stuck in Maddie’s throat. She reached for her sandwich again.
“Half a fucking century,” Kris moaned, rolling her dark eyes. “It’s pretty exciting, isn’t it?”
“Exciting?” Abigail retorted. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate word.”
“Oh, come on, Abby,” Kris said with a laugh, though Maddie winced because they all knew how Abigail hated it when anyone—even one of them—called her Abby. “Are you about to say that turning fifty is going to bother you? Is that what this lunch is all about?”
As Abigail took another drink, she was trembling. Maddie watched her place both hands on the glass to steady it. A wave of foreboding rose from the toes of Maddie’s high-buttoned shoes and rolled up to the cameo at her throat.
“We have a year left,” Abigail continued, her eyes moving first to Maddie, then to Kris. “I think we shouldmake our birthday wishes. Write them down. The way we used to.”
Maddie washed down her food with a deep gulp of water. And suddenly every ounce of her being, every nerve in her body, told her to get up now. Get up and leave the restaurant and pretend that this luncheon had never happened.
Instead she spoke quietly. “I thought we’d agreed to never do that again.”
Beside her, Kris was mute.
“Maybe we were wrong,” Abigail said without looking up. “And maybe … just maybe … we owe it to Betty Ann.”
The table grew quiet. The Monte Cristo turned over in Maddie’s stomach. She wanted to look at Kris, but she could not. She could only stare at her half-eaten sandwich and wish that she’d never been born.
September 1958
Arbor Brook was a school for young ladies nestled on two thousand wooded acres that hugged the Hudson River. It had graduated an impressive roster of daughters of presidents and corporate kings, so it was natural for Grandfather to enroll Abigail there.
She had, however, refused to live in the residence hall.
“You’ll make friends if you live there,” Grandfather said.
“I don’t need any friends. I want to live
here
.” What she really wanted to say was that she wanted to be with
him
—that she promised to do everything right and be a good girl. Maybe then he wouldn’t look away each time she entered the room, wouldn’t mind that she’d had to come here to stay, wouldn’t blame her that his only son—her father—was dead. She twisted the bracelet that hung from her wrist and touched the tiny gold locket that held Daddy’s picture and Mommy’s, too.
“You can’t live here,” Grandfather insisted. “I’m away too much.”
She wanted to ask why he traveled so often when hehad such a beautiful house to live in. Louisa had showed her pictures of the grand bails Grandfather had once hosted here, of the three hundred guests who came in masquerade and filled the huge drawing room with laughter and dancing; she’d told Abigail about the wonderful dinner parties where fifty people were served in the main dining room—seven courses, including lemon sorbet in between. When Abigail asked Louisa why Grandfather had stopped, the woman said it must have had something to do with Grandfather’s son—Abigail’s father—as if a piece of Grandfather had died with him, too, on that snow-covered mountain in St. Moritz.
So Abigail did not ask why he went away so much. Instead she decided if she did everything right, then maybe Grandfather would stay home more often. Maybe he’d want to be with her. And maybe someday he’d let her have a masquerade ball.
“But Louisa said the school is only ten miles away,” she said, trying not to whine, because Grandfather hated that. “Smitty can drive me.”
“No,” he answered.
“But I promise to ride Lady every day after school, and keep up my piano lessons, too.” She disliked horseback riding almost as much as playing the piano, but it would be worth it. Anything would be worth it. “Besides,” she added, “Louisa would have no one to take care of.”
She wasn’t
“Half a fucking century,” Kris moaned, rolling her dark eyes. “It’s pretty exciting, isn’t it?”
“Exciting?” Abigail retorted. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate word.”
“Oh, come on, Abby,” Kris said with a laugh, though Maddie winced because they all knew how Abigail hated it when anyone—even one of them—called her Abby. “Are you about to say that turning fifty is going to bother you? Is that what this lunch is all about?”
As Abigail took another drink, she was trembling. Maddie watched her place both hands on the glass to steady it. A wave of foreboding rose from the toes of Maddie’s high-buttoned shoes and rolled up to the cameo at her throat.
“We have a year left,” Abigail continued, her eyes moving first to Maddie, then to Kris. “I think we shouldmake our birthday wishes. Write them down. The way we used to.”
Maddie washed down her food with a deep gulp of water. And suddenly every ounce of her being, every nerve in her body, told her to get up now. Get up and leave the restaurant and pretend that this luncheon had never happened.
Instead she spoke quietly. “I thought we’d agreed to never do that again.”
Beside her, Kris was mute.
“Maybe we were wrong,” Abigail said without looking up. “And maybe … just maybe … we owe it to Betty Ann.”
The table grew quiet. The Monte Cristo turned over in Maddie’s stomach. She wanted to look at Kris, but she could not. She could only stare at her half-eaten sandwich and wish that she’d never been born.
September 1958
Arbor Brook was a school for young ladies nestled on two thousand wooded acres that hugged the Hudson River. It had graduated an impressive roster of daughters of presidents and corporate kings, so it was natural for Grandfather to enroll Abigail there.
She had, however, refused to live in the residence hall.
“You’ll make friends if you live there,” Grandfather said.
“I don’t need any friends. I want to live
here
.” What she really wanted to say was that she wanted to be with
him
—that she promised to do everything right and be a good girl. Maybe then he wouldn’t look away each time she entered the room, wouldn’t mind that she’d had to come here to stay, wouldn’t blame her that his only son—her father—was dead. She twisted the bracelet that hung from her wrist and touched the tiny gold locket that held Daddy’s picture and Mommy’s, too.
“You can’t live here,” Grandfather insisted. “I’m away too much.”
She wanted to ask why he traveled so often when hehad such a beautiful house to live in. Louisa had showed her pictures of the grand bails Grandfather had once hosted here, of the three hundred guests who came in masquerade and filled the huge drawing room with laughter and dancing; she’d told Abigail about the wonderful dinner parties where fifty people were served in the main dining room—seven courses, including lemon sorbet in between. When Abigail asked Louisa why Grandfather had stopped, the woman said it must have had something to do with Grandfather’s son—Abigail’s father—as if a piece of Grandfather had died with him, too, on that snow-covered mountain in St. Moritz.
So Abigail did not ask why he went away so much. Instead she decided if she did everything right, then maybe Grandfather would stay home more often. Maybe he’d want to be with her. And maybe someday he’d let her have a masquerade ball.
“But Louisa said the school is only ten miles away,” she said, trying not to whine, because Grandfather hated that. “Smitty can drive me.”
“No,” he answered.
“But I promise to ride Lady every day after school, and keep up my piano lessons, too.” She disliked horseback riding almost as much as playing the piano, but it would be worth it. Anything would be worth it. “Besides,” she added, “Louisa would have no one to take care of.”
She wasn’t
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