Chương 7
And when I called my father from the hospital chapel, Eleanor had been sitting at my parents’ table celebrating her birthday while my family chose her dinner over my children’s funeral.
I closed the laptop.
Then I opened it again.
At 2:13 in the morning, an email arrived from Nathan.
I almost deleted it without reading.
The subject line stopped me.
You need to know why Mom came to your office.
The message contained only four sentences.
Dad saw the Marshall Street article before Mom did.
Eleanor called him about it.
She told them you could make a decision that would affect one of her biggest clients.
Mom didn’t go there to apologize.
She went there to find out how you were voting.
I read Nathan’s message once, then again with the brightness turned down because the white screen hurt my eyes.
The house was completely silent except for the refrigerator cycling on and off.
At some point I became aware that I was sitting in Julian’s chair.
I had avoided that chair for months.
He had always claimed it because one leg was slightly shorter than the others and he liked rocking it against the kitchen floor until I threatened to throw it away.
I put my feet flat and stopped the movement.
My phone buzzed.
Nathan.
I answered before I could change my mind.
“Did you know about Eleanor and Bellweather?”
“No.”
His voice was rough, as though I had woken him.
“Not until tonight.”
“How?”
“Dad called me.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently the family is now having a crisis.”
I laughed once.
Nathan did not.
“What did he say?”
“That Mom made things worse by going to your office.”
“That’s one interpretation.”
“He also said Eleanor is upset.”
“Of course she is.”
“Sienna.”
“What?”
“I’m not defending her.”
“You’ve had practice.”
The line went quiet.
I regretted it almost immediately.
Not enough to apologize.
Nathan cleared his throat.
“Eleanor told Dad the article could damage her firm.”
“How?”
“She says if Bellweather thinks she can’t manage her own family, they’ll question whether she can manage public opposition.”
I stared at the laptop.
“That is almost impressive.”
“What?”
“The idea that I’m public opposition because I didn’t answer Mom.”
“You know that’s not what she means.”
“No, I don’t know what anyone means anymore.”
Nathan breathed out.
“I asked Dad if Eleanor knew Julian opposed the sale.”
“And?”
“He said yes.”
The kitchen seemed to get smaller.
“How long?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Did she ever talk to Julian about it?”
“I asked that too.”
“And?”
“Dad told me to stop interrogating him.”
I leaned back.
The uneven chair rocked once against the tile.
“Very useful.”
“I called Eleanor.”
That got my attention.
“What did she say?”
“She told me it was confidential client work and none of my business.”
“That sounds like her.”
“She also said Julian was being unrealistic.”
I looked at the dark window above the sink.
My own reflection looked like someone standing behind me.
“What exactly did she say?”
Nathan hesitated.
“She said he was letting sentimentality interfere with a rational exit.”
My fingers closed around the edge of the table.
Julian had spent years talking about Marshall Street.
He had shown me photographs of boarded storefronts, old brick warehouses, and families standing at neighborhood meetings with folded arms.
I had listened with half an ear while packing lunches or answering emails.
I had thought it was one more project.
Eleanor had apparently known it was not.
“Did she say anything about me?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“Sienna.”
“Tell me.”
“She said you’re vulnerable right now.”
I waited.
“And that people around you may be influencing you.”
“Who?”
“Thomas, probably.”
“Anyone else?”
“She mentioned Aunt Ruth.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course she did.”
“She thinks they’re pushing you to vote against the sale.”
“Nobody has told me how to vote.”
“I believe you.”
The words stopped me.
Nathan had never been quick to choose sides.
Growing up, he survived family arguments by becoming useful.
He carried plates.
He checked the grill.
He changed lightbulbs while Mom and Eleanor fought.
When Dad became angry, Nathan disappeared into the garage and found something mechanical to repair.
He had built an entire personality around being difficult to blame.
“Why?”
I asked.
“Why what?”
“Why do you believe me now?”
He was quiet for so long that I thought the call had dropped.
“Because I saw the dinner pictures.”
My stomach tightened.
“What pictures?”
“Eleanor posted them privately.”
I had not looked at any of my family’s social media since the accident.
Nathan spoke carefully.
“There was one from Friday.”
I knew which Friday without asking.
“Everyone was there?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone?”
“Most people.”
“And nobody wondered where I was?”
“Sienna.”
“Answer me.”
“They thought you wanted privacy.”
“That’s what Mom told them.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I didn’t ask enough questions.”
I stood and walked to the sink.
The faucet dripped once every few seconds.
Julian had promised to replace the washer.
He had made that promise for eight months.
“Send me the pictures.”
Nathan did not answer.
“Send them.”
“I don’t think you should see them.”
“That isn’t your decision.”
A minute later, six images arrived.
I opened the first.
My parents stood behind Eleanor at a long restaurant table.
She wore a green dress and a paper crown someone had apparently brought as a joke.
There were flowers.
Candles.
Wine glasses.
Nathan sat at the far end.
My father was smiling.
My mother had one hand on Eleanor’s shoulder.
The timestamp was Friday at 8:14 p.m.
Ten hours earlier, I had watched Leo’s casket disappear into the ground.
I opened another.
Eleanor leaned toward the camera, laughing.
Behind her, my mother was holding a menu.
Nothing about the photograph was monstrous.
That made it worse.
Nobody looked cruel.
Nobody looked guilty.
They looked normal.
They looked like a family having dinner.
May you like
A family that had continued without me before the cemetery dirt was even settled.
“I have to go,” I said.
