Half of What You Hear Read online

  “How awful for you.” Cindy smirks. “To be surrounded by some of the finest cut flowers on the East Coast.”

  Maybe a week ago, I think. There’s a scattering of dried petals on the floor beside the nightstand that sits between Susannah and me.

  Susannah laughs. “Don’t give me that ‘poor little rich girl’ bullshit,” she says.

  “You know, the florist downtown said she’s never been so busy in her entire career,” Cindy says. “You should be thankful that these bouquets are still rolling in.”

  Susannah rolls her eyes. “Hannah is a master exaggerator. She always has been.”

  “That may be,” Cindy says, scooping up an oversize vase of lilies and shifting it onto her hip, holding it the way I used to carry the kids around when they were toddlers. “But she made a joke about early retirement when she came by yesterday.”

  “Well, how lucky for her that I was nearly killed.” Susannah laughs. “Shall I plan to convalesce here for a few more months so we can make it happen?” She points to a tight cluster of fresh garden roses and ranunculi in varying shades of pink on the nightstand. “This one’s pretty,” she says.

  “That’s the new one,” Cindy says.

  She reaches for the card, but she can’t quite get to it. I lean and hand it to her.

  “Oh!” she says, putting her hand to her chest after she pulls the card from its tiny white envelope. “Well, I can’t believe this.”

  “Who’s it from?” Cindy asks.

  Susannah flicks it aside, and it skitters across the journal beside her on the bed. “This woman who had a little shop near the place we had in East Hampton. You know, she sent me the prettiest bouquet when Teddy died last year. So thoughtful.”

  “How long were you married?” I ask, even though I already know the answer from my research. I figured on the drive over that her famous marriage might be a good conversational entry point.

  She smiles at me. Thank God, I think, relieved that the question wasn’t too painful. “We married when I was nineteen and I’m seventy now, so . . .”

  “Fifty-one years,” Cindy says.

  Susannah’s coral fingernails click-click against each other in the quiet room. “Do you know what we did for our forty-fifth?” She leans toward me like she’s about to tell me a secret. “We got ice-cream sandwiches from a street vendor and rode around Central Park in one of those horse and buggies.”

  “How sweet!” I say.

  Susannah grins, pleased at my reaction. “Everyone’s always surprised by that story. They think we’d do something more”—she flits her hand in the air—“you know. But that was the thing about Teddy. It was never about the money.” She purses her lips and turns her attention to Cindy, then says in an offhand way, “Nope, not Teddy. Never about the money.”

  Huh. I nod, trying to decipher her emphasis.

  “I know you must know about my husband,” she says. “Everyone does.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Oh, of course,” I say. “I saw him interviewed on television dozens of times, and in the news, of course—”

  “No,” she interrupts. “I mean, do you know . . .” She lowers her voice. “About the money?”

  “About the . . . ,” I start, not sure where she’s going with this.

  “Teddy pledged much of his fortune to charity after he died,” she says in a dismayed tone, like she’s just revealed that he piled up his billions on their lawn and tossed a match over the stack. Odd.

  “Yes, I’ve read about the donations,” I say. Just last night, in fact. I’d been somewhat aware of the enormous charity gift back when Teddy died a year ago—there was a ton of news coverage, of course—but I don’t recall ever seeing the exact amount, and I don’t remember who the recipients were. “He sounds like he was a generous man.”

  She begins to laugh. “Oh, yes, so very generous,” she says, looking at Cindy and shaking her head. Now I’m sure I haven’t misjudged the tone.

  Cindy snickers, but then she tips her head against the door and wraps her arms more tightly around the vase she’s holding. Is she just playing along?

  “What about you?” Susannah says. “How long have you and Cole been married? If he’s anything like his father, you’re a lucky woman.”

  “Oh?” I say. Now this is getting good.

  “Back in my day, nobody could resist Bradley Warner! Most of all me! He was the most coveted bachelor in Greyhill.”

  “Is that so?” I say, laughing a little. My father-in-law is a lot of wonderful things—warm, affable, kind—but I’ve also witnessed him flossing his teeth over the kitchen sink. It is difficult to imagine him as a heartthrob.

  “You’re not buying it?” she says, studying my face. “He truly was, believe me. The other girls in town were so jealous of me. I assume you know that we dated, Bradley and me?” Susannah says.

  “Oh, yes,” I say. “I think I’d heard that.”

  “Cindy,” Susannah says. “Give me and Bess a few minutes to talk on our own, if you don’t mind. Could you prepare some drinks?” She turns to me. “You want tea? Coffee? A soda or some water? Something stronger?”

  Stronger? It’s barely ten o’clock in the morning. “Just some water would be nice.”

  Susannah smiles. “That blue is a pretty color on you,” she says, wagging a finger toward my sweater, a cashmere crewneck I’d kept in heavy rotation back when I worked.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lane.”

  She groans. “Mrs. Lane was my mother-in-law!” she exclaims. “And she was not a good one! Maybe you can relate?” She winks at me.

  “Oh!” I say, taken aback by her overt reference to Diane. It’s not that I disagree, but . . .

  “Never mind.” She laughs again. “But please call me Susannah.”

  “What about Mrs. X?” I try, referencing the title of the gossip column she briefly wrote for the New York Observer in the early 1990s.

  She laughs, dipping her head back. “Oh, you’re fun! Yes, you can call me that, too.” She turns to Cindy, still waiting in the doorway. “So just some water for Bess and coffee for me, please.” As the door clicks closed, she exhales, a loud huff, and sinks back into the pillows. “She exhausts me, honestly,” she says.

  “Cindy?”

  Susannah nods. “She’s been with me since I moved back, though I’ve known her for years. She and her husband used to work at the Inn at Little Washington. Teddy and I used to go down there. Have you ever been?”

  “No,” I say. “Cole and I have talked for years about splurging on a dinner there. In fact, I mentioned to him recently that we should visit and pick up some pointers for our inn.”

  “Your inn?”

  “Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry. Maybe you don’t know . . . we’ve taken over the Greyhill Inn, from Bradley and Diane.”

  Susannah laughs. “Of course I know that, Bess.”

  “Of . . . of . . . course,” I stammer. “I—”

  “Have you ever lived in a town this small before?” she asks.

  “No, not this size,” I say.

  She tips her head back and laughs. “You should just assume that everyone knows everything there is to know about you,” she says. “Trust me, it will make things easier.”

  Before I can ask what she means, she keeps talking.

  “Anyway, Cindy’s from Madison originally.” She points toward the picture window and the breathtaking view of the mountains behind me. “You know, it’s just ten miles or so. She’s a lunatic but she keeps me sane, if that makes any sense.” She smiles at me. “It’s just the two of us here.”

  “The house is . . . amazing,” I say, though it’s an understatement, based on what I’ve seen so far.

  “I’ll give you the grand tour later,” she says. “I wanted to redo a lot of it when I moved back, but I just haven’t made the time for it. I’d like to give all the heirlooms to my decorator, Margaret Dunhill. Have you heard of her?”

  I shake my head.

  “She is this little dark-haired wo
man from Chicago. Eyes like a cat’s! She is astounded that I don’t want any of this junk—the pre–Civil War mahogany, the precious upholstery, the silver, all the Heywood Hardy foxhunt paintings my father collected. I told her that I want to do an exorcism.” She widens her eyes and wiggles her fingers like she’s telling a ghost story. “Margaret doesn’t know what to make of me. There are forty rooms in this house and I want her to redo every single one, except for this one.”

  “This room is lovely,” I say, admiring the curves of the mahogany dresser, which, despite the inch-thick layer of dust and the sad bouquets, is beautiful.

  “It was my childhood bedroom,” Susannah says.

  “This was your bedroom?” I look around and try to imagine a tiny Susannah opening one of the heavy dresser drawers, or climbing up onto the formidable bed. The room seemed crowded and cramped when I first entered, but for a child’s bedroom—and certainly compared to the little box I slept in growing up—it’s quite grand.

  Susannah nods. “I can’t sleep in the master suite. My parents slept in two twin beds, like on I Love Lucy. And trust me,” she says, lowering her voice, “the only heat that ever came off my mother was the angry steam she expelled through her nostrils, like a bull, when I was in her presence. I tried sleeping in there once, but it felt too . . .” She shudders. “This is better.”

  I take the opportunity to really look around. Books—popular hardcover thrillers, a couple of paperback romances—are stacked on the empty side of the bed, next to the gold journal. The nightstand is a jumble of bottles—hand lotions, perfume, a plastic bottle of ibuprofen. There is a nearly empty crystal water glass, a pot of lip balm, and a small silver framed photo of the Lanes in formal dress—Susannah in a long silver ball gown. I know the background immediately. It’s the Blue Room at the White House.

  “George W.’s inauguration,” Susannah says. “You ever meet him?” she asks, smiling like she’s in on a secret. “You know, given what you used to do?”

  “Yes,” I say, my throat suddenly dry.

  “I have to imagine that your move is a big change for you,” she says, peering at me.

  I nod, hoping we can skirt past the topic as quickly as possible.

  “You know, I’ve met the First Lady,” she says.

  “Oh?” I say, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “Impressive woman,” she says, her fingers laced together at her chin. “At least, so far as I could see.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that I can tell is meant as an invitation. She wants the dirt.

  “She really is exactly as she seems,” I say, choking out the words. It’s the truth, in fact, which makes what happened all the more damning.

  “What happened exactly?” she says, pointing her chin toward me. “The press really made it sound awful.”

  “Well . . . ,” I say. “Yes. They have a way of doing that.”

  “You can say that again!” she says. “We don’t have to talk about it, if you’d rather not. . . .”

  “I’d rather not,” I say, smiling to soften the blow.

  She rubs her palms together, like she’s wiping the thought away. “Done,” she says, and then something catches her eye. I follow her gaze to where my hands are clasped in my lap.

  “Let me see your ring,” she says excitedly, wiggling her fingers out at me like a cashier trying to hurry me for change.

  “My ring?” I hold my hand out.

  “I thought it might be . . . Bradley’s mother’s ring!” she says, her eyes widening as she tilts my hand in various angles to get a good look.

  “Yes,” I say, looking down at my engagement ring, a small circle-cut diamond with a sapphire on either side. I’ve never been much for jewelry—that’s one trait I did inherit from my mother—but I happen to love my engagement ring. “You knew her?”

  “Oh, yes,” Susannah says. “She was the kindest woman. Just the ultimate mother, nothing at all like my own. Such a nurturer.”

  “I’ve heard she was wonderful,” I say, thinking that even Diane has only ever uttered good words about her. “It’s a shame I never got to meet her.”

  “Yes,” she says. “You would have loved her, everybody did. She was so warm, always thinking of others before herself. . . .” Her voice trails off, and I can’t help but notice the expression on her face, like she’s wound back to some long-ago moment.

  She clears her throat. “So tell me about your move here. And the inn! How exciting for you to be taking over the inn!”

  “Yes,” I say. “It is.”

  “And your children?”

  “We have twins. A boy and a girl. Max and Livvie. They’re twelve.”

  “Right, I remember,” she says. “From the other night, when I ran into your clan in the lobby.”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, as if the uncomfortable moment isn’t already imprinted on my mind. We’d had dinner in the back of the inn’s dining room—I actually hated eating there with Cole’s parents; it was humiliating how Diane treated the waitstaff—and I’d broken the news to my in-laws about my plans to write the story as the kids ate ice-cream sundaes. Diane was not pleased, as I expected (“I hate to say it, Elizabeth, but this is among your less intelligent decisions”), but I’d been surprised that Bradley hadn’t been more enthusiastic, given how encouraging he typically is. When Diane gets on me about things, he at least usually tosses me a wink, or tamps her down with a “Now, now, Diane.” The other night, he just stared into his coffee cup and gave me a bland “Sounds interesting.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Susannah says, cocking her head to the side.

  “Sure.”

  “Did you ever think it was odd that Diane and Bradley didn’t have more children?”

  “Oh,” I say, startled by the question.

  She must sense it, because before I have a chance to respond, she says, “Forgive me if that’s too forward. It’s just that Bradley always talked about having a large family, back when we were teenagers and used to daydream about what our kids would look like.” She smiles at me and shakes her head at the ceiling, as if the memory is projected on the plaster above us. It’s hard to tell whether she’s wistful about Bradley or the thought of children. She and Teddy didn’t have any.

  “Understood,” I say curtly, hoping to convey to her that it’s none of our business. My own parents never wanted more than just one child, but Cole has told me what he heard through the walls of their house when he was growing up—that his mother miscarried several times. Despite Diane’s obvious feelings about me, I know deep down what the arrival of the twins meant to her, not to mention to Bradley, and to Cole, who would have loved growing up with a sibling. “The Warners have always said the inn was their other child,” I say, repeating a line I’ve heard from Diane.

  She raises an eyebrow. “And now it’s yours! So tell me again when you moved here.”

  “August,” I say. “Just before school started.”

  “Yes, yes,” she says. “So we both had eventful summers, then.”

  “I’m so sor—” I start, putting a hand to my chest.

  “It’s just a joke, dear.” She laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. But I’m still so pissed about that truck. I loved that truck. It was a 1967 Chevy Fleetside, a gift from Teddy, and it was beautiful. Damn thing! I still can’t believe it happened!”

  “How . . . did it happen, exactly?” I ask, venturing the question I’ve heard people whispering around Greyhill.

  She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know!” she says, leaning toward me like she’s telling me a secret. “That’s the thing! I know what people in town are saying, that someone tried to hit me, but that’s not it at all! It’s not as good a story, but I simply lost control of the wheel! One minute I was driving along, and the next . . .” She sits back and snaps her fingers. “I’d almost rather someone had been trying to hit me!” she says, scowling. “Hate to think I’m getting to an age when . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  �
��Stop apologizing. My God! People never take a woman seriously if she’s always apologizing.” She laughs. “One thing you have to understand about me is that my filter stopped working a long, long time ago.”

  “I can respect that,” I say, thinking it sounds like something my mother would say.

  “I bet you can.” She winks. “I know you have a sharp tongue.”

  I feel my cheeks redden.

  Susannah laughs again. “Listen, I thought it was hysterical, dear,” she says. “I’m not judging you. To be honest, I didn’t think it was such a big deal, all that stuff you said. Women say those sorts of things to each other all the time. I don’t know why they fired you.”

  “Well,” I say, nodding my head to the side. “It happened.”

  “Yes!” Susannah says. “It most certainly did! Anyway, my truck!” she says. “I called her Henrietta, after my best friend from childhood. You should have seen me in East Hampton, driving that hulking thing in my Chanel! People didn’t know what to make of me. You know about Henrietta, of course. . . .”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t think I do.”

  Her mouth drops open. “You don’t know about Henrietta Martin?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “Bradley’s never said anything? Diane?”

  “No,” I say, wondering why this is so significant.

  She sits back on the pillows. “Huh.”

  “She was your friend?”

  “That’s an understatement,” she says, stretching her lips into a smile. “She was my best friend! We did everything together. Look . . . ,” she says, twisting toward the nightstand. “Open that drawer.”

  I lean and tug the latch, the bottles and junk on the top jiggling as I do.

  “Grab that box,” she says.

  I hand her an upholstered keepsake box covered in purple calico. “These are some of the treasures Henrietta and I collected when we were girls,” she says, opening the cover. “I couldn’t believe they were still here when I came back!” She pinches her fingers and pulls out an old arrowhead, then turns the box around to show me. “Is that—?” I say.

  “A skull?” she says, taking it out of the box. “Sure is! A rabbit skull! I actually had that with me up in New York. I used it as a paperweight on the entry table in our apartment. My city friends thought that was something!” She latches the box and hands it back to me to put away. “I have to say, I’m stunned you’ve never heard of Henrietta.”