One for the Money

“The whole relationship is a lie,” she says, gentle but firm.

“It seemed harmless,” I confess. “Something to make my mom stop looking for ready-made families for me—comes pre-built with a husband and children and three charity board positions.”

Sympathy crosses Haley’s face. “You should tell her to go to hell.”

Hearing those words come from her mouth, when she’s usually so sweet, makes me laugh. “Both our families have matriarchs,” I say, referring to the dragon of a woman that is Caroline Constantine. “And you cross them at your own peril.”

“Eva, Sarah isn’t the matriarch of this family any more than Bryant is CEO of Morelli Holdings. You manage your parents’ house. You’re the one the kids go to when they need advice. I mean, you’re even next in line to run Leo’s company.”

“I’ve told him we’re not doing that. Not once he married you.”

“It’s okay,” she assures me. “I’m going to have my hands full with the baby for a long time. And the truth is, I’m just not that interested in real estate. Either way I’ll be taken care of. That’s not the point, though. The point is that you are the matriarch of the family. You’re the cornerstone. We all depend on you.”

My heart thumps at the compliment. “That’s sweet.”

“It’s true,” she says, handing me her glass of ice water. She blinks a little bit, as if she’s looking into the sun, though it’s not too bright in here. “I do have a favor to ask.”

“Anything.” My stomach threatens to eject the cupcake. Come to think of it, I’ve been nauseous lately. I used to have protein shakes in the morning, but now I can barely stand the sight of them. What is going on with me?

“Don’t let Leo drive,” she says. “He’s not going to be thinking straight.”

“Don’t let Leo drive where?”

That’s when Haley closes her eyes and faints.

Chapter Nineteen

Finn

I’m not usually the type to rattle around my house. There’s always something that needs to be done at Hughes Industries. Or someone in the family who needs or wants me to step in, like the situation with my aunt and the panda.

Somehow I find myself thumbing through volumes in the library, pushing them back when they’re not what I’m looking for. What am I looking for? All I find is poetry.

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

My grandfather was determined to avoid his fate. It didn’t help.

My father was more philosophical about it. He collected poems and books and art about death, as if it was a test he studied for. The textbooks of that course fill these shelves.

As for me, I never thought to avoid it. Or accept it with open arms.

Instead I found solace in knowing that I would be alone at the end. No one else would watch me disintegrate. No one else would mourn.

Hemingway saunters into the room, still a little gangly as he grows into his height. He was an oops baby. My father had good days and bad days. My mother still lived in this house at the time, though he already had nurses and staff. She would absent herself when he turned manic and fretful.

My little brother was conceived on a good day, presumably.

My mom tried to stay after that, for the baby. She made it a few years.

Dad got worse and worse. Throwing things. Shouting. Sometimes he forgot who she was. Once he thought she was his nurse. Those were the hardest times.

Eventually she left to save her own sanity.

Hemingway throws himself into the heavy leather armchair across from mine, making it rock. That’s what he does now. He throws himself into furniture instead of sitting. If my mother were around she would probably correct him. My father would say something about how a gentleman behaves. They aren’t here, though. It’s only me, and I remain quiet.

“Emily Dickinson,” he says, reading from the volume I’m holding. “I had a language arts project about her. We had to analyze three poems, which were mostly about animals. Birds. Frogs. The occasional fly. Then we had to write a poem in her style about a topic that interests us. So I did one about my PlayStation.”

“I didn’t see that.” I get regular reports from his teachers about his academic progress, as well as samples of his work. Not everything, though. I’d have to call the dean and change that.

He lifts his hand to the distant horizon like a Shakespearean poet and speaks.

I saw a world, in my head

And on the TV screen

It sang a song of violence—

Blood no one had to clean

“You wrote that? It’s actually good. And insightful.”

“Always with the note of surprise,” he says with an exaggerated sigh.

“I’m mostly surprised you have a PlayStation. Didn’t you lose your electronics privileges after the last time you were expelled?”