“Bye, Whit,” I say quietly. “I’ll come back soon. I can’t wait for you to meet your daughter.”
Eleanor mutters something inaudible underneath her breath. Then a little louder, “Bye, sweetheart. Rest now. I’ll visit soon.”
We turn and walk back toward the path. I’m still carrying my Louboutins by their straps. I’ve apparently given up on pretentiousness and find it liberating. Eleanor walks beside me at a measured pace, her heels navigating the soft ground with a competence that makes me wonder if she practices cemetery walking the way some people practice yoga.
“Celeste.”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you barefoot?”
“Because this cemetery is an obstacle course disguised as a memorial garden, and my shoes weren’t designed for cross-country.”
“Those are Louboutins.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re carrying four-thousand-dollar shoes through a graveyard like a pair of flip-flops.”
“They’ll recover. They’ve survived worse. I once wore them to a sample sale.”
Eleanor shakes her head. The disapproval is familiar but the edges have softened into something closer to exasperation, the kind a mother directs at a daughter she can’t quite control but has stopped trying to redesign. We walk a few more steps in silence before Eleanor speaks again.
“Now, have you given any thought to names for the baby?”
“A little but nothing finite.”
“Well, names require lead time. You can’t name a child under pressure. That’s how people end up with children called Nevaeh or Brinleigh.”
“Jokes on you.” I grunt as I nearly roll my ankle on an unexpected hill. “I like those names.”
“What about something classic? Margaret. Catherine. Elizabeth.”
“Those are queen names, Eleanor.”
“Queens are excellent. Queens endure.”
“I was thinking something more personal. Something connected to Whitney.”
Eleanor is quiet for a moment. “Whitney’s middle name was Anette.”
“Which she hated,” I remind Eleanor. “No offense.”
We reach the parking lot. My car is on one side, Eleanor’s on the other. The check is in my purse, folded once, the crease sharp and deliberate because even in emotional upheaval I fold things properly. Eleanor stops beside her car and turns to face me.
“My attorneys will have the paperwork drafted by Friday,” she says. “I’ll need your lawyer’s information.”
“I’ll send the contact. Since we can text now and all.”
“Good. And Celeste?”
“Yes?”
“The fall and spring line. Is it salvageable?”
“With that check? It’s more than salvageable. It’s funded.”
“Then fund it. Build something beautiful. Show that ex-husband of yours what happens when you bet against Celeste Brinley.”
