Anton is fifty-seven; he’s been with the Valmont forty-two years. His son Joey is twenty-four. During high school, he sorted packages for his father. Briefly, Nate and Joey were friends, and occasionally, Joey would stop by to play video games. When Anton found out, he went ballistic. High-end doorman positions are impossible to come by. They’re preserved in families for decades, handed down from father to son, uncle to nephew. Joey’s behavior was foolish. He not only jeopardized his own job, he also put his father’s career on the line.
“School okay?” Anton asks. “How’s Arabic coming?”
“Ana murie.”
“Which means what?”
“That I suck, basically. Dumbest move I ever made, taking this class.” I speak fluent French and enough Spanish to find the ladies’ room. When I finish my PhD, I plan to work overseas—assuming my family doesn’t rope me into their foundation. Either way, I want to be prepared. In the next fifty years, Arabic is projected to be one of the most commonly spoken global languages. “It’s harder than I thought, so I’m stupid and arrogant.”
He laughs. “You’ll get better. Stay focused and don’t look back. It goes quickly. Before you know it, you’ll be my age.”
“Oh please, Anton. You’re like a giant oak. If anyone’s gonna live forever, it’s you.”
Despite a mutual affection, Anton and I never depart from our assigned roles or scripted lines. Our conversation, while pleasant, is all surface and deflection. But don’t let this fool you. As a long-serving, high-ranking Valmont employee, Anton occupies a seat of power. Doormen may be invisible, but they’re all-seeing and all-knowing. They’re here and not here, like a conscience.
The elevator stops, and Anton makes a sweeping motion. “Welcome home, Cassie. We’ve missed you.” His tone is light, but he touches my shoulder and offers a fatherly squeeze. “Take care of yourself, dear girl.”
“Thank you, Anton.” Flashing a smile, I radiate well-bred confidence and nonchalance. “But I’m a survivor.” It’s Billy we need to worry about, I almost add. Except Nate told me to keep my mouth shut, so I step out of the elevator and into our foyer. I feel Anton observing my every move. Still, I say nothing. If he doesn’t know about Billy, I won’t be the one to tell him.
5
THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE UP TO AN OMINOUSLY QUIET house. It was just as quiet—and eerie—last night. By the time I got home, it was one-thirty. Nate had gone to his place, but Lawrence, my dad, always waits up for me. So when I stopped by the celebration room, expecting to find him, the empty space felt like a rebuke. Hours later, I heard padding footsteps outside my door. When they slowed, I thought it might be him, making sure I got in. But it was more likely Maeve, our housekeeper, who has family in Ireland she calls at odd times. Our house has four quadrants; and I have my own separate wing, with Maeve, on one side of the house. My brothers and parents are on the other side. Being far away used to frighten me, but as I got older, I relished the distance and solitude. To be fair, I’m sure my parents did too.
Being back here makes me ache for Billy. When we were little, the two of us were always together, playing on the terrace or cuddled up on the couch. We’re so close in age we liked the same TV shows and movies: Wonder Pets!, Elmo, SpongeBob, Disney. The only time we diverged was when I went through a pink princess phase, and Billy stayed loyal to Elmo. He dragged that scrubby red Muppet everywhere.
I’m a terrible sleeper, but must’ve dropped off at some point last night, because I dreamed that Billy and I were on the beach in Southampton. We were playing hide-and-seek in Hawkins Cove, but there was tension between us, and the mood was grim. Billy started to back away, so I tried to grab him, only his T-shirt was made of silk, and I couldn’t get purchase. To my horror, he slipped through my fingers and plunged over the side of a cliff, a ledge, something with a steep drop below. I woke up in a panic; and now, half-awake in my childhood bed, I’m flooded with feelings of loss and dislocation. Nothing seems real, as if time has rewound and I never left.
My phone dings; it’s Nate, texting:
u up?
Yes still in bed. You?
In an Uber, don’t let Dad leave
Leave?
To meet new lawyer and get Billy
Lawyer?
Typical Nate, leaving me with more questions than answers. I’m about to text him again when I hear a familiar voice in my doorway. “Hey, Sweet Girl. You up?”
Families are complicated. The name on my birth certificate is Cassandra Forrester. On my driver’s license, it’s Cassandra Forrester-Quinn. I live with Lawrence and Eleanor Quinn, and their sons, Nathaniel and William. I call Lawrence and Eleanor my parents, and Nate and Billy my brothers, except we aren’t related, not by blood. My biological parents are dead. Andrew Christian Worthington Forrester （forever known as CW） died when I was three; Rachel Richardson Forrester, when I was five.
“Cassie, honey?” Lawrence’s voice is like the ocean. It’s gravelly and relaxed, with a hypnotic quality that draws me in and calms me down. “I’m heading out.”
I don’t call Lawrence “Dad,” but he’s my father in every meaningful way. While I’m sure lots of daughters believe their fathers are heroes, mine is exceptional. （I bet we all believe this too.） Long before I was born, CW Forrester was Lawrence’s mentor, protector, and surrogate parent. So, when he and Rachel died, the Quinns offered to raise me. The idea was Lawrence’s, and he says it was a reflexive decision, that he didn’t think twice.
“I’m sleeping, Lawrence,” I say. “I raced home the second Nate called me. I got in very late—which you’d know if you’d stayed up. Or answered any of my calls.”
“Sorry, kiddo,” he says. “I conked out. But you keep sleeping. I have to run.” He turns away.
“Wait!”
“Cassie, what?” Impatient, Lawrence taps, taps, taps the door. “I’m in a rush.”
Still, he hesitates. We’re both relieved I’m home. Although I’ve only been gone six months, and I was here for Christmas, our connection is already fading. I mean, Lawrence is my dad. He’ll always be my dad. But our day-to-day routine is over. Now, I’m a visitor, a young woman whose other life, her real life, doesn’t include him. So, we breathe for a minute, father and daughter, thinking about Billy; and, also, about us.
“Let’s start again.” Lawrence steps into the room. A beat later, I feel the mattress dip as he sits down, and then his hand touching my back. “I’m glad to see you, Cassie. I’m losing my mind. Yesterday was like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.”
I turn over. Seeing Lawrence on the edge of my bed, I feel a hitch in my chest. A valve opens, pressure releases, and tears burn my throat. “I’m worried about Billy,” I say.
“We all are.” Holding out his arms, Lawrence beckons to me like I’m still a little kid. I shrug off the covers and lean forward. My guard falls away. I bury my face in his shoulder.
“Thanks for rushing home,” he says as he hugs me. “It hasn’t been the same here without you.”