Our apartment spans two floors, and we spend most of our family time in a smaller living area that we call the celebration room. Here, we open birthday presents, trim Christmas trees, and announce good news （hence the corny name）。 But if I had to pick a favorite spot, it would be the dining room. When we were kids, before my brothers left for Groton, I loved our family dinners. Platters were passed back and forth while we reviewed our days. Cassie, please hand me the salt. Cassie, sit up, dear. Cassie, tell us three good things. Nate, Cassie, Billy. Billy, Cassie, Nate. Three Musketeers. Like most kids, I believed my family was the center of the universe, and I felt proud to be included.
I’ve only lived in a few places. However, I am well-traveled, and have come to recognize that a house’s personality reflects the best and worst traits of its owners. I barely remember my birth parents’ home. The Tarrants, an elderly couple, live there now. They have a daughter and son, both older than me. When I was younger and saw the family in passing, I’d imagine that the girl and I were the same person. She was the former me, forced to grow up in a cold, sad mausoleum; and I was the new me, spirited away to a bright, beautiful dreamland. I knew it was childish, but I couldn’t help feeling superior to her. I was the anointed one; I had been chosen. I never did go back to my old apartment; trying to picture it conjures a sweep of loneliness, even all these years later. The foyer had a marble floor, so you stepped off the elevator into a hard, sterile space. There was an art gallery, library, and billiards den, plus six bedrooms and a private guest wing. The rooms, long as tennis courts, were overstuffed with antiques, and yet felt cramped and devoid of life. For all its opulence, the house evoked despair, like a spinster who stocks up on Hummel figurines to hide the absence of love in her life.
The Quinns’ house, by contrast, is an oasis of warmth and light. They have the same mix of formal and informal rooms, but the couches are plush and inviting. Music plays quietly, even in empty rooms. The air smells of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies. They host parties with friends, business associates, and household staff. As a child, I loved being among the crowd, even if I just curled up on a chair and read. Maeve and the nannies hovered nearby, chiding me to eat in hushed voices. I felt blanketed by affection, welcomed by all. The sight, scent, and sound of the Quinns imprinted upon me so completely I was like a baby duckling, drawn back and back and back.
Heading down the hall, I hear Eleanor and Lawrence arguing in the kitchen and my optimism about the day fades. They’re on the far side of the massive kitchen, near the terrace, so they don’t see me, but their voices carry across the wide open space.
Side by side, my parents make a stunning couple. Today, Eleanor has on a dove gray Kiton skirt, navy blouse, and understated gold jewelry. I’m sure she’s been showered and dressed since dawn, as opposed to her husband, who hasn’t shaved in days, and slouches against the counter in baggy shorts, a faded Wellesley T-shirt, and battered loafers.
Lawrence and Eleanor fell in love at first sight, or so the story goes. The way he tells it, Eleanor’s society ways, proper diction, and icy elegance knocked him sideways. I can see it too: Lawrence doing soft-shoe, jazz hands, anything, to win her over while she stood back, amused, watching him spin. But Eleanor was equally intrigued. Despite CW’s endorsement, Lawrence Quinn was the type of uncultured, unrestrained boy her parents derided. A boy who talked too much and drank too much. Who had the gall to mock her uptight bearing, yet knew enough to court her properly, with handwritten notes on heavy card stock. With Lawrence, Eleanor felt girlish. With Eleanor, Lawrence felt like an insider. Together, they were a perfect couple. So perfect, Eleanor wouldn’t sign a prenup. Her parents balked, but she stood firm. In the end, the parties compromised, and Lawrence was welcomed into the fold with a lavish wedding, while Eleanor’s fortune remained under her control, the majority sealed in a trust. Lawrence can access their assets, but he needs Eleanor’s authorization to spend above a certain threshold. And so the perfect couple lived happily ever after.
This morning, though, I see no happiness, only rancor. Eleanor’s lips are pursed, and Lawrence is raking his hands through his hair. I assume they’re arguing about Peter DeFiore, but just as I’m about to call out a cheery hello, Eleanor says, “She’s going with you today. That’s why she raced home—to support her brother.” And I realize they’re fighting about me.
“It’s better if I go alone,” Lawrence says. “If the press is there, they’ll pounce. Until this whole thing goes away, the less we appear in public the better.”
“That’s why we pay a PR firm. So far, they’ve done their job.”
“It hasn’t even been three days, Eleanor. I’m telling you Cassie should not show up in court. Why won’t you listen to me?”
“I’m sorry you feel this way,” she replies, without sympathy. “But Burt wants the whole family there. A united front, he said.”
“First of all, Peter DeFiore is Billy’s attorney, not Burt. Peter didn’t mention anything about a ‘united front.’ He said this appearance will last ten minutes, tops. So there’s no reason for all of us to drive two hours there and two hours back for a ten-minute show. Second, Burt’s specialty is wills and trusts. If we were debating the value of our wine collection, I’d ask his advice. But—”
“Stop it, Lawrence. Just stop. Why are you focused on Cassie? Or Burt, for that matter? My son has been falsely accused of a horrific crime. Every iota of your attention should be trained on him. In the meantime, it’s late, so please shower and wake Cassie up. Remind her to wear the Row wool skirt. Oh—stockings, too. She can’t walk into a courtroom with bare legs.”
“Billy is on trial for rape. Cassie’s legs are the least of our problems.” In response, Eleanor turns and stalks off. “Where are you going? We’re in the middle of a conversation.” Lawrence sighs. “Why are you so angry at me, El? I just spent two days in some New Jersey backwater, trying to bring our son home. I resent you saying I’m not focused on him.”
“I am not angry at you. I’m angry at the situation. However, you do have a habit of making terrible situations worse. Your stupid stunt could jeopardize Billy’s entire defense. And then where will we be?”
“Hey guys.” I step into the kitchen and over to the counter, where Maeve is laying out pastries, sliced cantaloupe, and coffee. “I’m here.”
“Cassie!” Whirling around, Lawrence looks startled, almost guilty. “You’re awake.”
“Morning, dear,” Eleanor says with strained brightness. “Sleep well?”
Bustling around us, Maeve hands me an empty mug embossed with the letter C. “Yours,” she says, and I thank her. Over the years, the C, once crimson, has faded to a dull pink. “Poor Billy,” she murmurs. Maeve is sixty-four with translucent gray eyes and pale, paper-thin skin. Like Anton, she’s been in my life since day one. Gathering me in her arms, she kisses my forehead. “You’re too skinny,” she says, her brogue thick even after thirty-odd years in this country.