“What are our husbands for if not to get angry about our spending?” I ask airily.
Celia offers me a pill for the third time today, after taking one herself. I’m about to decline for the third time when I figure she’ll only keep pushing them on me. So I shake out a handful and shove them in my pocket. “For later,” I tell her. “I’m taking a break after my trip to the hospital.” That should shut her up.
“You sure had us worried that day,” Celia says, eyes going round for a second as she remembers. “Hey, I hope you got ahold of Connie okay?” she asks, changing the subject. Celia is the one who gave me Connie’s phone number, after suggesting I extend my invitation to Tino Morelli through Connie instead of direct. It was a clever suggestion on Celia’s part, but I figure she liked the idea of getting one over on Marie Fuscone.
Celia’s phone rings as Marco pulls away from the curb, and she squeals when she sees the name. I do a double take: Maggie Donovan.
“We swapped numbers at the wedding,” Celia tells me, before answering my sister’s call.
I’m still not allowed to have my own phone. I’m not sure if it’s still a thing, or if Luca has simply forgotten that I don’t have one. It occurred to me to lift Celia’s from her when she wasn’t looking one day, but I didn’t.
I’ve found myself feeling strangely free without a phone.
None of my old friends can contact me. And I’ve totally lost any sense of FOMO now that I can’t get on social media. I don’t have any accounts under my real name on Insta, Facebook, or the rest of them—even I’m not that dumb. When your Pops is Howard Donovan and your Mom was killed by a contract hit, you keep your head down and you make sure you stay out of other people’s photos too, as best you can. But I still liked to internet-stalk my friends’ accounts from time to time, and all those celebrities who seem to have nothing better to do than post pictures of their fabulous lives.
It all seems so pointless now, looking at those other lives.
Celia is chattering away to Maggie, and I’m thinking about the weird capacity for women to form instant, life-long friendships over little more than a shared liking for the same lipstick, when I hear my name and tune back in.
“Sure, Finch is right here with me now. We’re riding around Manhattan in a town car, making our husbands go bankrupt.” Maggie says something in reply and Celia continues, her voice less chirpy now. “Um, sure, maybe. That sounds like a neat idea. Let me just run it by Finch.” She puts the phone on mute and her eyes are worried when she looks at me. “Maggie’s in town. Did you know?”
“I did not.” Maggie Donovan wouldn’t deign to share her schedule with me. Besides, how would she even contact me?
“She wants to see you,” Celia says hesitantly. “She suggested we pick her up, have lunch together. Um…”
Ah. Maggie Donovan has found a way to contact me.
I know what Celia’s worried about. After my little overdose incident, Celia got read the riot act by Brother Frank. It must’ve been serious, because Celia is irrepressible when it comes to Frank, and does what she wants ninety-nine percent of the time. When it comes to me, though, I guess she’s been told.
Maybe she’s even been told I’m not allowed to see my family. But I haven’t been told that, and I have no intention of letting anyone decide who I can and cannot see.
Not even Luca D’Amato. Besides, I’m curious why Maggie even wants to see me.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, smiling innocently.
“Um,” she says again. “Would Luca be okay with that, do you think?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” I don’t blink, don’t look away, until Celia does.
She unmutes her phone. “We’ll swing right by and pick you up, Maggie,” she says, trying and failing to sound as cheery as she did when she first answered. “I know, right? Yeah, can’t wait…see you soon.”
I sit back and look out the window, and I can’t help smiling to myself as Celia gives Marco the new address. Celia D’Amato versus Maggie Donovan. The warmth of the Italians versus the charm of the Irish.
I wonder which side I’m actually on.
Maggie greets Celia like a long-lost school friend, and the way they dive into conversation, you’d think they’ve known each other that long. Maggie is staying at the Grand in our standing suite, and makes us come up when we arrive. I know exactly why, because I know my sister. It’s to show Celia that the Donovans don’t play second fiddle to anyone. Celia D’Amato will wait on Maggie Donovan, and she’ll fucking like it.
I make Marco wait outside the door, too, although he looks dubious, but Maggie has our mother’s autocratic nature, and the way she ignores him and simply shuts the door on him resolves the issue.
Hired Help are not welcome in the presence of Margaret Fincher Donovan.
Celia, as intended, looks intimidated by the room and the view out the window over Central Park. I have a sense of déjà vu and remember Luca staring out this same window, like he’d never been so high up in his life before. Frank D’Amato does well enough for his wife, but he doesn’t have money like the Donovans. That’s what Maggie wanted Celia to know when she invited us up here to her room.
Celia gives a timid smile when Maggie urges her to try her new perfume, just come in on shipment from France and not for sale here yet. Yep, Maggie plays her like a fiddle, keeping Celia in her place while pretending to give her a hand up.
It’s mean, and I refuse to share the catty smile Maggie sends my way behind Celia’s back.
“You know
