And Then Everything Unraveled Page 3

  The loft took up the whole fifth floor of the building, and most of it was a huge open space. My room was down a short hallway, and Charley’s room was down another, but just about everything else was in the main room, including a kitchen area at one end, a big round table in the middle, and a mismatched collection of sofas and chairs at the other end. A long row of oversized windows framed a view of the buildings across the street.

  The kitchen counter was piled with grocery bags, and Charley was at the stove, trying to turn bacon with tongs that still had a price tag dangling from them.

  “Delia, hi,” she said, looking up with a cheery smile. “I hope you’re hungry.” She gestured casually with the tongs, as if trying to imply that she cooked all the time, but just then a drop of sizzling fat flew up from the pan and nailed the inside of her wrist, and she let loose with a few words that neatly proved how wrong T.K. was about swearing and a lack of imagination.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “Everything’s under control,” she assured me, apparently unaware that the pan was starting to smoke. She chattered on as I tried to remember if I knew anything about putting out grease fires.

  I shouldn’t have worried about the pan, but it would be a while before I realized that just about everything Charley did turned out all right, no matter how inevitably disaster seemed to loom. I learned much more quickly that she liked to talk. A lot.

  “There’s fresh orange juice—do you like orange juice?” she asked. “Some people like grapefruit juice better, and I know it’s supposed to be really good for you, but it makes my mouth feel all puckered. I also picked up bagels and cream cheese. I wanted your first meal here to be authentically New York, so it was either bagels or ordering in from the taco place, and since the taco place doesn’t open for another hour, bagels won. And everyone likes bagels. Except for people on a low-carb diet. But even they like bagels, they just don’t eat them. You’re not on a low-carb diet, are you?”

  I wasn’t sure which question to answer first, but it didn’t matter, because Charley was already on to the next series of topics, which included: her love of carbs, how her love of carbs almost made training for a marathon seem appealing except for what it would do to her toenails, how important toenails were for open-toed shoes, not to mention peep-toes and sandals, and how sore her feet were from standing around the previous night while Dieter shot the same scene over and over again.

  By now, we were at the table with enough food for a small team of sumo wrestlers and Charley took a big bite of bagel, which gave me my first opportunity to say much of anything. And what I most wanted to know was how she and my C-Span-watching, loafer-wearing mother could possibly be sisters, but asking which one was adopted didn’t seem like the most polite way to start a conversation. So since all of the other adults I knew liked talking about their work, I asked about her movie career instead.

  She laughed. “Don’t let Dieter or Gertrude hear you call it a ‘movie,’ whatever you do. It’s an independent film, darling,” she said in a mock-affected way. “And I wouldn’t call it a career, either. It’s just something I’m doing right now.”

  “Oh,” I said, lacking context for this. In Silicon Valley, people tend to define themselves by their profession. It’s not about money, either—T.K. has a trust fund from her great-great-grandparents or something like that, and she’s made plenty on her own, but it still hasn’t stopped her from being a total workaholic. “Then what do you usually do?” I asked Charley.

  “Usually?” she repeated, as if the word was foreign to her. “I don’t know if I’ve ever had a ‘usually.’ That sounds sort of…bleak.”

  “Well, what did you do first?”

  “You mean after Brown?”

  “You went to Brown? But don’t Truesdales get disowned if they don’t go to Princeton?”

  “No, your mother was kind enough to break that mold. At least as far as college. You should have seen the fit your grandparents threw when I told them about the Peace Corps. Then I almost did get cut off.”

  “No way,” I said, impressed. “You were in the Peace Corps?”

  “Sure,” she said, as if everyone joined the Peace Corps, and as if the Betsey Johnson dress she was wearing was standard issue for Peace Corps alums. “I spent a few years in Ghana, teaching HIV and AIDS prevention. Then I traveled around Africa for a while. The different cultures and climates were fascinating, and I liked the animals so much that I decided to go back to school to be a zoologist. But it turns out they make you study every single kind. Giraffes and elephants are one thing, but who can get excited about mollusks, except maybe the French? And they’ll eat anything.”

  “So then came the movies? I mean, films?”

  “Oh, no. There was a lot of stuff in between. Let’s see,” she said, using her fingers to tick off occupations. “Africa, and then grad school. Then I got interested in Eastern medicine, but it turns out that I’m a bit squeamish about needles so acupuncture class was a problem. What else? There was the magazine. And the gallery, of course. But the only people buying art back then were Wall Street types. I can’t even begin to describe what stiffs those hedge-fund goons were. Their idea of a good time was golf.” She shuddered. “It’s like the crash was some sort of divine punishment for bad taste.”

  “And then what?” I asked. She still had a few fingers left.

  “And then the film, I guess. Unless I kill Gertrude first. Don’t you think Gertrude looks more like a Helga than a Gertrude?”

  As if on cue, a cell phone began ringing from somewhere under the bags on the counter. “Speak of the devil,” said Charley. “That’s probably her, even though we’re supposed to be taking the day off.”

  She found the phone and checked the caller ID. “Ack!”

  “Helga?” I asked.

  “Even worse. I think I’ll let voice mail pick this up.”

  “What’s worse than Helga?”

  “The Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side. Though maybe you should forget I said that. I don’t want to scare you before you’ve even met her. But it does seem only fair to warn you. The Flying Monkeys are pretty special, too.”

  “Who’s the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side? And who’re the Flying Monkeys?”

  “Your other aunt and her kids,” said Charley. “Patty’s twins, Gwyneth and Grey. That’s Grey with an E—they went for the British spelling, just in case the name itself wasn’t pretentious enough. But don’t worry. We’re safe for now. I never give out my home number, and especially not to family.”

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the landline phone on a side table started to ring. Charley jumped, startled, then she snatched up the receiver and checked the screen. “How?” she cried. “How does she do it? Nobody has this number. It’s unlisted. I’m not even sure I know what it is.”

  There was a click as the answering machine picked up the call, and a moment later a voice began streaming from the speaker. It could’ve just been distortion from the machine, but the woman who spoke sounded like she was sucking on something sour:

  Charity, are you there? Are you there? Are you screening your calls again? Are you? You know, it’s really very rude to screen your own sister like this—

  “What does she expect when this is the sort of thing she calls to say?” asked Charley, sinking back into her chair.

  —and the voice mail on your mobile phone is full, which is very irresponsible. What if somebody needed to reach you urgently? I don’t know what Temperance was thinking. As we all know, you can’t even manage to raise a Chia Pet—

  “She’ll never let me forget that, will she?” said Charley.

  —much less a child. And there are several important things we need to discuss about Cordelia. First, I’ve called Prescott, and they’re expecting you both in the headmaster’s office first thing Tuesday morning. Tuesday as in tomorrow. Now, Jeremy and I had to pull a lot of strings to get a place for Cordelia at such late notice—

  “Jeremy’s he
r husband,” Charley explained. “They’re perfect for each other. Which should tell you a lot.”

  —fortunately, the Paulson girl had to enter a long-term treatment facility for her eating disorder, so a space opened up in the junior class. Now, I expect you to be punctual, and I expect you to wear something appropriate. And you know what I mean by appropriate. I haven’t bought Cordelia’s uniform yet since I didn’t know her size, but she can wear one of Gwyneth’s old ones in the meantime. Though we may have to let it out. Gwyneth’s so willowy—she takes after me that way. Second, we’ll expect you at the beach house in Southampton—

  “No!” said Charley, a look of terror on her face.

  —this weekend. That includes you as well as Cordelia, and given the circumstances, I don’t think anybody will have any patience for one of your excuses. I suggest you be there, and I suggest you be on time. You know, there’s a reason why we keep giving you watches for Christmas. You might want to start wearing them. The gold Patek Philippe from last year is a beautiful piece. And it was certainly a more appropriate gift than the rug-hooking kit you gave me—

  At this point, Charley had her head in her hands and was moaning softly.

  —Third, I’ve made an appointment for Cordelia with Dr. Chiswick. I hardly think you’re qualified to provide the sort of support that a girl needs during such a traumatic time, and he’s considered to be the finest child psych—

  Charley leaped up and hit the OFF button on the answering machine. “And that,” she said, “is your aunt Patience.”

  I didn’t think it was a coincidence that she’d stopped the message playing when she did. “Look,” I said, “there’s no need to send me to a shrink.” I pushed my chair back and began clearing the table.

  “Why don’t we figure that out later?” Charley said after a moment. “Once you’ve settled in a bit.”

  “Really. It’s a waste of time,” I said.

  “Delia,” Charley began awkwardly, “I hate to agree with Patty about anything, but it might not be such a bad idea. The death of a par—well, it’s a hard thing to deal with.”

  “But I don’t have anything to deal with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is only temporary. T.K. will be back.”

  Charley was silent, clearly trying to figure out what to say to that. I should’ve been surprised to see her at a loss for words, but I was too focused on making my point. “You must think I’m crazy or in denial or something,” I said, after I’d explained about the label maker and the lack of proof and everything. “Everyone at home does, too. But it’s all a mistake.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” said Charley, even though her tone suggested she wasn’t sure but was trying not to show it. “But are you sure you don’t want to talk to someone more…skilled in this area? It might help.”

  “What I really want is to find my mother, and I don’t see how a doctor’s going to do that.”

  She hesitated, but then she nodded. “Okay. If that’s what you want. But you should let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” I said.

  She came to join me in the kitchen, loading the plates I rinsed into the dishwasher. “Now, more importantly, what are you going to wear for your first day tomorrow?”

  I’d already freaked her out enough, so I didn’t point out that it didn’t matter since I’d be back at West Palo Alto High as soon as T.K. returned. I just said, “I don’t have a lot to choose from until my boxes get here. Besides—it sounds like I have to wear a uniform.”

  “You can’t really think I’d let you go to Prescott?” said Charley, like Prescott was some sort of cult or polygamist compound. “I barely survived the place myself. No, Patty’s not the only one who can pull strings. I asked around, and I heard about the most fabulous new school, with a revolutionary alternative curriculum. That’s where you’ll be going, Delia.”

  “What’s alternative about it?” I asked. “Or revolutionary?”

  “Everything. Conventional education can be so structured and limiting, but the Center for Academic and Spiritual Growth believes in nurturing a sense of self-direction in its students. I’ve heard Brad and Angelina are thinking about sending Maddox there when he’s old enough. But we’d better get going. We have an outfit to plan. Some of my things might work, though they might be a little long. Or wait—I have a better idea! Have you ever been to Scoop? Or Barney’s Co-Op?”

  “T.K. hates shopping,” I admitted. “Mostly we just order my clothes from catalogs.”

  Charley had been pretty calm during the entire T.K. discussion, but now she almost dropped the plate she was holding. “Catalogs?”

  “Catalogs,” I confirmed. “She likes them because they present a finite range of options.”

  “That is an absolute tragedy,” she said. “But one I’m uniquely qualified to remedy. I can be ready to go in four minutes. What about you?”

  Five

  Palo Alto isn’t exactly a fashion-forward sort of town, but I’d always considered myself on the more stylish end of the spectrum. I mean, it was true that most of my clothes came from catalogs, but at least they came from different catalogs than the ones my mother uses to order her khakis and sweater sets.

  It turns out that the stylish end of the Palo Alto spectrum stops where the frumpy end of the New York spectrum begins. And while Charley might have been a little scattered about things like when her temporarily orphaned niece’s flight would be arriving from the West Coast, there was nothing scattered about her in a retail environment. She attacked each store like an invading army, plucking items from racks with military precision and marshaling salespeople like a drill sergeant.

  We shopped our way from TriBeCa to SoHo and from there to the Meatpacking District, with a stop in the middle at a restaurant called Balthazar for pommes frites and profiteroles because Charley said we needed to keep our strength up. Most of the places we went were completely unfamiliar to me—stores like Olive & Bette’s and Intermix—and the day flew by in a blur of dressing rooms and three-way mirrors. By the time we got back to the loft, I had a whole new wardrobe, and it had been me vetoing the things I thought were too edgy. At home, T.K. does all the vetoing.

  We picked up tacos for dinner and stayed up way too late figuring out what I should wear the next day. This was mostly because of Charley. I like clothes as much as the next person—in fact, I probably like them a lot more—but worrying about the impression I was going to make at a new school was pretty low on my list of priorities.

  Charley, on the other hand, was like a little girl with her first Barbie. She insisted that I try on every possible combination of the items we’d purchased, and it wasn’t just because she was trying to keep my mind off my mother, either. She was seriously intense when it came to planning outfits.

  We eventually settled on a Paul and Joe shirt in a reddish-pink color (“too fabulous with your skin tone,” said Charley) and a pair of Rag & Bone skinny jeans, but deciding on my top and bottom took so long that we ended up going to bed without resolving footwear. Which meant that we had to reconvene in my room directly after breakfast the next morning to figure out which pair of new shoes worked best with the clothes we’d picked out.

  So that’s where we were when a car screeched to a halt on the street below, triggering a bunch of nearby car alarms. We could hear the noise five floors up, but neither of us paid much attention—we were too caught up in debating a pair of Christian Louboutin ankle boots I’d vetoed but Charley had bought anyhow.

  “I just don’t know if they’re me,” I was saying. I’d embraced most of Charley’s choices, but it was an extra-long leap from J. Crew flip-flops to Louboutins, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.

  “They can be you,” said Charley enthusiastically.

  “Maybe you should try them instead?” I suggested.

  “I wear a size ten,” she pointed out. “You wear a seven. And, lucky you, these just happen to be a size seven.”

/>   “Won’t I be late if we don’t leave soon?” I asked, thinking maybe I could distract her.

  “The Center doesn’t believe in strict timetables or taking attendance or anything like that. It’s impossible to be late.”

  I was still trying to get my head around a school where you couldn’t be late when suddenly the determined clatter of high heels sounded in the living room.

  “What’s that?” I asked, on instant alert. It seemed like the wrong hour of day for a burglar, but Nora’s warnings were still fresh in my mind—it was hard not to feel at least a small jolt of alarm.

  “It couldn’t be,” said Charley in disbelief. The Louboutins slipped from her grasp.

  The bedroom door crashed open against the wall, and I let out an involuntary shriek. A blond-haired woman in an austere black suit stood in the doorway. She was as thin and angular as a store mannequin, and diamond earrings the size of small boulders competed for attention with the massive diamond on her ring finger. A Louis Vuitton garment bag was slung over her arm.

  Her glare landed on Charley. “What kind of absurd excuse for an academic institution is this supposed to be?” she said, brandishing a brochure for the Center for Academic and Spiritual Growth.

  “How did you get in?” demanded Charley.

  “With a key,” said the woman. “Obviously.”

  “But who gave you a key?”

  The woman didn’t answer but just turned her icy blue eyes to me. “Cordelia?”

  I was tempted to hide behind Charley, but I managed to restrain myself. “Um, yes?” I said.

  “I’m Patience Truesdale-Babbitt. Your aunt. The one who’s not utterly insane.”