The Cousins(16)

“Especially since they’re serving mussels as a main dish. God, he hated those.” Archer deepened his voice as Allison joined in his imitation of their father: “Snot of the sea.” They both huffed out almost laughs, and Archer added, “I mean, he wasn’t wrong. You can put all the butter and cream and salt or whatever you want on those things, but they’re still disgusting.”

Most days since their father’s death, Allison felt as though the void left by his larger-than-life presence was unfillable; the kind of loss she’d ache with her entire life. But every once in a while—usually in a quiet moment like this with Archer—she could imagine a time in the future when the memories became more sweet than bitter. Part of her wanted to keep reminiscing, but she’d learned over the past few months that you could only stay so far ahead of grief. If she let herself wallow before Mother’s big night, it would be hard to put on the kind of bright face expected of her.



Archer seemed to be thinking the same thing. He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head and crossing his legs at the ankle, the new position signaling an abrupt change of subject. “On a scale of one to ten,” he said, “how much more obnoxious do you think Harvard has made Anders?”

“Twenty,” Allison said, and they both laughed.

“Probably. It’ll be good to see Adam, though,” Archer said. He worshiped their oldest brother to a degree Allison didn’t quite share, but she was still happy at the thought of him coming home. There was no one on earth who could make their mother smile like Adam. “I talked to him right before he left, and he said he’s down for Rob Valentine’s party next Saturday. We just have to convince Anders.”

“I never said I was going,” Allison reminded him. All the Story children had attended boarding school outside Boston since they were twelve years old, and only Archer had maintained—and grown—the friendships he’d made at Gull Cove Elementary School. For the past few years, he’d spent every school vacation trying to convince his siblings to accompany him to one party or another. None of them blended as well as he did.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Archer urged.



Allison rolled her eyes. “Did you learn nothing from the Kayla-Matt debacle?”

“That’s ancient history,” Archer said.

“Not to Anders.” Allison straightened suddenly, tilting her head. “Is Mother calling me?”

“I don’t think—” Archer started, pausing when a faint but clear “Allison!” floated toward them from inside the house. “I stand corrected. Your supersonic ears strike again.”

Allison got to her feet and crossed the patio, opening the sliding glass door just as their mother stepped into the connected parlor. “Oh, Allison, thank goodness. There you are.”

Mother was already dressed for the evening in a white sheath, silver sandals, and canary diamond jewelry. She’d pulled her dark hair back into a loose chignon, a few well-placed wisps softening the sharp planes of her face. Her lips were signature red, her smoky eye shadow as flawless as ever. You’d have to look closely to notice the tightness in her expression. Mildred Story wasn’t a natural hostess; she’d always relied on her husband’s gregariousness to get her through social gatherings. “Could you go to the tents and let me know what you think about the flowers?” she asked. “Theresa ordered them from the new place on Hurley Street—Brewer Floral, I think? Something like that. We’ve never used them before, and I’m worried she only chose them because Matt works there now. I just had a look at the arrangements, and they feel a touch unbalanced to me.”

“Unbalanced?” Allison asked.

“Too heavy on the calla lilies,” Mother said. She twisted her hands together, looking down at them with a frown. That was another new anxiety; Mother had recently become convinced that her hands betrayed the fact that she was nearing fifty in a way her face still didn’t. Allison pried them gently apart with a reassuring squeeze.



“I’m sure they’re beautiful. But I’ll take a look,” Allison said, slipping through the door and closing it behind her.

She knew what her father would say if he were here: “Your job at this moment, Allison, no matter what your actual opinion might be, is to reassure your mother that each vase contains precisely the right amount of calla lilies.” This, she could do.

She padded on bare feet across the polished hardwood and marble floors of the house, stopping at the side entrance to slip on a pair of sandals she’d left by the door. The noise level was much higher when she stepped outside than it had been on the patio, voices mixing with the sounds of light construction and the occasional strum of a guitar from the band’s sound check. The smell of honeysuckle was everywhere, wafting from the bushes that nestled against the side of Catmint House. Allison turned the corner and nearly bumped into two people standing side by side, surveying the sea of white tents in front of them.

“Hello, Allison.” Her mother’s lawyer, Donald Camden, put a hand out to steady her. “Where are you running off to?”

“Oh, well…” Allison trailed off as she took in Mother’s assistant, Theresa Ryan, standing beside him. She couldn’t very well say that she was here to make sure Theresa hadn’t selected a subpar florist due to nepotism. “I just wanted to look around.”