The Bookish Life of Nina Hill - Abbi Waxman Page 0,86

nine thirty.”

Nina shook her head. “No, ten.”

“No, it was nine thirty.”

“Are you sure?”

The woman shot her a glance, and Nina could literally see her remembering their previous interaction and adjusting her tone. “Yes, I’m sure. I put out the bagels.”

“Right.” Nina sighed. Maybe this woman and she could once have become friends, but now Nina was permanently cemented in the other woman’s mind as a total weirdo and tardy to boot. Plus the cinnamon raisin bagels were probably gone already.

As they approached the conference room, Nina could hear raised voices, but the receptionist never broke stride. Maybe there were frequent full-out brawls in this office. Nina suddenly got an image of the conference room doors flying open and fifteen cowboys tumbling out, saloon doors swinging and spurs jingling. She smiled to herself; it was probably too much to hope for that Sarkassian would be inside with a bright red corset on and yellow feathers in his hair. She’d always wondered how saloon madams in the movies kept their silken outfits so clean when there were always clouds of dust and tumbleweeds blowing about. There were no washing machines, no dry cleaners. It had always bothered her, but then again, so much did.

She and the receptionist did a weirdly awkward thing where she reached for the door handle and so did the receptionist and then they both pulled back to let the other one do it and then both reached forward again, until Nina put her hands up in surrender and the other woman made a noise of triumph and opened the door.

Nina stepped in, and the noise immediately stopped as everyone turned to look at her. No feathers in sight, sadly, although of course Sarkassian could have been wearing anything at all under his suit.

“Good morning, Nina,” said the lawyer.

“Good morning,” she replied, pulling out the nearest chair and sitting down. Crap, she’d sat directly opposite Lydia again. Seriously, Nina, take five seconds to look around for sufficient cover next time.

“Please continue,” said Nina, politely. She’d decided on a strategy on the way over: silence, broken only by monosyllabic words and small smiles. No emotions, no drama, nothing to see. She was going to get out of this room alive and cherry-pick the nice relatives and never see the rest of them ever again. She was totally calm and in control.

Lydia leaned forward. “Hello, you moneygrubbing millennial pretender.”

So much for that plan. “Hello, you crazy, mercenary sea cow,” she replied. Sorry, but you can’t call someone a pretender without expecting resistance. She wasn’t quite sure where the sea cow part had come from.

“Mercenary?” Lydia snorted. The sea cow insult either didn’t register or she didn’t care. “There’s nothing mercenary about getting one’s fair share.” She pointed her stubby finger at Nina. “You never even met my grandfather, so any share you get is completely unfair.”

Sarkassian cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Lydia, but you’re wrong. William chose to leave his estate in his own way, and we have to abide by his choices. Family relationships don’t come into it. He could have left everything to a dog shelter, and there would be nothing you could do about it.”

Eliza laughed. “Besides, I don’t know what other family she could be part of. She loves books and being left alone, which is one hundred percent like her dad and, I might add, her youngest sister, Millie.” She smiled at Nina. “She’s very happy you two are becoming friends.”

Nina smiled back, touched.

Archie added, “Nina’s smart and sarcastic. But at the same time anxious and socially awkward. Quite a lot like me. Plus, of course, the hair.”

Peter said, “She’s open-minded and well read.” He shrugged. “Not to toot my own horn, but . . .”

“And she’s obsessed with facts and trivia, which, I’ll be blunt, Lydia, is like you.” Sarkassian leaned back in his chair. “In fact, she’s a lot like all of you, and whether that’s genetics or coincidence is kind of irrelevant, but there it is.”

Lydia said nothing but fumed.

“So, if no one has any further objections, I think it’s time to go ahead and read the will.” Sarkassian looked slowly around at everyone over his glasses, but no one spoke. Enjoying the moment, he opened a folder and withdrew a long legal document and cleared his throat.

“William Reynolds was a wealthy man, as you all know, and the estate amounts to a little over forty million dollars in stocks and cash, the house in Malibu, an apartment downtown, and the vacation homes