Great. “Your father called just last night and told me to send you home.”
At the mention of her father, Marcy sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Okay, I know this looks bad.”
“And smells bad, too,” Edie said curtly. There was a definite funk of unwashed body and despair in the room.
“I’m trying to get it together, Nana,” she said, and her eyes began to well. “I really am. I’m just struggling a little. I don’t know what my life is about anymore.”
Edie’s heart softened a bit. She remembered feeling rudderless. Unsure of who she was. She sat next to Marcy on the couch. “You made a mistake, darling. Everyone makes mistakes. The bad news is your self-esteem and bullshit meter took a hit. The good news is, unlike others who lose all their money, you still have a place to call home. But you’re going to have to pick yourself up and get on with it, because the last time I checked, the world is still spinning around on its axis.”
Marcy hung her head. Her hair fell in long hanks around her face. “I know, Nana.”
Edie stood up. “A hot shower will help you to feel better.”
“Yeah.”
Edie patted Marcy on the head, then walked out of the formalliving area. She had hardly quit the room before the blaring sound of the game show was back.
With a roll of her eyes she carried on, up the stairs. At the top, she kicked off her heels, then bent down to pick them up. She was tired. She used to jog up the stairs to change for tennis or golf or a run. She still could, but recently, she just hadn’t felt like it.
She walked into the large primary suite and was startled by the presence of her husband. She came to a halt and stared at him. Simon stared back. He was seated in the armchair near the large picture windows, just beneath the small oil Cézanne painting of four oranges on a table. His feet were propped on the silk-braided footstool, which had cost the same as a car. On the table between the two chairs was a whiskey, neat. He was wearing a smoking jacket (absurd), his cashmere-lined slippers (too warm yet), and suit slacks that were a bit too tight on him. Simon’s hairline had receded, and his waistline had expanded, but he still very much resembled the young, debonair pseudo-aristocrat she’d met all those years ago. “What are you doing home?” she asked.
“Can’t a man relax in his castle?”
“I’m not questioning your credentials, my lord,” she said. “But you’re usually not home until late.” Because lately, he was at Linda’s until late.
He shrugged and picked up his drink. “Decided to call it a day. Where have you been?”
“Taking care of this family.” She walked into the massive closet to deposit her shoes on the rack with the other red shoes. She had an entire wall of shoes, arranged by color. She stuck her head out the door as she unzipped her dress. “I paid a visit to your old friend Steve Baines.”
“Ah,” Simon said. “How is my old friend Steve Baines?”
“Unhelpful.” She ducked back into the closet and slipped out of her dress. She picked up a silk bathrobe and put it on.
“What could you possibly have to talk to Steve about, anyway, love?” Simon called.
Edie grit her teeth against the endearment. That was a sure sign that he and Linda were bickering. It was his usual pattern—he practically ghosted her until he drove the other woman crazy, then came back to drop sweet nothings on her, like it was perfectly fine to step out on his wife. Granted, he thought that because Edie let him get away with it for reasons that were entirely murky and unjustified in her own head. But she still hated it.
“I needed a favor,” she said. She came out of the closet and headed for the sideboard to pour herself a bourbon. She hated bourbon. Give her a shot of tequila with a lime chaser any day. Bernie only stocked the sideboard with what Simon liked. “And he’s not handing them out, apparently.” She knocked back the bourbon, squeezed her eyes shut against the burn in her gullet, and then poured another finger of it into her glass.
“What sort of favor were you seeking?” Simon asked. “Perhaps I can help.”
“Nope. You are useless to me in this. I want him to shut down the Crypto King.” She turned from the sideboard to judge his reaction.
Simon groaned. He ran a hand over his balding pate. “Not that again, Edie.”
Yes, that again.She took a seat on the end of their bed. “That man took terrible advantage of your granddaughter. He’s running a scam, Simon.”
“I find it highly ironic that you, of all people, would be offended by a thief. Have you forgotten yourself?”
Edie bristled, but she said nothing. How could she possibly forget herself when she had him here to hold it over her head? He’d squirreled away evidence of her crime—the Pahlavi emerald brooch—for years, trotting it out when he thought she needed the reminder that he held all the cards. “It’s not too late,” he’d say, holding up the brooch and admiring the emeralds and diamonds. “I suspect there are quite a few people who’d like to solve the mystery of the Ramsbury estate jewel heist.”
“Why are you bothering Steve with this?” Simon asked now. “He’s got better things to do than participate in your revenge for a young woman so stupid she’d give this guy her money.”
“Simon!” Edie exclaimed. “How dare you speak of your granddaughter like that! She’s not stupid; she’s young and naïve. She believed him.”
Simon snorted. “That was her first mistake. Leave it be, Edie. She’ll get over it.”
He was right—Marcy probably would get over it in time. But Edie wouldn’t. How many years of her life was she going to allow men to walk all over her and her daughters and granddaughters? Starting with Jabba the Hutt here, seated right in front of her. The bourbon was feeding her fury. “She lost a startling amount of money, Simon. Are you okay with that? Are you going to pretend it didn’t happen?”
