. Burt, in fact, recommended him. Would you feel better if you were the one who hired him?”
“If I hadn’t been told after the fact? Maybe. Even so, his coarseness doesn’t sit right.”
“You mean his girth.”
“Excuse me?”
“Peter DeFiore is fat.”
“Cassie, I didn’t see his body. Earlier, I saw him on video, but only from the waist up.”
“I’m sure you got the gist of him. DeFiore is ungainly and sloppy, and you’re wondering how a man who can’t manage his person will effectively represent your son. Here’s the thing, Eleanor.” My voice is as solemn as a priest’s. “Not only are fat people competent, but fat-shaming is très déclassé these days.”
“Do you really think I’m that shallow, Cassie?” Eleanor smiles.
“Not shallow, per se.” I smile back. “Discriminating.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. The only person’s appearance I care about is yours. And it pains me to say this, but God Almighty, Sweet Girl; you are a fright.”
Eleanor isn’t physically demonstrative, so when she reaches out to smooth my hair, I light up from within. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Which is what I mean by insatiable urges. The poor woman has already given me the keys to the kingdom and the family jewels. Still, I want more.
“Seriously, Cassandra. When was your last trim? Tomorrow is devoted to Billy. I want to bring him home and get him settled. But Tuesday, we’ll take care of you: tip-to-toe, hair and nails. I’ll make the appointments.” She glances up, like she thinks I’ll disagree, though we both know I won’t.
Eleanor has high expectations for her children. I’m female, so my appearance is non-negotiable. Her primary target is my body, which she’s been policing since I could walk. “Boys will be boys, Cassandra, even good boys. You’re a pretty girl. Why borrow trouble?” As far as she’s concerned, it’s my responsibility to ensure that I’m never viewed sexually by men—any man, including my brothers. Eleanor was raised in a subculture that enforces firm codes of conduct for both genders, but particularly girls. So, she raised me the way she was raised, the way her mother was raised, the way her mother’s mother was raised, and so on, all the way back to that naked slut Eve, whose downfall could’ve been prevented had she made better choices.
“We have an early start,” Eleanor reminds me. “I should lie down. But I heard what you said about Mr. DeFiore and will keep an open mind. And I appreciate you dropping everything to come home. It means a lot to me, and I know it means the world to your brother. Both brothers.”
“I’d do anything for Billy, and for all of you. I miss you guys every day.”
“I know, Cassandra, but you’re where you’re supposed to be. Now get some sleep.” She brushes my cheek with her fingers. Her touch lingers long after she leaves.
Though Eleanor is a pain in the ass, her dedication to my welfare is more than I deserve. With Lawrence, she raised me like a real daughter—that is, no differently from their sons. Together, they began the adoption process, only it was never finalized because of reasons too complicated to understand, unless you’re well-versed in revocable living trusts. I’m sure the decision had to do with money, but whose and how much I have no idea. Nor do I care. Eleanor is the closest I’ll ever come to having a living, breathing mother. She took me in when no one else wanted me. She fed, clothed, and protected me. You could say that she and Lawrence saved my life, and you wouldn’t be wrong. To this end, I spend an unholy amount of time conforming to her views of how I should look, how I should act, and who I should be. Both of us, I believe, consider me a work in progress.
10
THE NEXT MORNING, THE SKY IS PURE CERULEAN BLUE, AND the sun is bright yellow. It’s picture-perfect outside, as if the universe is casting a hopeful glow on today’s court visit. Choosing my outfit, I shoot for demure elegance with a come-hither edge, a mix of high and low fashion: chocolate-brown skirt （the Row）， silk blouse （Burberry）， thrift shop camisole, Louboutin heels, and beige tights （Gap）。 I wrangle my hair into a messy chignon, clip on my Mikimoto pearl necklace, and set off.