“Stop. Lydia, just stop. This isn’t productive at all. You are turning twenty-one this year and you are entitled to your inheritance, but—”
“But what? You want to control me. Don’t you see?”
“Lydia. You stand to inherit a tidy sum from your father’s side of the family. I have nothing to say about that or how you protect it, but believe me, I will most definitely do everything in my power to control the money you get from the Heyworth side of the family. You know my father set aside a trust for you, and it has been in excellent hands for the past twenty years. I worry—”
“Well stop. Stop worrying. Whatever happens with my inheritance from Father is my business.”
Claire shook her head. “Have a care. If you cosign any accounts with your father, he will have access to all of those funds.”
Lydia took another sip of coffee and didn’t say anything.
“Lydia?”
“What?”
“You haven’t cosigned anything with your father, have you?”
“I don’t know! Probably! I mean, he helped me set up a few accounts that he said would protect my assets, in the Cayman Islands or something.”
“Oh dear god.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” Lydia snapped.
Claire took a deep breath and set the magazine on the bedside table. “Okay. We won’t talk about your father. Just know that you can always come talk to me if you want. About anything.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so angry, but I hate being in the middle of you two.”
“You’re right. I won’t put you in that position again. What else were you going to tell me, when you first came in?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I need to figure out what I’m going to do…you know, with my life.” Lydia took a sip of coffee then continued. “I think I need to go back to school. It was foolish of me to drop out after one year.” She kept staring into her cup as if the answers were in there somewhere.
“I’m so glad you think so.”
“Do you think I should go back to St. Andrew’s and continue there?” She looked up.
“Well, is that what you want?” Claire felt guilty for holding out the slim hope that Lydia might want to move to New York when all of her friends were in England and Scotland. She wanted to let Lydia make her own decision, but she just hoped she’d decide to stay close to Claire and Ben.
“I don’t know.” Lydia turned to look out toward the ocean through the white slatted Bermuda shutters. “Some part of me loves the idea of making a fresh start in America—like you’re doing, I guess—but I don’t think it’s really me. I don’t want to live there for the rest of my life. And I’m a bit afraid of what I might get myself into, if you want the truth.”
“I do want the truth. And thank you. So, why don’t you come visit for a few weeks in January, if you like? You can live at Bronte’s, I’m sure. I can stay with Ben.”
As if on cue, the bathroom door opened a crack. “Is everyone decent?”
Claire smiled at Lydia then said, “All clear.”
Ben came out of the bathroom in a thick white robe. “Merry Christmas, Lydia.” He crossed the coir rug and kissed her on both cheeks. “I hear your mom told you about the baby.”
“Yeah, she did. Congratulations. It’s going to be cool to have a little brother or sister.”
“Cool. I’m glad it’s going to be cool.” He looked to Claire. “Ready for coffee?”
“God, yes.”
“I made a pot,” Lydia said. “Sorry I didn’t offer sooner.”
“No worries. Let’s go sit out on the porch and have some delicious fresh fruit then go over to my mother’s to open presents.”
Lydia slid off the end of the bed. “Thanks, Mum.”
Claire was out of bed by then too, and gave her a warm hug. “I love you, Lydia. Happy Christmas.”
The three of them sat on the covered terrace for another hour, reading the paper that had been delivered and enjoying the fresh local papaya and mango that had been brought in for breakfast. The rest of the day passed in relaxed comfort. Bronte tried not to be too churlish about her swollen ankles; Devon tried not to be too fixated on Sarah’s every move; Abby called from a crackling landline in a remote village two hours west of Nairobi. Claire felt like she was part of her family for the first time in decades. She was no longer cruising along the surface, hoping she’d be able to avoid any probing questions.
It was so different now. She wanted to talk about what she was doing at work. She wanted to talk about her life in New York. Bronte and Sarah loved chatting about their favorite place for Cuban coffee or the best red velvet muffin in the West Village. Ben and Max played backgammon, Wolf balancing on Max’s knee. Ben and Jack played gin rummy, talking about Ben’s sister who lived in Paris and worked at the Louvre. Ben and Devon went for a run and talked about some of the new composite materials Devon was developing and how they might have practical applications for dentists.
Basically, Ben simply got along swimmingly with everyone. Even Claire’s mother.
Sylvia, for her part, was formal with Ben, but still respectful. At least she didn’t treat him with the obvious disdain she reserved for Bronte. Despite having convinced Ben that Sylvia had never intended to break them up that fateful summer, Claire still harbored some doubts about how much her mother knew about the two of them twenty years ago. It had always struck Claire that her mother’s timing was a bit too perfect, showing up at the Negresco in Nice ten days before Claire was supposed to finish her summer holiday. Ten days that Claire had had every intention of spending in Ben’s bed. Ten days that never happened.
The day after Christmas, Boxing Day, everyone spent the afternoon on the beach, kiteboarding and body surfing. Claire decided to stay with her mother in the villa for a little while. The sun had been a bit strong, plus she was generally more worn down in the afternoons because of the pregnancy. They were drinking iced tea and sitting quietly in the living room of her mother’s villa, Sylvia doing some needlepoint and Claire reading a novel she’d brought with her from New York.
“Did you know about Ben, Mother, that summer in France?” Claire asked, looking up from her book.
Sylvia kept her attention on the needle and canvas. “I did.”
Claire didn’t even feel angry. Maybe Lydia was right. Maybe she just never got mad enough. “How?”
“How what?”
“How did you know? What did you know?”
“Sally’s mother and I were in constant contact that summer, of course.”
“Sally told her mother about Ben? What did she say?”
Sylvia rested her hands in her lap, on top of the canvas and thread. “It was so long ago, Claire. Does it really matter?”
“Yes. It matters.”
Sylvia stared at her glass of iced tea. “I thought I was doing what was best. Freddy’s mother was one of my closest friends.” She touched the condensation on the base of the glass. “Freddy was handsome. Wasn’t he?” She looked up.
“He was handsome. Go on.”
“When Sally’s mother called and said you were having some sort of assignation with some Arab—”
“He’s Lebanese, Mother. Not that it matters to me one way or the other, but he’s a Maronite Christian, not
some Arab
.”
“You sound like Abigail, trying to paint me as some horrible racist.”
“Well?” Claire had never come up against her mother like this. They’d always been allies within the family in some way. After all these years of patient obedience, Claire felt she’d earned herself a good row.
“Oh, come on, darling. It’s all worked out for the best.”
Claire took a fortifying breath and set her novel—closed neatly with the bookmark placed just so—on the coffee table. “Mother. Twenty years of hell with the Marquess of Wick? Under no circumstances could that possibly be construed as
for the best
…I’ve been miserable.”
“We all have our crosses to bear.”
“Now you’re just being contrary.”
Sylvia’s eyes snapped from the glass of iced tea. “Claire. You are with Ben now. He obviously adores you. What more do you want from me?”
“God, Mother.” Claire widened her eyes and held her rising temper. Speaking plainly still set her pulse racing. She felt her cheeks reddening. “Maybe an apology? Maybe the slightest concession that you may have possibly been the tiniest bit…wrong?”
“Wrong?” Sylvia never raised her voice, but this was damnably close. Claire watched as her mother smoothed the fabric of her pristine white linen trousers before continuing. “Think about my position then. I was your age. Do you feel so
knowledgeable
right now? Can you solve Lydia’s
problems
for her? Don’t you wish you could? I would have kept you with me forever. You were my best friend, darling. You know that. It was terribly unhealthy, I’m sure, by today’s standards, but we had so much fun, didn’t we? Gallivanting around London and going to all the events of the season?”
Claire felt what her mother was saying. In her seventeen-year-old mind, the Duchess of Northrop had been infallible. Sylvia Heyworth was formidable. Silently, Claire stared at her mother, unwilling to answer all those rhetorical questions without the slightest self-awareness on her mother’s part.
“Fine,” Sylvia finally said on a frustrated exhale, then paused. “I’m sorry. There. Is that what you want to hear? I’m sorry for so much. I’m sorry for all the years I spent away from your father. I’m sorry I was a terrible mother to your younger brothers and sister—no mother at all, really—and I’m sorry for your years of sorrow with Freddy.”
“Thank you,” Claire said, tilting her chin down. It was a pyrrhic victory to say the least, as if her mother had climbed down into the sad pit of regret with her, instead of either of them rising up to some happy place of forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to dredge all that up. I just meant…you know I love you, Mother. It’s just that sometimes—and I only say this because I know I do it too—but sometimes you act so certain about everything. Like you’ve never second-guessed a single thing.”
“Well, what’s the point anyway?”
“Because sometimes there
are
second chances, better choices. And sometimes it’s not too late to grab at them. Look at you and Jack…”
Sylvia poked at her needlepoint absently, but the lift of her lips showed the mere speaking of his name set her heart in a happier spot. “Yes. I see what you mean.”
“Anyway, I appreciate what you said about how you were my age. I have no idea what to do about Lydia.”
Sylvia picked up her needlework. “Why do you have to
do
anything? She’s a perfectly capable young woman.”
Claire shook her head and smiled at her mother’s downturned head. Right. Perfectly capable.
Lydia splashed in the ocean with Devon and Sarah. They weren’t entirely horrible, she’d decided.
Devon whipped more water into her face.
“Noooo!” Lydia cried.
“Admit it! You love it!” Devon dove under the turquoise surface when she tried to splash him in return. Sarah was floating serenely on her back a few feet away. Devon came up to the surface with a sparkling orange starfish larger than his head.
“Cool…” Lydia reached out to hold it.
“Here…” Devon handed it to her. They were standing in about five feet of water. Max, Bronte, and Wolf were building a sandcastle at the shore, while Ben and Jack talked beneath one of the pale pink sun umbrellas.
“So what are you going to do after the holidays, Lyd?”
For once, Devon sounded like he was just curious, rather than getting ready to sling some insult about her worthless existence. “I think I may go to New York for a bit. Mother suggested it.” She shrugged like she didn’t have anything better to do. “Then I’m going to try to get back into St. Andrew’s for the autumn term.”
“Really?” Devon had been a bit of an academic disappointment in London, not going in for Oxford or Cambridge like the other men in the Heyworth line. “You miss hitting the books?”
Lydia quirked her lips. “Yeah. Not so much. I just figure I’m less likely to mess up my life if I’m at university. Instead of spending all my time searching for the perfect handbag, maybe after a few years, I’ll have a clue about what I want to be when I grow up. How’s that going for you, by the way, being a grown-up, I mean?” She handed back the starfish and he dove back under the water to set it on the sea floor. When he came up, Sarah had turned her face toward Lydia.
“Why don’t you work at one of my boutiques, Lyd?”
“Twats for hire?”
“Oh, enough of that.” Sarah flipped around in the water, dunked under, then stood so the surface of the water came to just above her copious chest. “You all are so mean to each other all the time—all that sniping—I just want everyone to get along.”
Lydia looked up at the endless blue skies, a few wisps of clouds beginning to come in from the east, then looked right at Sarah. “Yes. I would love to work at one of your shoe stores.”
“What?” Sarah’s eyes went wide. “Did you just say
yes
? Oh that’s wonderful!” Sarah clapped her hands together and splashed Devon in the face. “See! I told you! People can always surprise you.”
Devon smiled at Lydia and gave her a conspiratorial glance, as if he couldn’t help it if he’d fallen in love with a golden retriever puppy. “Right again, my love,” he said, turning to kiss Sarah on the cheek.
Sarah smiled. “Oh, Lydia, this could be so fabulous! What do you want to do? Do you think you’d be into design or sales or marketing or what?”
“I’m going back to shore,” Devon interrupted, “with the men and the alcohol.”
“Very well. Go. Go.” Sarah gave him a quick kiss and refastened all of her attention on Lydia. “Do you mean it? Would you be willing to be a lowly shopgirl?”
“Well…when you say it like that, it’s not quite as glamorous as I’d hoped…”
Sarah looked momentarily disappointed.
“I’m only joking, Sarah! Of course, I’d be willing to do anything you need doing. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’m doing in this family sometimes. Am I the only one who inherited the sarcastic gene?”
“Oh. Good.” Sarah looked genuinely relieved. “I just…I never know with you.”
Lydia dunked under the water again and came up floating. She turned to face Sarah. “You can pretty much assume I’m always taking the piss. I’ll try to stop. I’m trying to stop.” Her gaze slipped to the beach where the Adorable Alistair (as she’d come to call him in her mind) was bringing a tray of rum dums to Jack, Ben, and Devon.