soaring, and the space is full of the most exquisite collection of paintings, sculptures, and vases that I’ve ever seen outside of a museum. A slim man dressed all in black is peering intently at one wall, jotting something in a Moleskine notebook. I’ve spent years hanging out at my friend Chloe’s mother’s art gallery, and I’m pretty sure he’s looking at an original Cy Twombly painting.
When the man sees us, he snaps the notebook closed. “I’m sure we can work something out,” he says to Theresa. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Wonderful, thank you,” Theresa says, backtracking to open the door for him. They converse briefly in low tones, and when she returns, she smiles brightly at us. “Your grandmother is considering divesting some of her art collection.”
Divesting. That’s a word I recently learned when Mom berated me into studying for the ACT; it means rid oneself of something that one no longer wants or requires. That painting Mildred is about to divest might be on the smaller scale of Twombly’s works, but it would still pay for all of our college tuitions at Ivy League prices.
Not that I could get into the Ivy League. But still.
The bitter thought distracts me until Theresa leads us through a set of glass French doors. We step onto an expansive porch overlooking the ocean, framed by a stainless steel railing. I feel a sense of déjà vu, even though I’ve never been here, because Mom has described this porch in so much detail. It was her favorite spot in the entire house.
“Mildred, the children are here,” Theresa calls.
My grandmother is sitting at a teak table, shaded by an enormous, gauzy umbrella set up behind her. There are four place settings, and three tiered trays holding a mouthwatering array of sandwiches, pastries, and fruit. Mildred is wearing a sun hat despite the umbrella, and a beautiful patterned scarf over a long-sleeved, cream-colored linen dress. Her gloves are the same cream color, short enough that I can see the stack of gold bracelets on her left arm. Her white hair is loose and wavy, and she’s wearing a pair of large black sunglasses.
Not fair, I think as I take a seat. I thought sunglasses would be rude, or I would’ve brought my own. I could use some camouflage right about now.
“Aubrey. Jonah. Milly,” Mildred says, inclining her head toward each of us in turn. “Welcome to Catmint House.” Theresa steps away as a man in a black apron materializes behind us, offering coffee, tea, or juice in a hushed tone. “Please help yourselves to whatever you would like to eat,” Mildred adds.
“Thank you,” we chorus, but nobody makes a move toward the food.
“Unless nothing appeals to you?” she asks dryly, and then silverware clatters as we all try to fill our plates at the same time. Damn her, I think, stabbing a slice of melon with my fork. We haven’t even been here two minutes and she already has us jumping to do her bidding.
Jonah, who’s sitting beside me, is staring at the sandwiches with an expression of mild dread. “They’re all full of lettuce,” he whispers. “And nothing else.”
“Here.” I poke one with my fork. “I think that’s roast beef.” Jonah grabs it gratefully. Aubrey plays it safe by piling her plate high with mini pastries.
“So.” Mildred folds her hands under her chin. I wait for the obvious question: Why are you here? But it doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head toward Jonah and says, “I must confess, Jonah, that I see nothing of Anders in you.”
Jonah tries to buy time by biting off half of his roast beef sandwich and then—disaster. His face turns red, his eyes water, and he gags before lunging for a napkin and spitting gobs of half-chewed food into it. “What was that?” he gasps, reaching for his water glass. I look at the uneaten sandwich half on his plate, and catch sight of a creamy white substance nestled between the layers of roast beef.
“Oh, um. Looks like horseradish. Sorry about that,” I say as Jonah drains the entire glass of water in two gulps. “He’s not a fan,” I add, to Mildred.
“So I see.” She plucks a plump blackberry from the top of a miniature tart and pops it in her mouth. The gesture is startling, like this person actually eats? I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she just feeds off decades-old resentment.
When Mildred has chewed and swallowed, she finally takes off her sunglasses,