“I’m sorry, but no,” said Cleo.
“This is SO FUN,” said Emma anxiously. Cleo’s heart ached for Emma, their mother’s apologist, a steadfast devotee of ignorant, toxic positivity. Jesus, Cleo was exhausted. Hiding painful truths was exhausting, and so was remaining alert for danger. She didn’t want to be negative! It wasn’t fun to be the naysayer! Yet—alas—it was her fate, her role, her destiny.
“Mom’s not coming, I bet,” said Sylvie. “I know she won’t be here for my wedding. She wasn’t there forA Chorus Line,and she won’t be here for my wedding.”
“Sylvie,A Chorus Linewas eighth grade,” said Cleo, trying to be gentle.
“Yes,” said Sylvie, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “And I had a solo, ‘What I Did for Love.’ And she never came.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cleo, touching her sister’s hand.
“You weren’t there either,” said Sylvie. “None of you were there. And dad would have come but he had died.”
“We’re here now,” said Emma.
There was a silence. Cleo wished she could open up to her sisters—if not them, who?We always fail one another,thought Cleo. She wanted to justtalk,the way she had as a kid, just start speaking and let it all spill out….I don’t love Danny but I’m scared to be alone. What if breaking up with Danny means I’ll never be a mother?Who am I supposed to save if you two don’t need me anymore?
It had once been as easy as breathing to communicate with her sisters. In their shared bedroom, they had never stopped talking—rivers of thoughts and responses and love.
But now Cleo was struck mute.
You can always tell a kid who raised herself. She enters a room and scans—first thing—for the escape route. She watches adults a bit too closely, second-guessing every move. Her stomach clenches around tangled desires: wanting to please, wanting to be invisible, wanting to be seen. She is sure of only one thing: There is nowhere she is safe.
Sylvie was an adult, but as she bent her head to try the posset, Cleo saw her at age six, hunched over, reading picture books in their childhood living room. Sylvie’s terrified eyes snapping to the doorway when someone entered—was it their mother? Was she drunk or angry…or both? Would she cry or punish them for an impossible-to-guess mistake? Might she possibly be…kind?
While Sylvie had been clearly scared of Donna, Emma had seemed more besotted than afraid. Even before defiant Cleo had left for college, Emma had become Donna’s right-hand accomplice and confidante.
Emma and Donna would lounge on the couch, whispering and giggling. Cleo was excluded when Donna applied makeup at the ornate, glass-topped table in the master bedroom, but Emma was allowed to help Donna select which perfume she’d wear for their private “stargazing” walks. Emma’s closeness to their mother filled Cleo with envy, longing, and eventually rage.
Years later, Emma told her sister the terrible truth about Donna’s affair—that “stargazing” had actually meant that Emma was forced to cover her ears to keep from hearing their mother fucking a neighbor—and fucking over her husband and the girls’ father. If only she had known, Cleo would have fought for Emma and put a stop to the cruel nights in the dark. But Cleo hadn’t known.
—
Simon entered the medieval kitchen. Simon wasbuilt,maybe even more muscular than Danny. Cleo had to admit that Simon was very attractive. Too bad his cabled cashmere sweater and expensive haircut were all bought with dirty money.
Sylvie stood to greet her fiancé, shoulders relaxing, the strain on her face erased. Cleo hadn’t seen her baby sister like this in a long time—since the days before Alexander’s death had crushed her like a crystal vase thrown out of a New York skyscraper to the pavement below.
Cleo didn’t want to tell Sylvie who Alexander had really been.
She didn’t want to expose the source of Simon’s wealth.
But she did relish the idea of being the savior, of holding Sylvie’s hand as they departed Mumberton in a hastily summoned Uber, Sylvie wrecked but nestled close to her big sister. Did Uber even come to Mumberton? Cleo would have to check on that.
“Simon,” said Sylvie. She brought his hand to her cheek.
Emma leapt up to hug Simon. He seemed flustered but happy, definitely not used to sisterly attention. Both Simon and Sylvie were glowing. “My boys are still asleep,” said Emma, a sparkle in her eyes as she spoke the words “my boys.” And perhaps emboldened by the thought of her “boys,” Emma said, “Is there any way I could get some coffee?”
“Of course. There’s a café by the barns, and also a more formal dining room with gorgeous breakfasts, pancakes and such,” said Simon.
“Ah, Simon!” said a man in full velvet Tudor getup—fur-lined hat, deep blue velvet gown, a shawl of dead animal carcasses around his shoulders, fastened with chains made of silver medallions. “Honor to have you here, mate,” said the man.
Simon grinned, embracing him, and clapping him on the back. “This is incredible,” he said. “You’ve done great work, Felix.”
“Completely true to the time period,” said Felix. “You’re about to have the same meal Henry VIII would have had for breakfast! Minced suet pies, spiced with grains of paradise, raisins, and dried prunes. Mutton haunch being roasted right there on the spit, as you can see.”
“What year was coffee invented?” whispered Emma.
“Cup of posset, my friend? It’s not so rancid once your taste buds adjust.”
