Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

And if I stayed? If I somehow persuaded Mother to let me help her and our relationship became more of what I wanted and less of what I remembered, what then? Would Ernie want me as a working partner in my father’s business or did he prefer me as a silent one? Would I even want to commit myself to a “real” job? Would Mother even want me to stay?

Then what drifted through my befogged mind was that, no matter what I did, Mother wouldn’t like it. Even that idyllic afternoon was colored with the faint stain of disapproval—for what I couldn’t remember. If I stayed to help, she would be angry. If I left, she would be angry. If I talked to her friends, she would be angry. If I didn’t do anything, she would condemn me for my laziness. And that gave me a lot of latitude.

I had always wanted her to accept my gift. She never had, so I’d gone through life defensive. Now, a bit of that defensiveness fell away. I would use my gift, because it was the right thing to do, and maybe because it would help me know her. Knowing her mattered to me. Father was gone. We only had each other. Most of all, I needed to know if she had the intuition, too. I’d long ­suspected she did, but if so, she’d kept it a state secret.

Knowing who we were, how those genetic connections played out in me, would make me feel less alone in the world—and maybe her, too. My talking to Mary Ellen Winters would jeopardize my finding out, but I couldn’t see any other way forward.

Mary Ellen was Mother’s age, which made her about fifty. The last time I’d seen her, seven or eight years ago on a surreptitious visit to Richard and Paul’s, she’d looked good—buff from lots of time at the gym and on the masseuse’s table. She liked designer clothes, Thierry Mugler and Prada, things that only looked good on women who seemingly hadn’t eaten for the last three months.

Her hair was streaky blonde, her hands free of rings. Hadn’t she been married? I wondered what had happened to him. Wasn’t he a doctor of some kind? No, that wasn’t quite right. I’d met him at one of my mother’s parties, maybe one of the summer ones. I seemed to remember sails and blue water. Had she rented a boat and sailed us all around for twilight cocktails or something? Why would we have been invited? Maybe it was a party like the fête, where everyone got invited whether you liked them or not.

Hugh told me Mary Ellen was working on her brother’s campaign, and, in the murky back of my brain, something buzzed about her and the local Women’s League. Mary Ellen would have the inside scoop on my mother and Hugh’s relationship and would gloat over any misery in Mother’s life. The tricky part would be convincing her I wasn’t on some conniving mission from my mother—if I could get her to talk to me at all.

Thirty minutes later, I was dressed in Mother’s pink Chanel suit with a pair of patent leather boots. If you were going to meet the enemy, it was best to wear camouflage—not that I didn’t love Chanel suits. I tossed a cashmere pashmina over my shoulders, grabbed the Land Rover keys and hoped I was doing the right thing.

Paul said Mary Ellen manned the phones at the Women’s League headquarters on Mondays, the perfect place to beard the bear in her den, or something like that. I pulled into the League parking lot at noon, in time to see Mary Ellen tripping out in her Uggs and miniskirt. Not very appropriate wear for a fifty-year-old fashionista. She must be having a bad day.

I called to her. She turned slowly, red-rimmed eyes focusing with trouble. She looked like she’d stayed up all night partying. “Clara.” Her voice was flat. “I heard you were back. What do you want?”

“I’m looking for a cause.” I smiled my most winning smile. Years of practice learning those social skills Mother demanded.

Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t have time for your mother’s games today. Go home.”

“I’m sorry?”

Her head, which had swiveled toward her car, swiveled back toward me. “What?”

I felt as if we were playing who’s-on-first. “I understand you had a crisis the night of Mother’s fête. I’m good at putting out fires, thought I could help with Andrew’s campaign.” I smiled. “Lots of time as an administrator.” Exaggeration for a good cause.

She looked briefly disconcerted, then recovered. “You’re a Republican?”

I shrugged and felt four generations of liberal Democrats fly over me with their wings of death.

“Constance would never approve.”

“Exactly,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “I need lunch. Come.” She gestured toward her alarmingly clean BMW. I wondered if she kept the chauffeur in the trunk to polish it between drives. She beeped, the car unlocked. Stepping carefully around the ice patches, I opened the passenger door and slipped into the smell of new leather and systematic betrayal.

She drove with assurance. It was a standard transmission, and she moved from gear to gear without hesitation, sensing what the car needed and when to give it. Within a matter of minutes, we pulled up at an elite restaurant down by the water where, it was rumored, local businessmen and lawyers met their mistresses for lunch. Mary Ellen, it seemed, had a standing reservation. The maître d’, a slender, olive-toned man—the color of all the service personnel in this town—took us immediately to a window table.

Without asking, she ordered us two Bombay Sapphire martinis, straight up with olives, and the maître d’ left us to look at the menus and the view. I didn’t usually drink at lunch; staying awake for the rest of the day was a problem, and it was a worse problem when one hadn’t slept much the night before, still felt slightly out