“Umm, sure.” As much as Grace wanted to get this over with, she had to admit, she was curious about the place her father had called home. It looked like something out of a foreign design magazine, all-white sectional furniture with bulbous silver lamps swinging from the ceiling.
“So, these are the bedrooms,” Portia began, striding briskly down a hallway. “Master, second, guest, Dash’s room, the nanny’s quarters . . .”
Grace peered through doorways as they passed, but they all looked the same: an expanse of white linens and pale carpet and austere abstract art. Where did they put all their stuff? Grace wondered. Clothes, and books, and last week’s newspapers, and next week’s projects. There had never been even the suggestion that she and Hallie would have a room here, and looking around, it was finally clear why. God forbid the girls ruin all this spotless perfection with their messy teenage lives.
“And here we are, back to the beginning!” Portia led her to the open living area, and sat on the very edge of one of those square white couches. “Please, sit,” she told Grace. “Greta!”
Grace carefully took a seat as the Swedish nanny appeared, placing a tray of tea on the glass-topped coffee table before disappearing without a word. “Thanks!” Grace called after her, before the kitchen door swung shut and there was silence again.
“So.” Portia poured her a dainty china cup of herbal tea, then fixed Grace with an expectant look. “What’s on your mind?”
Grace tried to organize her thoughts — to sound mature, and calm, and not sixteen. “We got a letter from your lawyer,” she began. To her dismay, her voice came out shaking. “About the house.”
“Mmm.” Portia slowly stirred her tea, but didn’t say anything else.
“They say we have to move out.”
Portia gave her a patronizing smile. “Why don’t we just leave that to the adults? How’s school going? Are you looking forward to summer?”
Grace blinked. “No, you don’t understand,” she managed. “We can’t leave, it’s our home!”
“Now, Grace.” Portia’s tone was chiding. “Don’t be so sentimental, you’re not a little girl anymore. Home is wherever you make it.” She tapped her teaspoon once on the edge of the cup; the ring of china echoing.
“But couldn’t you let us stay?” Grace tried. “Just until Mom sells a few paintings, and we have some money saved?”
“Of course.” Portia smiled at her again. “I told the lawyers, I’d be happy to work something out, provided your mother paid the going market rental.”
Grace deflated. “But we can’t afford to pay rent, not right now!”
Portia leaned forward. “You’re looking at this all wrong, Grace. It’s an opportunity for you all: a fresh start. Imagine how much happier you’ll be when you’re not rattling around that big old place. You know, I swear I smelled damp there,” she added, “maybe even mold. Who knows what would happen to you if you stayed in that death trap? It’s a blessing, you’ll see.”
“A blessing?” Grace’s control slipped. “Don’t you get it? We can’t afford a new apartment, we can’t afford anything! Without Dad, there’s nothing!”
Portia folded her hands in her lap. “Now, your mother’s financial life is not my responsibility. I’m sure there are savings, work she can do . . .”
“But this isn’t what he would have wanted!”
Portia flinched.
“I’m sorry.” Grace swallowed back her frustration, fighting to keep her voice even. “But you have to see, he never meant for this to happen.”
Portia gave a little shrug, as if she were helpless. “Grace, dear, I’m a single mother now, I have to put poor Dashwood first. Do you have any idea what it costs to raise a child these days?”
Grace shook her head slowly.
“The nannies!” Portia exclaimed, aghast. “And then there’s baby yoga, and mini-Mozart classes, and ante-pre-preschools to moderate his social adjustment. His child nutritionist alone runs three hundred dollars an hour, and that’s not even accounting for private-school fees, or summer camp, or the Ivy League . . .” She shook her head, as if overwhelmed just by the thought of it. “I’m sorry, but you can see, my hands are tied.”
Portia sipped her tea. Silence.
“But . . . what are we supposed to do?” Grace looked at her, horror dawning. She really wasn’t going to budge; Portia was going to take their home. “You can’t just throw us out on the streets.”
Portia widened her eyes and let out a mellifluous laugh. “Dear girl, what do you take me for — some kind of monster?”
Grace exhaled in relief.
“No, I’m giving you until the end of the month to move out.” Portia beamed. “That should be plenty of time.”
Grace managed to hold back the panic long enough to murmur a polite good-bye and make it down to the lobby, but no farther. As she stumbled out of the silent, polished bubble and into the noise and bustle of the street, she was overwhelmed with helplessness, so fierce she could barely breathe. What could they do now? Where were they going to go?
The tears were stinging in her throat again, but this time, Grace had no strength left to swallow them down. She pulled on her parka and hurried blindly down the sidewalk, her chest shuddered with the first traitorous sob.
“Grace!”
She was halfway down the block before the sound of her own name filtered through her distress. Grace turned to find Theo behind her: dressed in preppy khakis and a parka, tugging Dash in a stroller.
“Grace?” His face changed as he took in her expression. “Are you OK? What happened?”
She tried to tell him everything was fine, but her voice choked in her throat.
Theo looked around at the rush-hour crowds, jostling past them with impatient expressions. “Come on.”
He ushered her across the street, pushing the stroller with his free hand. Grace was powerless to resist; it took everything she had to swallow back the sobs. She was mortified. Weeping in the middle of the street like she was some pitiful basket case. Like she was Hallie!
Theo steered them into the park across the street, depositing her on a bench. “Do you need me to call someone?” he asked, digging through the diaper bag until he found a packet of tissues for her. “Your mom, maybe?”
“I’m fine!” Plastering on a smile, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just . . . my allergies,” she covered. “You know, hay fever.”