“I always liked Tal,” said Rose.
“No, you didn’t,” moaned Sadie. She had no patience for her mother today. Mina had been up all night, nursing every hour. She was teething, most likely, which meant that she wouldn’t sleep tonight either.
“Well,” said Rose, shooting her daughter a warning look. “I can’t imagine what her parents are going through right now.” With a sigh, she poured chamomile tea from her large white pot into the thin, flowered cups she’d laid out on the coffee table, never mind the three kids toddling along its edge, wooden peg people clutched in their hands.
“Are they here?” Beth asked.
Emily nodded. “They’re staying out on the Island. With Lil’s uncle. Remember? The religious one?” They looked round at one another, from their seats on the Peregrines’ worn brown couches, their eyes bleary and slitted with shock. Yes, they nodded, they remembered Lil’s stories about Passover at this uncle’s house, the eight-hour seders.
“We offered them a room,” Rose explained, “and said they could have the house for shiva. But they said they wanted to stay with family. She’s going to be buried on the Island.”
“They’re bitter,” said Sadie, picking up her cup.
“Of course they are, dear,” Rose replied. “They just lost their only child.” But, as usual, her mother had missed her point: that the Roths thought New York had killed their daughter. If Lil had stayed home and gone to UCLA, none of this would have happened. Lil would be piddling around the kitchen of a hacienda-style ranch in the Palisades, marinating chicken for fajitas, a Honduran nanny minding her baby, while she waited for her husband to pull up in his glossy BMW, bright silk tie loosened around his neck.
“They blame us,” Sadie said to her mother, her voice rising more than she wanted it to.
“No, they don’t,” said Rose. “Trust me. They have enough on their minds. They’re not thinking about you.”
“Mom,” said Sadie, throwing her hands up in the air, causing Mina, balanced upright on her lap, to laugh, Buddha-like. She was a chubby baby, a better sleeper than Jack—until recently, at least—with thick dark hair just starting to curl. Already, Sadie could see that Rose preferred her. Rose had no use for boys. “They’re not even letting us come to the funeral.”
“What?” said Beth. “What are you talking about?”
Rose nodded. “Dr. Roth has decided the funeral is just for family.”
“You’re kidding,” said Beth. “But we loved her. We took care of her.”
“They’re letting us plan a service for her,” said Sadie, her throat tightening. “Here, in the city. For her friends. I was just about to tell you.”
“Letting us?” said Emily. In the room’s far corner, her daughter, Sarah, red hair in wispy pigtails at the top of her head, haphazardly loaded squat plastic figurines into Jack’s plastic pirate ship, which Jack then silently resituated. “Do we need their permission to have a memorial service for our friend?”
“No,” Rose told her sharply, and with a tsking sound. “But she’s their child and you need to respect their wishes. They’re devastated. You need to have some sympathy. My God.”
“We do, Mom,” said Sadie, chastened.
Rose took a loud sip of tea. “Honestly, if they blame anyone, it’s Tuck.” The girls looked at one another. They blamed Tuck, too, but they wouldn’t say so aloud. “And why shouldn’t they? A girl like Lil, with that sort of high-strung personality, should have married someone who was willing to take care of her. Someone like Will or Ed.” If only you knew, thought Sadie. “Someone solid and responsible. Tuck wasn’t that sort of person. Tuck only thinks about Tuck.”
The girls nodded, their faces tilted toward their teacups, for there was blame in Rose’s words, as though Lil’s death was the result of her poor judgment all those years ago. And, yet, somehow, it was, wasn’t it?
“But wasn’t it all a question of timing?” asked Beth suddenly. Emma swiveled her neck and looked at her mother questioningly. “If he’d sold his book earlier—”
“And turned it in on time,” muttered Sadie.
“And turned it in on time,” conceded Beth, “before the bubble burst. Then it might have been really big. And they would have had more money and there wouldn’t have been such a strain on their marriage.”
“Maybe,” said Rose Peregrine. “Maybe not. Nobody ever has enough money.”
“If they’d met now,” said Beth, ignoring her, “everything would have been different.” The girls nodded uneasily. Tuck had finally made a name for himself by breaking a big story about forced labor in the South—something he’d uncovered while, irony of ironies, attending Rob Green-Gold’s second wedding in remotest Georgia. He was writing a book on the subject, for a good deal more money than he had the first.
Or maybe he’s just an asshole, Sadie thought, but said, instead, “We should talk about the service.”
“Yes,” said Rose. She was anxious, Sadie knew, to get down to the cool labor of planning, the ticking off of items on her list. Sadie hadn’t asked for her help, but she was grateful for it. “I’ve called Emanu-El and we can do it there, if you girls want. In the chapel.”
“Okay,” said Sadie. “Thanks.”
“That’s perfect,” said Beth.
“I think, first, we need to make a list of everyone who should know about this and then, from that, who might want to speak. I assume you girls. And Dave. Maybe one of her professors?”
“George Wadsworth,” said Beth. “If he can fly in.”
“Whoever,” said Rose. “Just keep it short. And then we need to think about food.” This was what really interested Rose. “We’ll lay it out in the library. Do you want to do lox and bagels? Or you can just have cold cuts. And people can make sandwiches. And do you want to have wine?”
“Isn’t it kind of strange to have food?” asked Sadie. “Are people really going to want to eat?”
“Sadie, it’s just what’s done,” sighed Rose. “Grief makes people hungry.”
“Lox and bagels,” said Emily, putting her hand on top of Sadie’s. “Let’s do that.”
“All right.” Rose smiled. “I’ll call Russ & Daughters and order platters. You girls start on your list.”
But there were children to attend to, children getting bored and fussy and tired and wanting to be taken to the park or home for dinner and a bath and bed, and so they wrestled them into sweaters and jackets and strapped them into strollers and carriers, and kissed Rose good-bye, promising they would return tomorrow, list in hand, and start making phone calls. Rose’s housekeeper, Olga, could watch the kids.
“I would really think about making those calls tonight,” Rose said as the girls maneuvered their charges down the front steps.
“Okay, okay, Mom, we’ll make them tonight,” said Sadie, over Mina’s rising wail. “I’ve got to walk,” she told the others crossly, the minute the door clicked shut. “This child is exhausted.”
“Let’s walk,” agreed Emily. “We can go down to Sixty-third and get the F.”
Slowly, they made their way across Ninety-second Street, three women and four children, past the narrow wooden houses that Sadie had loved so as a child—the only such in Manhattan—and around the streams of other young mothers, their blonde heads arced over thin cell phones, and diminutive matrons walking small, fluffy dogs, and children, flocks of children, gray and blue and scarlet uniforms visible beneath their open coats. It was four o’clock, but it felt, Beth said, much later, for the sky had grown dark and thick with clouds, just as it had six years earlier, when Lil had married. On Sadie’s chest, Mina had fallen asleep, her dark head lolling onto her small shoulder. “The autopsy should be done by now, right?” Sadie asked quietly, turning her head toward Emily.