“Come home. You know you want to.”
“I don’t have a home, remember? I refuse to stay at Rourke’s any longer, and I love you dearly, but there’s no way I’m moving in with you and Sonnet.”
“You can find a rental. No big deal.” Nina, whose heart and soul belonged to Avalon, who loved it so much she worked fourteen-hour days as mayor, simply couldn’t seem to understand why someone would want to live anywhere else.
“I’ll think about it,” Jenny said, mainly because the whole issue was giving her a headache. A confusion-induced headache. In all honesty, she didn’t know her own mind—her own heart—anymore. “I’ve got some things I need to do here besides meeting my father’s family.”
“Like what?”
Jenny took a deep breath. “I need to go see Joey.”
“Aw, Jen.” Nina’s voice wavered. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “It’s just…something I need to do.”
* * *
She took a taxi because the day was so cold. There wasn’t much snow around, just grainy gray heaps along the curbs here and there. The sky was heavy and colorless over the Manhattan Bridge as the taxi crossed to Brooklyn and made its way along Flatbush Avenue. She’d been here once before, but her memory of that day was faulty, a blur of pain. Yet since the meeting with Martin Greer, she’d been thinking a lot about the stories inside her, and she was beginning to realize she’d been hiding from the past rather than facing up to it.
The taxi passed through the arched iron gate and trolled along the gray paved driveway. She silently counted the rows, and then spoke up. “I think it’s here,” she said faintly. “Can you wait?”
The driver nodded and she got out. She seemed to be the only one here. The cold was etched into the very ground beneath her feet, the grass flattened and drained of color. She walked along, counting as she went, and then she stopped and turned, suddenly glad no one else was around. Her stomach fluttered with nervousness.
“Hey, Joey,” she said. “It’s me.” She took a deep breath, blew it halfway out and started talking. “There’s something I’m thinking about doing, and I wanted to tell you about it. You know how I’ve always wanted to write a book? You used to tease me about writing everything down, remember? I still do that, and now it looks as though I’ve been given that chance. It’s not easy, though. Some of the things I’ll be writing are going to take me back to…difficult times. I don’t know, maybe it’s masochistic, but I want to write about those times. It’s something I probably should have done a long time ago. I think you know why. Anyway, that’s the plan.”
The cold wind caused her eyes to water. She stood for a few moments longer, thinking, remembering. The headstone was situated next to an older marker for Joey’s mother. Joey’s still looked brand new, rounded at the top and gleaming, the carved letters crisp at the edges:
Joseph Anthony Santini, 1976-1998. Beloved son.
Step softly—a dream lies buried here.
The buzzer sounded from the street. Jenny hurried to answer, opening the door for Jane Bellamy. Her grandmother—Philip’s mother—stood beaming at her. A wave of silver hair winged out from beneath her soft angora hat, and she wore a handsomely tailored burgundy wool coat. There was nothing the least bit unkind about her, but Jenny simply didn’t know how to act around her.
“Hello, dear,” Jane said. “I’m so pleased you agreed to come.”
“I really appreciate the invitation.” Jenny wondered if she looked as rattled as she felt. She’d been trying all day to get some writing done, but had managed nothing more than organizing her e-mail files and playing a dozen games of Minesweeper. She gave her grandmother a hug. Her grandmother. They had not known each other long, but there was nothing to dislike about Jane Gordon Bellamy. Jane’s grandfather had founded Camp Kioga and she had grown up there.
In 1956, she had married Charles Bellamy in a ceremony at Camp Kioga. Helen Majesky had created their wedding cake, a splendid confection covered in sugar-dough flowers. Fifty years later, Jenny had made an exact replica of that cake for their golden anniversary, also celebrated at the camp. Jane was sixty-nine years old, beautiful, with bright eyes, her silver hair fashionable, her cashmere winter coat draping nicely over her slender figure. There was an unpretentious air about her, even though she was married to a Bellamy and lived in one of the venerable old buildings on the Upper East Side.
Jane looked around the room, a bright spot even in the dead of winter. “How are you liking Olivia’s apartment?”
“I absolutely love this place. It’s just perfect.” Even so, Jenny was haunted by the things Nina had said on the phone the other day. Was it perfect, or was she forcing herself to feel that way because this was what she thought she wanted?
“I’m not surprised the two of you have similar taste,” Jane said. “After all, you’re sisters.”
Half sisters, Jenny thought. The other half of Olivia was her mother, Pamela Lightsey—divorced, well off, socially connected, intimidating. Yet another thing she had in common with Olivia. They both had difficult mothers. The difference was, Pamela was made difficult by her presence and Mariska by her absence.
“So, are you ready for our outing?” asked Jane.
“Absolutely. I’ve always wanted to see the St. Regis.” Jenny went and got her coat. Going to a legendary hotel for tea might be a common occurrence in Jane Bellamy’s life, but it was a first for Jenny.
“I usually have tea there once a month,” Jane explained. She had her own driver, a low-key man in a good suit, who murmured in a foreign language into his Bluetooth as he expertly navigated the car through traffic. “In the past, I nearly always took Olivia along. It was quite the tradition with us.”
Jenny and Gram had traditions, too, but they were much
