Post by Katy on Feb 23, 2015 18:35:42 GMT
Okay so here's chapter 1 of my project--what do you think?? (Correct formatting doesn't seem to be supported so I'll add linebreaks to make things easier. Italics have been stripped too, which is obnoxious, ugh)
“Funerals aren’t really my thing,” Tori said, twisting her computer chair so it spun her around to face her dad. He stood in the doorway to her room, face paler than usual. Stress, maybe?
“I know,” he said. One corner of his mouth lifted in a weak smile. “You don’t have to come. I was mostly letting you know that I might be gone for a while.”
Tori frowned. “Gone?” she asked, pivoting on the balls of her feet to make her chair swivel thoughtfully. “It doesn’t usually take more than a few hours though, does it? Show your face, shake some hands, then home. Or is this, like, a big deal funeral? Are they putting you on a task force? Did the mayor died or something?”
Dad shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway, hands clenched by his sides. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Tori—”
“Inappropriate questions,” she said for him with a nod, “in the ‘all lives matter’ category. Sorry. Is Mom going?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough in a way that sent a shock of fear down Tori’s spine. “I’m gonna need her on this one.” He cleared his throat with a cough.
“Is it someone you know?” Tori blurted, jumping out of her seat fast enough that the cord to the headphones around her neck yanked taut. The plug popped out of her tower, filling the room with an endless six seconds of strangers on the internet being stupid in a Vine. Tori flailed at her keyboard, brown fingers smashing buttons until the sound stopped. “Who is it?” she demanded when she turned back to Dad.
His mouth pressed flat in a pale, unhappy line. “Not someone you know,” he said.
“But someone you know.”
One broad shoulder ticked in shrug. “Used to.”
“Used to because now you don’t because they’re dead,” Tori asked, “or used to because—”
Dad sighed, long and shaky, while he scrubbed one hand through black hair kept even shorter than regulations would require. “Inappropriate question,” he muttered. “Unintentionally hurtful category.”
Tori swallowed. “Sorry,” she whispered.
He waved her off. “I have to go finish packing. I just thought you should know that your mom and I might be out for a few days.”
“Mark’s family lives across the street,” Tori said. “I can go there if something happens. Dad,” she called when he turned to leave, unable to resist the impulse, “who is it? The person who died, I mean. Who’d we lose?”
“My brother,” he said, expression twisted with an emotion that looked closer to regret than grief, “Richard. And his wife Jacquelyn.”
Tori frowned. “I didn’t even know you had a brother.”
Dad shrugged again, a full effort this time that lifted the line of his wrinkled work shirt. “I don’t anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Tori said with a wince. “Inappropriate observation, I guess. That’s a new one.”
“No, that was my fault,” Dad said, trying to smile for her. “You couldn’t have known. I don’t talk about him. Didn’t. My family—well. As you probably noticed, I’ve never said much about them.”
“Much?” Tori echoed, lifting one eyebrow in a skeptical manner she’s learned from her mom.
“Okay,” Dad agreed with a nod. “At all is probably more accurate. We had some…philosophical differences. I left home at eighteen and never heard from any of them again.”
“Until now,” Tori said.
Dad nodded. Then he frowned, head tilting in thought. “Technically,” he said. “I still haven’t heard from them. Their representative contacted me because apparently I’m in Richard and Jacquelyn’s will.”
“Why?”
“Hell if I know, kid,” Dad said with a shrug and another faint smile. “There’s nothing of theirs I want anyway.”
“Can you just refuse it?” Tori asked. “Leave whatever they gave you to your parents or, I dunno, any other family at all?”
Dad’s smile went bitter. “There is no other family. Richard and Jacquelyn were the last holdouts.”
“…That’s a weird way of saying that,” Tori pointed out.
“They had a son, I think,” Dad continued without acknowledging her point. “He should inherent everything. I don’t know why he’s not, or what they’d give me that he wouldn’t contest. It’s strange, Tori. I don’t like it.”
“Is that why you’re going?” she asked, then wiggled her fingers at him mysteriously when glanced at her. “Your detective senses are tingling.”
He huffed a laugh, which felt like victory. “Maybe. Who knows? Anyway, I have to leave soon if I have any hope of making the funeral. We’re planning on heading out in about half an hour.”
“When will you be back?”
“Not sure,” Dad admitted, “but your mom’s already canceled her Monday classes, just in case.”
Tori hummed thoughtfully. “So three days, maybe more or less. That’s a long time.”
Dad tilted his head in agreement. “It’s potentially a long time. If I knew why I’m in the will, I could give you a better guess. Richard wasn’t a petty man, so he wouldn’t have dragged me up to middle-of-nowhere New York if it wasn’t for something important. There’s just no way to tell what ‘important’ means, so I have to plan for a legal mess. But honestly, there’s not much you’ll be able to do there, so don’t feel obligated to tag along.”
Tori studied her dad’s face carefully. The stress lines around his mouth and eyes made more sense now, at least, and the exhaustion in his gray eyes. “Can I get back to you on it?” she asked. “Y’know.” One hand twitched around to indicate the pile of papers and books doing its best impression of the Leaning Tower near the edge of her desk. “See how it fits into the schedule of last minute summer homework?”
Dad smiled, fond and exasperated with just a lingering trace of sadness. “Sure thing. Just remember we’re leaving in half an hour, so you don’t have a lot of time to reorganize your procrastination plans.”
“Ugh, please.” Tori made a face. “That plan is ever-changing. It’s easy to pencil in unexpected trips.”
“But you don’t have to,” Dad insisted.
Tori nodded. “Right. You should probably get back to packing,” she suggested when Dad continued to linger in her doorway, looking down the hall toward the guest bedroom with a distant expression.
He shook his head slightly. “Good idea. Have fun with your plan,” he teased.
“Have fun with your—” Tori struggled for a word that wasn’t funeral and came up blank. She substituted a sweeping hand gesture and a nod. “Yeah.”
Dad smiled slightly and finally left.
Tori crossed to her bed and sat down where she could see her clock, watching the seconds tick as she counted down from twenty.
Three...two...one…
Mom stepped quietly into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft snk. “Tori,” she said firmly, “I know he probably said you don’t have to come—”
Tori lifted one hand to forestall the speech. “Of course I’m coming,” she said, standing from her chair with a stretch. “Wanna help me pack? I have some questions that I’d better get out of the way now before I cause a cluster at the funeral. Reading of the will. Whatever it is.”
Mom bustled forward to cup both her cheeks, using that hold to give her face an affectionate squish. “You are such a good girl,” she announced. Before Tori could even draw breath to protest, Mom was gone again, half buried in Tori’s closet, pulling out a bag and an assortment of clothes. “Alright, we need to pack assuming we’ll be there for a while without guaranteed access to a washer or dryer.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we don’t know where we’ll be staying,” Mom said. She dumped a pile of clothes in Tori’s arms. “Roll those up neatly, they’ll fit better that way. Where are your shoes?”
“Under the bed, where they should be.” Tori tossed her things on the mattress without checking their trajectory, assuming they’d land about where she wanted them to. Then she fished around under her box spring with one foot until she kicked out enough shoes to form three or so full pairs.
“Which of your nice shoes do you want to bring?” Mom asked, studying the assortment critically. “The black flats are always very lovely, and they match most of your dark dresses.”
Tori made a wounded sound, finally poking through her clothes mound to try and locate the dresses her mother meant. “Do I really have to—”
“It’s a funeral,” Mom interrupted.
“Or maybe just a reading of a will,” Tori said hopefully. Mom narrowed her eyes until Tori submitted with a sigh, looking at her options and settling for the least horrible. She tossed the other two in the direction of the closet.
Mom let it pass without comment; not her usual M.O. “Now,” she said in the voice she used when students called to weep at her about their final grades: sympathetic, calm, and utterly unyielding. She picked up a shirt, shook it out, and began to roll it into a neat, compact tube of cloth. “What were your questions?”
“What makes you think I have questions?”
“Is that a joke?” Mom asked, propping a hand on her plush hip while arching a familiar disbelieving brow. “Listen, you can ask me the questions now, or you can stew on them until the funeral, blurt them out while the casket gets lowered into the ground, and then die of mortification, further ruining your father’s day. Personally I’d like you to go for option A.”
Tori grinned. “You know me too well.” She copied her mom’s lead by selecting a pair of jeans from the pile. “First, I guess, I mean, we don’t even know where we’ll be staying, and that’s weird. So why don’t we know where we’ll be staying? Why don’t we just, I dunno, google hotels in the area?”
“I’m not firm on all the details,” Mom said, tucking the shirt into Tori’s open bag before grabbing the next article of clothes within reach (a sock, which sent her searching for its match). “Your dad doesn’t talk about it much.”
“Or at all.”
“We’re still working on interrupting people, I see.”
Tori ducked her head and didn’t reply.
“Your dad doesn’t talk about it much,” Mom began again, laying out her collection of fifteen socks to figure out how many actual pairs she had, “but from what I’ve gathered, his grandparents, parents, and siblings all lived in the Dire House together.”
“The Dire House?” Tori blurted, dropping her nightshirt. “What is this, Nancy Drew?”
“Well that’s the family name,” Mom said dryly.
“Our last name is Garcia,” Tori shot back.
Mom rolled her eyes and threw a sock at her. “That’s because your dad took my last name when we got married.”
“...Why on earth would he do that?” Tori demanded, tossing the socks into her suitcase. “Dire is such a cool name compared to Garcia!”
“I like Garcia,” Mom said, picking out the sock ball Tori had thrown into the bag and tucking it in netting on the side with the others. “Being a Garcia always worked out pretty well for me.”
Tori ducked her head again. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “So the Dire family lives in some kind of commune, and since Dad left however long ago he can’t be sure they’ll let him stay there?”
“Sort of,” Mom agreed. “Except now that Richard and Jacquelyn are gone, there’s not really a Dire family anymore. They have a son, James. We assume he’ll inherit most everything. Well,” she amended with a thoughtful look, “we assumed he’d inherit absolutely everything. Your dad couldn’t think of anything Richard would leave to him, but it still happened, so that might mean we’ll be welcomed to stay at the house for however long the reading takes. We just can’t be sure, and the Dire House is rural enough that hotel options in the area are…”
“Sketchy?” Tori suggested.
Mom wrinkled her nose. “Sparse. Any other questions?” she prompted.
“Dad said he left home at eighteen. Do you know why?”
She shrugged. “Irreconcilable differences? He doesn’t talk about it, Tori. You’d have to ask him, but he doesn’t owe us the story. If it’s not something he’s comfortable talking about, we’d have to be really callous to ask him.”
Tori fiddled with the last nightshirt a bit before tucking it into her luggage and flipping the top closed. “Our stated goal here is to get the callous questions figured out before I cause another family blowout,” she sighed. “I’m trying to be thoughtful.”
“I know.” Mom sidled over to give her a hug. “It’s okay. What else do you want to know?”
“That might be it.” Tori zipped the bag shut and hauled it off her bed. “God, this has got to be overkill. Do I have to wear the dress on the way up?” she asked.
Mom grinned. “It’s about a six-hour drive. I might say yes just to watch you squirm.” Tori rolled her eyes. “Dress comfy,” Mom said, heading toward the door. “I’ll come by to get you when we start loading up. Try to find something to keep you entertained for the trip; you’re an utter horror when you get bored.”
“True,” Tori agreed. She gestured down at her current ensemble: a baggy shirt and sweatpants, perfect summer weekend wear. “This is good enough for travel, right?”
“Sure,” Mom said, “just maybe pull a brush through your hair. Oh, and don’t forget to grab your toiletries while you’re in there! Other than that, we should be good to go.”
“Toiletries, entertainment, brush hair.” Tori offered a thumb’s up to her mom’s retreating back. “Got it.”
“Be ready in fifteen.”
“Will do!” Once Mom was gone, Tori rooted around the pile of junk on her desk until she found her phone. She wiped off some crumbs, swiped in her password, and pulled up her chat app. Mark was the top conversation, mostly because he spent a lot of time sending Tori “artistic” pictures of, like, trash cans and dying plants. She longed for the day he moved on to a new medium. Heading up to New York, she wrote. People in Dad’s family are dead, apparently? Will probably be back Monday. Maybe.
She set the phone to vibrate, stuck it in the waistband of her pants, and headed to the bathroom. Her toiletry bag was under the counter, covered in dust and loose cotton swabs. By the time she got it cleaned off and open, her phone had vibrated about half a dozen time.
Mark: Ha ha ha are you trying to get out of trying sushi tomorrow because you lost that bet fair and square so you have to eat it whether you want to or not
Mark: You’re not serious right
Mark: YOUR MOM JUST CALLED TO CANCEL LUNCH WITH MY DAD ARE YOU SERIOUS
Mark: I thought your dad was an orphan or something!
Mark: Answer your damn phone
Mark: I hate you
Mark: WHO DIED
Tori slid her thumb across the phone, fixed the autocorrect, sent her reply, and got back to packing.
Not joking, his brother and sister-in-law died and we’re leaving in like 10 minutes. Technically he is an orphan, but his m&d died a long time ago? Not clear on that one. No one really likes sushi anyway.
Seconds later, her phone buzzed again.
Mark: Instagram EVERYTHING. The world deserves to know about your long lost family. You could get internet famous.
Tori rolled her eyes. That doesn’t seem like funeral-appropriate behavior. My mom would kill me, she sent.
Mark: Do it for the Vine.
I don’t even have a Vine. Also I don’t want the whole internet to be part of this.
Mark: Okay but if you think this trip isn’t going to be all over your Tumblr the second you have time to put a post together, you’re lying to yourself. You’d better send me pics.
Tori brushed her hair quickly, tearing out the tangles before twisting the thick, curly mass into a somewhat controlled braid. Once the brush and a few extra rubber bands were dropped into her bag, she zipped it up, tucked it under her arm, and sent a reply. I can TRY to send you SOME pictures, I guess. I might have to just to keep from dying of boredom. Funerals or reading wills or whatever is probably really boring. I may die.
Mark: Dying at a funeral would make the whole thing better for everyone, I’m sure.
At least it’d be something to do.
“Tori!” Mom called from downstairs. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” Tori shouted back, shoving her phone back into her waistband. “Let me just grab a few things and I’ll be right down!” Once inside her room, she stuffed the toiletry bag in the front pocket of her suitcase and zipped it closed. Then she began the long hunt for her phone charger. The charger, her tablet, a Nintendo DS, a couple of games, headphones, her funeral dress and shoes, and a pillow all got shoved into a backpack that she slung over one shoulder.
Hopefully Mom had thought of snacks.
The next few minutes passed in a blur of getting their bags arranged neatly in the truck, piling in, and heading out. Tori stretched out along the bench seat in the back, pillow between her and the window. Her mom flicked on a talk station, which Tori immediately replaced with headphones and Fire Emblem.
After a while, but still firmly in Virginia, it occurred to Tori that she hadn’t felt her phone buzz since home. Probably, she determined, because it had fallen out of her pants at some point. Mom eventually twisted around and spotted it under the bench, where Tori fished it out before checking her messages.
God, Mark needed a hobby or something. Tori scrolled through the messages, dozens in less than an hour, and wished he’d just find a girlfriend or boyfriend or something to distract him when she couldn’t be around. The gist of the backlog seemed to be that he really, really wanted to use some aspect of her impromptu “family vacation” to either make them internet famous or as inspiration for an art project or whatever once school got started again.
Tori considered the best way to reply before settling on This isn’t really a vacation.
Mark: Whatever, can I use it for inspiration y/y
How exactly are you planning to use my family tragedy for your art? Aren’t you currently a photographer? Or did you get back into oil paints without telling me?
Mark: How exactly is this a family tragedy? 2/3 of your family didn’t even know these people existed.
Dad’s pretty upset.
Mark: Sorry man, that sucks then. Who’s going to be at the funeral?
Not sure. I guess I have a cousin who’s going to be there?
Mark: What’s cousin’s name?
James.
Mark: Is he hot
Tori rolled her eyes so hard she nearly dislodged her headphones. How the hell should I know I won’t meet him for another like six hours
Mark: Well report back.
Is that what’s really important here
Mark: It’s really important to me
Tori grinned and wedged her phone under her thigh for safekeeping. At least some things were constant. Mark’s search for the perfect artistic muse would probably carry on even after he died. He’d make an excellent ghost though, very dedicated. For a second, she imagined him following her around when she was an old woman, still bugging her about camera angles from beyond the grave. God, what a terrible retirement.
Although apparently her uncle and aunt would never even get a retirement, which was arguably worse.
That felt like a bad train of thought. Disloyal or dismissive or something. Mom would probably frown at her if she could hear. Not that she could, of course. Tori shot Dad an apologetic glance, just in case, and went back to skating her latest attempt to not lose anyone in combat.
Safer territory.
They missed the funeral.
When they pulled up to the Dire House, Tori had to blink hard a few times to convince herself she wasn’t hallucinating. It was a freaking mansion, like Downton Abbey or Pemberley, something that should have been British or imaginary or both. Maybe a movie set. Not someplace people actually lived in, just...randomly in the middle of the wilderness. They were at least forty-five minutes by car from the nearest town. What was this doing out here? Oh god, were the Dires one of those survivalist families? Or, no, this wasn’t much of a bunker. Isolationists?
Was there a word for this?
The house towered above them, dark lines and gothic shadows in the mid-morning light, and shit, Mark probably would have been able to make a project out of a building like that. There was probably a crazy woman in the attic, or at the very least a cursed portrait.
“There’s a wine cellar,” Tori choked incredulously, “isn’t there.” No one answered her, which was probably for the best. Tori pulled her phone from where she’d tucked it in the sash of her dress. She bobbed around as stealthily as she could, snapping pictures through the tinted window until she had a good one to send Mark.
Seconds later, her phone buzzed: IS THAT WHERE YOU’RE STAYING??? Did you find a themed hotel or something? TAKE PICTURES OF THE ROOMS.
It’s not a hotel, it’s the Dire House.
Mark: The what?
The place my dad’s family lived. I guess it belongs to my cousin now!
Mark: ARE YOU RICH NOW? SUSHI’S ON YOU. BTW why dire? Ghosts in the attic?
No apparently that’s my dad’s family name. He took my mom’s name when they married.
Mark: Dire much cooler name than Garcia (no offence)
Tori sent a quick IKR and climbed out of the truck after her parents. A woman came out of the house dressed in a high-collared black shirt and fitted black skirt, stride long and professional despite her five-inch heels. Dark blonde hair was twisted back in a large elegant bun, leaving just a few artful strands loose to frame her face. Her expression was collected but not inviting, and although she was objectively beautiful, every inch of her was cold.
Tori was still trying to work out a polite way of asking if that was James when Dad said, “Adélaïde?” Surprised colored his tone. “I was expecting Brigitte or maybe your mother—”
“Mother and Brigitte have both retired,” Adélaïde said with a faint sort of French accent, gaze sweeping over Mom and then Tori in a calculating manner, lingering on the travel wrinkles in Tori’s skirt. Then she offered them a bland smile, hands folded gracefully in front of her. “Regrettably, the funeral has already concluded. It was a small, private affair, as these things usually are in the family. You’ll understand, David.”
A muscle in Dad’s jaw ticked. “I do.”
“Yes, I thought you might. Let’s all go inside.” She gestured toward the mansion looming behind her. “Now that you’re here, we can begin with the reading. Hopefully it won’t take too long.”
“You’re the executor?” Dad asked. He stepped forward to draw even with Adélaïde, who turned to walk with him to the house. Mom and Tori trailed behind them. Tori tried to take a picture of Adélaïde, but she always managed to stay just out of frame.
“I am,” Adélaïde said. “Jacquelyn amended their will as soon as Brigitte announced her retirement. It’s an honor, of course, but one I had hoped not to receive for a long time.”
Dad slowed to a halt just in front of the door, tipping his head back to study the intricate carvings along the frame. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Dad said softly.
Adélaïde inclined her head. “And yours.” She ran her fingers, calloused and delicate, over the large brass doorknob. “Sometimes I think it must be worse for you,” she admitted, “since you’ll never be able to hope for reconciliation now.”
“If that’s your reasoning, it’s definitely worse for you,” he said, shrugging with both hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I never thought we’d be able to make peace, Addie. I knew what I was doing when I left, and I knew that it was permanent. Frankly, I’m shocked to be back here at all.” He squinted back toward the tree line. “Nothing seems to have changed, but it’s barely familiar anymore. Why am I here, Addie?”
“To take your piece of Richard and Jacqui,” she replied, giving the doorknob a twist and push, “and do what you will with it.”
“I don’t want anything of the Dires’. I thought I was pretty clear about that twenty years ago.”
“Wait and see what it is,” she suggested. She stepped inside, ushering the Garcias forward. “If you still don’t want it, then you’ll never hear from us again, the d’Artois or the Dires.”
Dad studied her from where he stood just outside the door. “I forgot to ask,” he said, the mild tone such a complete match to hers that it made goose bumps rise on Tori’s arms. “How is James?”
Adélaïde looked back at him, a quiet defeat settling on her shoulders. “He is...composed.”
Dad’s smile twisted. “Toeing the family line, I see.”
“If you had been here when his grandparents died,” she said quietly, her mouth a thin line, “or Victoria, you would know—”
“I know enough,” Dad interrupted. He stepped into the house, turning slightly to beckon for Mom and Tori. “Come on, ladies. Let’s get this over with and go home. Be nice to James,” he said to Tori. “He won’t look like it, but this is a tough time for him.”
“Of course it is,” Tori said, startled. “I can’t even imagine if—”
“And you won’t have to,” Dad said firmly. He glanced at Adélaïde. “Where are we meeting?”
“The sitting room,” Adélaïde murmured. “I trust you remember the way?”
“The day a Dire changes anything is the day the sun stops burning,” Dad said. “Which I guess means the sitting room is right where I left it. This way,” he added to his family.
Tori followed him with a frown. “What is going on here?” she muttered to Mom in Spanish as they walked. “Is there some reason Dad hates the lawyer?”
“I’m not sure,” Mom whispered back in the same language, “but there has to be context around this somehow. Your dad is usually much better with people.”
“And way less bitter.” Tori glanced sideways at her mom. “Kind of says something about his life here, doesn’t it?”
“Conjecture,” Mom said under her breath.
Dad led them through a maze of sweeping hallways, passed heavy doors shut tight. Tori kept looking for tapestries or authentic family portraits dating back to the eighteen hundreds, but the walls were startlingly bare, just wallpaper, paint, and the occasional landscape in a gilded frame. Maybe one of the paintings was famous. Maybe there was a Monet or something. Mark would know.
Mark would love this.
Tori watched her father’s shoulders bunch, his jaw grind, his fists clench at his side, and increasingly just wanted to go home.
Eventually, Dad stopped at one of the doors, pushing it open to let his family into the sitting room. The far wall had floor-to-ceiling windows with rich blue curtains held to the either side by thick golden cords. A loveseat and two armchairs clustered artfully around a low, dark wood coffee table, topped with a pile of manila folders and a bowl of what Tori sincerely hoped wasn’t wax fruit. How was wax fruit even a thing anymore?
The fabric on the seats swirled in pale blue and black with the occasional streak of gold. The area rug was some kind of artistic statement containing a color palette of all the different blues in the room. Tall, dark bookcases stood along most of the free wall space; the covers of all the books were blue.
Weird people, Tori thought.
A boy of twelve or thirteen lingered by the window wall, looking out over the grounds with his hands folded neatly at the small of his back. His black suit fit perfectly, tailored to sit sleekly at the shoulders and waist. Everything about him seemed like he’d just stepped out of a preteen magazine. The gloss of polished black shoes, every strand of carefully styled chin-length black hair, the sharp line of his shoulders and the perfection of his posture. He looked as staged as one of Mark’s pictures.
“They’re here,” Adélaïde said, taking a seat in one of the armchairs.
The boy half turned, expression calm. His gaze flicked over each member of her family, assessing and dismissing them in turn. Tori caught his eyes for just a moment. A fission of shock moved down her spine when she realized she’d seen those eyes before, had looked into them every day of her life. They were her dad’s eyes in the face of a little stranger.
Oh shit.
James.
He was a kid!
“Good,” James said, turning to face them fully. Nothing else about him changed, not his expression or posture or the lay of his hands. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t like having strangers in the house.”
Mark’s gonna kill me if I don’t get a picture of this kid, Tori thought. She fiddled with her phone, still tucked safely in her sash. Maybe while they were discussing the will?
Adélaïde motioned to the armchair beside her. “Perhaps we can begin by taking a seat.”
James crossed the room to take the offered chair, sitting in it like a prince on a throne. Mom and Dad settled on the loveseat. They scooted around to try and make room for Tori, but she waved them away. It wasn’t like they needed her to figure out what Dad’s inheritance was.
Tori went to the windows instead, angling her body so they wouldn’t see her pull out her phone. Missed the funeral, reading the will. This place is crazy, probably haunted. James is here. Haven’t been able to get a good picture.
Mark: Is he hot?
You need a hobby.
Mark: I’ve got a hobby. It’s called babysitting whenever my parents go out, and it is hell. Is. He. Hot.
He’s maybe 13. Maybe.
Mark: Damn. Well, is he going to be hot someday?
Shame we’ll never know.
Tori tuned back into the conversation while waiting for Mark’s reply. “We have the paperwork ready to be signed,” James was saying, bent forward to slide a folder toward Dad. “All you have to do it sign and initial, and you can—”
“No,” Dad blurted.
Everyone in the meeting started at him, none looking more surprised than Dad himself. His grey eyes darted over to meet James’, who sat frozen with his mouth still hanging open in shock. The sight of him made Dad’s brow and shoulders lower the way they usually did when he knew he, and not the world, was right. “No,” he said again, setting his jaw like a bulldog holding onto a favorite toy. “I won’t sign it over. I’m not giving it up.”
I missed something, Tori texted frantically. Something big just happened and I don’t know what it was. Dad’s got his crazy face on.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” James said, one corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. He shoved the papers at Dad before lounging back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other in the most intentionally casual pose Tori had ever seen.
“I’m not,” Dad replied. He pushed the folder back toward James. “I don’t agree to the terms. I won’t sign it away. This is what Richard and Jacqui wanted, and I—”
“You shouldn’t be allowed to say their names,” James hissed, eyes narrowed in a glare even as he maintained his perfectly disaffected sprawl.
“Nevertheless.” Dad turned to Adélaïde. “What are our next steps for making this legal?”
Adélaïde gestured with a paper in her hand that Tori assumed was the will. “It’s already legal. This is the easier option; we just assumed you wouldn’t want it.”
“Well I do. So what now?”
James leapt to his feet, all pretense of calm forgotten. “This is unacceptable,” he said, voice raised nearly to a shout. Fury painted color high on his otherwise pale face. “What is it you really want?” he demanded. “Money? Something in the house? Tell me! I’ll give you whatever you want if you just sign the papers.”
Dad’s mouth pinched, but he didn’t respond. After a moment of tense silence, Mom stood, slow and unthreatening. “James,” she said gently, reaching out like she would touch his shoulder. “It’s alright—”
James jerked away from her. “Are you really going to let this happen?” he snapped at Adélaïde.
“Are you really going to speak to me in that tone?” she replied, cool as winter, reading over the document in her hand rather than so much as glancing at the boy.
Something in James’ expression went hard and brittle. “Is that all you have to say?”
She ignored him.
“This isn’t over,” he told Dad in a snarl. Then he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
“I apologize,” Adélaïde said in his wake. “His manners have been very poor lately.”
Mom sat back down. “He’s got a really good reason for that. I can’t even imagine what he must be feeling.”
“Be careful what you let him get away with,” the lawyer replied with a flat smile. “You’ll spoil him at this rate.”
“If you think making allowances for emotional trauma is spoiling,” Dad said, “maybe he needs it.”
Adélaïde shrugged. “I’m not in the habit of making parenting decisions for other people, so I guess that’s up to your now.”
“Wait,” Tori interrupted, “what?” All three adults turned to her. She flushed, embarrassed by the surprised attention, but said, “What’s this about parenting decisions?”
Dad and Mom glanced at each other. Mom gestured to James’ empty chair. “Why don’t you come have a seat?”
Adélaïde stood. “It’s getting late,” she said, “and you have a lot to discuss. Perhaps you’d like to stay at the house tonight? There’s plenty of food in the kitchen, and plenty of rooms for sleeping. David, I’m sure you can show your family around. Your truck is safe where it is in the driveway. I need to speak with James.”
“That’ll be fun,” David muttered.
Mom hit his shoulder lightly. “We’ll be fine,” she said to Adélaïde. “Thank you for the invitation. Maybe we can all have breakfast together? If James is feeling up to it.”
Adélaïde inclined her head but didn’t reply. Once she gathered up the folders and swept from the room, Tori moved cautiously toward her parents. She sat slowly, reluctant to hear the news she thought they were about to give her. “Please tell me,” she said, looking between them with very little hope, “that we just inherited a dog.”
“Not quite,” Mom said with a pat to Dad’s leg. He grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze, looking grateful and overwhelmed. “Honey, it’s— You know how, if anything ever happened to us, we set it up so you’d go live with Mark and his family?”
“Yeah,” she agreed slowly.
“We wrote them into the will as your legal guardians.”
“I don’t think it’s possible for you to be breaking the news to me that you seem to be trying to break to me.”
“Your dad and I were named in Richard and Jacquelyn’s will,” Mom continued, gentle but determined. “James is going to be our ward.”
“Oh my god,” Tori asked weakly. “But he’s so pissed about it.”
“He didn’t want us to agree with it,” Dad confirmed. “He thought we’d sign custody over to Addie.”
“The lawyer?”
“She’s his cousin, like you are, but on his mother’s side.”
“So James’ mom’s sister’s,” Tori worked out, “daughter. Why wouldn’t you let her have him?” she asked. “They seem, uh, close, and he kind of hates you. Us. …Everyone.”
Dad shrugged. “He’ll get over it. The d’Artois aren’t a good place for him anyway.”
“But we are?”
He nodded. “We can give him opportunities they can’t.”
Tori motioned helplessly. “But he doesn’t seem to want them. Shouldn’t he get a say?”
“That’s not the way it works,” Dad said, “not for the Dires, and not for the d’Artois. If Richard and Jacqui wanted us to have him, then we’re the ones who have to have him. Dying wishes are important. Sometimes they’re all that matter. If they’d wanted me to take a lamp or a book, I could have said no. The lamps here are ugly anyway. But James—” He shook his head, rubbing at the crease between his eyebrows. “I can’t turn James away. I have to believe Richard and Jacqui picked me for a reason. I have to believe there’s still a chance for him.”
“A chance for him to what?” Tori asked.
Mom leaned forward to grab Tori’s hands. “James is our family now, Tori. We’re all he has.”
“Except for Adélaïde,” she pointed out.
“Adélaïde won’t take him,” Dad said, “not against the will. We’re it, Tori. You’re a big sister now.”
“Holy shit,” she said weakly. Mom didn’t even scold her for it, which was when Tori finally leaned forward to rest her head on her knees, breathing deep through the swell of panic.
“It’ll be alright,” Mom murmured, stepping around the table to sit on the arm of Tori’s chair and rest a hand on the back of her neck. “We’ll figure it out together, I promise. Everything is going to be fine, Tori.”
For the first time in her life, Tori didn’t quite believe her.
“Funerals aren’t really my thing,” Tori said, twisting her computer chair so it spun her around to face her dad. He stood in the doorway to her room, face paler than usual. Stress, maybe?
“I know,” he said. One corner of his mouth lifted in a weak smile. “You don’t have to come. I was mostly letting you know that I might be gone for a while.”
Tori frowned. “Gone?” she asked, pivoting on the balls of her feet to make her chair swivel thoughtfully. “It doesn’t usually take more than a few hours though, does it? Show your face, shake some hands, then home. Or is this, like, a big deal funeral? Are they putting you on a task force? Did the mayor died or something?”
Dad shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway, hands clenched by his sides. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Tori—”
“Inappropriate questions,” she said for him with a nod, “in the ‘all lives matter’ category. Sorry. Is Mom going?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough in a way that sent a shock of fear down Tori’s spine. “I’m gonna need her on this one.” He cleared his throat with a cough.
“Is it someone you know?” Tori blurted, jumping out of her seat fast enough that the cord to the headphones around her neck yanked taut. The plug popped out of her tower, filling the room with an endless six seconds of strangers on the internet being stupid in a Vine. Tori flailed at her keyboard, brown fingers smashing buttons until the sound stopped. “Who is it?” she demanded when she turned back to Dad.
His mouth pressed flat in a pale, unhappy line. “Not someone you know,” he said.
“But someone you know.”
One broad shoulder ticked in shrug. “Used to.”
“Used to because now you don’t because they’re dead,” Tori asked, “or used to because—”
Dad sighed, long and shaky, while he scrubbed one hand through black hair kept even shorter than regulations would require. “Inappropriate question,” he muttered. “Unintentionally hurtful category.”
Tori swallowed. “Sorry,” she whispered.
He waved her off. “I have to go finish packing. I just thought you should know that your mom and I might be out for a few days.”
“Mark’s family lives across the street,” Tori said. “I can go there if something happens. Dad,” she called when he turned to leave, unable to resist the impulse, “who is it? The person who died, I mean. Who’d we lose?”
“My brother,” he said, expression twisted with an emotion that looked closer to regret than grief, “Richard. And his wife Jacquelyn.”
Tori frowned. “I didn’t even know you had a brother.”
Dad shrugged again, a full effort this time that lifted the line of his wrinkled work shirt. “I don’t anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Tori said with a wince. “Inappropriate observation, I guess. That’s a new one.”
“No, that was my fault,” Dad said, trying to smile for her. “You couldn’t have known. I don’t talk about him. Didn’t. My family—well. As you probably noticed, I’ve never said much about them.”
“Much?” Tori echoed, lifting one eyebrow in a skeptical manner she’s learned from her mom.
“Okay,” Dad agreed with a nod. “At all is probably more accurate. We had some…philosophical differences. I left home at eighteen and never heard from any of them again.”
“Until now,” Tori said.
Dad nodded. Then he frowned, head tilting in thought. “Technically,” he said. “I still haven’t heard from them. Their representative contacted me because apparently I’m in Richard and Jacquelyn’s will.”
“Why?”
“Hell if I know, kid,” Dad said with a shrug and another faint smile. “There’s nothing of theirs I want anyway.”
“Can you just refuse it?” Tori asked. “Leave whatever they gave you to your parents or, I dunno, any other family at all?”
Dad’s smile went bitter. “There is no other family. Richard and Jacquelyn were the last holdouts.”
“…That’s a weird way of saying that,” Tori pointed out.
“They had a son, I think,” Dad continued without acknowledging her point. “He should inherent everything. I don’t know why he’s not, or what they’d give me that he wouldn’t contest. It’s strange, Tori. I don’t like it.”
“Is that why you’re going?” she asked, then wiggled her fingers at him mysteriously when glanced at her. “Your detective senses are tingling.”
He huffed a laugh, which felt like victory. “Maybe. Who knows? Anyway, I have to leave soon if I have any hope of making the funeral. We’re planning on heading out in about half an hour.”
“When will you be back?”
“Not sure,” Dad admitted, “but your mom’s already canceled her Monday classes, just in case.”
Tori hummed thoughtfully. “So three days, maybe more or less. That’s a long time.”
Dad tilted his head in agreement. “It’s potentially a long time. If I knew why I’m in the will, I could give you a better guess. Richard wasn’t a petty man, so he wouldn’t have dragged me up to middle-of-nowhere New York if it wasn’t for something important. There’s just no way to tell what ‘important’ means, so I have to plan for a legal mess. But honestly, there’s not much you’ll be able to do there, so don’t feel obligated to tag along.”
Tori studied her dad’s face carefully. The stress lines around his mouth and eyes made more sense now, at least, and the exhaustion in his gray eyes. “Can I get back to you on it?” she asked. “Y’know.” One hand twitched around to indicate the pile of papers and books doing its best impression of the Leaning Tower near the edge of her desk. “See how it fits into the schedule of last minute summer homework?”
Dad smiled, fond and exasperated with just a lingering trace of sadness. “Sure thing. Just remember we’re leaving in half an hour, so you don’t have a lot of time to reorganize your procrastination plans.”
“Ugh, please.” Tori made a face. “That plan is ever-changing. It’s easy to pencil in unexpected trips.”
“But you don’t have to,” Dad insisted.
Tori nodded. “Right. You should probably get back to packing,” she suggested when Dad continued to linger in her doorway, looking down the hall toward the guest bedroom with a distant expression.
He shook his head slightly. “Good idea. Have fun with your plan,” he teased.
“Have fun with your—” Tori struggled for a word that wasn’t funeral and came up blank. She substituted a sweeping hand gesture and a nod. “Yeah.”
Dad smiled slightly and finally left.
Tori crossed to her bed and sat down where she could see her clock, watching the seconds tick as she counted down from twenty.
Three...two...one…
Mom stepped quietly into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft snk. “Tori,” she said firmly, “I know he probably said you don’t have to come—”
Tori lifted one hand to forestall the speech. “Of course I’m coming,” she said, standing from her chair with a stretch. “Wanna help me pack? I have some questions that I’d better get out of the way now before I cause a cluster at the funeral. Reading of the will. Whatever it is.”
Mom bustled forward to cup both her cheeks, using that hold to give her face an affectionate squish. “You are such a good girl,” she announced. Before Tori could even draw breath to protest, Mom was gone again, half buried in Tori’s closet, pulling out a bag and an assortment of clothes. “Alright, we need to pack assuming we’ll be there for a while without guaranteed access to a washer or dryer.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we don’t know where we’ll be staying,” Mom said. She dumped a pile of clothes in Tori’s arms. “Roll those up neatly, they’ll fit better that way. Where are your shoes?”
“Under the bed, where they should be.” Tori tossed her things on the mattress without checking their trajectory, assuming they’d land about where she wanted them to. Then she fished around under her box spring with one foot until she kicked out enough shoes to form three or so full pairs.
“Which of your nice shoes do you want to bring?” Mom asked, studying the assortment critically. “The black flats are always very lovely, and they match most of your dark dresses.”
Tori made a wounded sound, finally poking through her clothes mound to try and locate the dresses her mother meant. “Do I really have to—”
“It’s a funeral,” Mom interrupted.
“Or maybe just a reading of a will,” Tori said hopefully. Mom narrowed her eyes until Tori submitted with a sigh, looking at her options and settling for the least horrible. She tossed the other two in the direction of the closet.
Mom let it pass without comment; not her usual M.O. “Now,” she said in the voice she used when students called to weep at her about their final grades: sympathetic, calm, and utterly unyielding. She picked up a shirt, shook it out, and began to roll it into a neat, compact tube of cloth. “What were your questions?”
“What makes you think I have questions?”
“Is that a joke?” Mom asked, propping a hand on her plush hip while arching a familiar disbelieving brow. “Listen, you can ask me the questions now, or you can stew on them until the funeral, blurt them out while the casket gets lowered into the ground, and then die of mortification, further ruining your father’s day. Personally I’d like you to go for option A.”
Tori grinned. “You know me too well.” She copied her mom’s lead by selecting a pair of jeans from the pile. “First, I guess, I mean, we don’t even know where we’ll be staying, and that’s weird. So why don’t we know where we’ll be staying? Why don’t we just, I dunno, google hotels in the area?”
“I’m not firm on all the details,” Mom said, tucking the shirt into Tori’s open bag before grabbing the next article of clothes within reach (a sock, which sent her searching for its match). “Your dad doesn’t talk about it much.”
“Or at all.”
“We’re still working on interrupting people, I see.”
Tori ducked her head and didn’t reply.
“Your dad doesn’t talk about it much,” Mom began again, laying out her collection of fifteen socks to figure out how many actual pairs she had, “but from what I’ve gathered, his grandparents, parents, and siblings all lived in the Dire House together.”
“The Dire House?” Tori blurted, dropping her nightshirt. “What is this, Nancy Drew?”
“Well that’s the family name,” Mom said dryly.
“Our last name is Garcia,” Tori shot back.
Mom rolled her eyes and threw a sock at her. “That’s because your dad took my last name when we got married.”
“...Why on earth would he do that?” Tori demanded, tossing the socks into her suitcase. “Dire is such a cool name compared to Garcia!”
“I like Garcia,” Mom said, picking out the sock ball Tori had thrown into the bag and tucking it in netting on the side with the others. “Being a Garcia always worked out pretty well for me.”
Tori ducked her head again. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “So the Dire family lives in some kind of commune, and since Dad left however long ago he can’t be sure they’ll let him stay there?”
“Sort of,” Mom agreed. “Except now that Richard and Jacquelyn are gone, there’s not really a Dire family anymore. They have a son, James. We assume he’ll inherit most everything. Well,” she amended with a thoughtful look, “we assumed he’d inherit absolutely everything. Your dad couldn’t think of anything Richard would leave to him, but it still happened, so that might mean we’ll be welcomed to stay at the house for however long the reading takes. We just can’t be sure, and the Dire House is rural enough that hotel options in the area are…”
“Sketchy?” Tori suggested.
Mom wrinkled her nose. “Sparse. Any other questions?” she prompted.
“Dad said he left home at eighteen. Do you know why?”
She shrugged. “Irreconcilable differences? He doesn’t talk about it, Tori. You’d have to ask him, but he doesn’t owe us the story. If it’s not something he’s comfortable talking about, we’d have to be really callous to ask him.”
Tori fiddled with the last nightshirt a bit before tucking it into her luggage and flipping the top closed. “Our stated goal here is to get the callous questions figured out before I cause another family blowout,” she sighed. “I’m trying to be thoughtful.”
“I know.” Mom sidled over to give her a hug. “It’s okay. What else do you want to know?”
“That might be it.” Tori zipped the bag shut and hauled it off her bed. “God, this has got to be overkill. Do I have to wear the dress on the way up?” she asked.
Mom grinned. “It’s about a six-hour drive. I might say yes just to watch you squirm.” Tori rolled her eyes. “Dress comfy,” Mom said, heading toward the door. “I’ll come by to get you when we start loading up. Try to find something to keep you entertained for the trip; you’re an utter horror when you get bored.”
“True,” Tori agreed. She gestured down at her current ensemble: a baggy shirt and sweatpants, perfect summer weekend wear. “This is good enough for travel, right?”
“Sure,” Mom said, “just maybe pull a brush through your hair. Oh, and don’t forget to grab your toiletries while you’re in there! Other than that, we should be good to go.”
“Toiletries, entertainment, brush hair.” Tori offered a thumb’s up to her mom’s retreating back. “Got it.”
“Be ready in fifteen.”
“Will do!” Once Mom was gone, Tori rooted around the pile of junk on her desk until she found her phone. She wiped off some crumbs, swiped in her password, and pulled up her chat app. Mark was the top conversation, mostly because he spent a lot of time sending Tori “artistic” pictures of, like, trash cans and dying plants. She longed for the day he moved on to a new medium. Heading up to New York, she wrote. People in Dad’s family are dead, apparently? Will probably be back Monday. Maybe.
She set the phone to vibrate, stuck it in the waistband of her pants, and headed to the bathroom. Her toiletry bag was under the counter, covered in dust and loose cotton swabs. By the time she got it cleaned off and open, her phone had vibrated about half a dozen time.
Mark: Ha ha ha are you trying to get out of trying sushi tomorrow because you lost that bet fair and square so you have to eat it whether you want to or not
Mark: You’re not serious right
Mark: YOUR MOM JUST CALLED TO CANCEL LUNCH WITH MY DAD ARE YOU SERIOUS
Mark: I thought your dad was an orphan or something!
Mark: Answer your damn phone
Mark: I hate you
Mark: WHO DIED
Tori slid her thumb across the phone, fixed the autocorrect, sent her reply, and got back to packing.
Not joking, his brother and sister-in-law died and we’re leaving in like 10 minutes. Technically he is an orphan, but his m&d died a long time ago? Not clear on that one. No one really likes sushi anyway.
Seconds later, her phone buzzed again.
Mark: Instagram EVERYTHING. The world deserves to know about your long lost family. You could get internet famous.
Tori rolled her eyes. That doesn’t seem like funeral-appropriate behavior. My mom would kill me, she sent.
Mark: Do it for the Vine.
I don’t even have a Vine. Also I don’t want the whole internet to be part of this.
Mark: Okay but if you think this trip isn’t going to be all over your Tumblr the second you have time to put a post together, you’re lying to yourself. You’d better send me pics.
Tori brushed her hair quickly, tearing out the tangles before twisting the thick, curly mass into a somewhat controlled braid. Once the brush and a few extra rubber bands were dropped into her bag, she zipped it up, tucked it under her arm, and sent a reply. I can TRY to send you SOME pictures, I guess. I might have to just to keep from dying of boredom. Funerals or reading wills or whatever is probably really boring. I may die.
Mark: Dying at a funeral would make the whole thing better for everyone, I’m sure.
At least it’d be something to do.
“Tori!” Mom called from downstairs. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” Tori shouted back, shoving her phone back into her waistband. “Let me just grab a few things and I’ll be right down!” Once inside her room, she stuffed the toiletry bag in the front pocket of her suitcase and zipped it closed. Then she began the long hunt for her phone charger. The charger, her tablet, a Nintendo DS, a couple of games, headphones, her funeral dress and shoes, and a pillow all got shoved into a backpack that she slung over one shoulder.
Hopefully Mom had thought of snacks.
The next few minutes passed in a blur of getting their bags arranged neatly in the truck, piling in, and heading out. Tori stretched out along the bench seat in the back, pillow between her and the window. Her mom flicked on a talk station, which Tori immediately replaced with headphones and Fire Emblem.
After a while, but still firmly in Virginia, it occurred to Tori that she hadn’t felt her phone buzz since home. Probably, she determined, because it had fallen out of her pants at some point. Mom eventually twisted around and spotted it under the bench, where Tori fished it out before checking her messages.
God, Mark needed a hobby or something. Tori scrolled through the messages, dozens in less than an hour, and wished he’d just find a girlfriend or boyfriend or something to distract him when she couldn’t be around. The gist of the backlog seemed to be that he really, really wanted to use some aspect of her impromptu “family vacation” to either make them internet famous or as inspiration for an art project or whatever once school got started again.
Tori considered the best way to reply before settling on This isn’t really a vacation.
Mark: Whatever, can I use it for inspiration y/y
How exactly are you planning to use my family tragedy for your art? Aren’t you currently a photographer? Or did you get back into oil paints without telling me?
Mark: How exactly is this a family tragedy? 2/3 of your family didn’t even know these people existed.
Dad’s pretty upset.
Mark: Sorry man, that sucks then. Who’s going to be at the funeral?
Not sure. I guess I have a cousin who’s going to be there?
Mark: What’s cousin’s name?
James.
Mark: Is he hot
Tori rolled her eyes so hard she nearly dislodged her headphones. How the hell should I know I won’t meet him for another like six hours
Mark: Well report back.
Is that what’s really important here
Mark: It’s really important to me
Tori grinned and wedged her phone under her thigh for safekeeping. At least some things were constant. Mark’s search for the perfect artistic muse would probably carry on even after he died. He’d make an excellent ghost though, very dedicated. For a second, she imagined him following her around when she was an old woman, still bugging her about camera angles from beyond the grave. God, what a terrible retirement.
Although apparently her uncle and aunt would never even get a retirement, which was arguably worse.
That felt like a bad train of thought. Disloyal or dismissive or something. Mom would probably frown at her if she could hear. Not that she could, of course. Tori shot Dad an apologetic glance, just in case, and went back to skating her latest attempt to not lose anyone in combat.
Safer territory.
They missed the funeral.
When they pulled up to the Dire House, Tori had to blink hard a few times to convince herself she wasn’t hallucinating. It was a freaking mansion, like Downton Abbey or Pemberley, something that should have been British or imaginary or both. Maybe a movie set. Not someplace people actually lived in, just...randomly in the middle of the wilderness. They were at least forty-five minutes by car from the nearest town. What was this doing out here? Oh god, were the Dires one of those survivalist families? Or, no, this wasn’t much of a bunker. Isolationists?
Was there a word for this?
The house towered above them, dark lines and gothic shadows in the mid-morning light, and shit, Mark probably would have been able to make a project out of a building like that. There was probably a crazy woman in the attic, or at the very least a cursed portrait.
“There’s a wine cellar,” Tori choked incredulously, “isn’t there.” No one answered her, which was probably for the best. Tori pulled her phone from where she’d tucked it in the sash of her dress. She bobbed around as stealthily as she could, snapping pictures through the tinted window until she had a good one to send Mark.
Seconds later, her phone buzzed: IS THAT WHERE YOU’RE STAYING??? Did you find a themed hotel or something? TAKE PICTURES OF THE ROOMS.
It’s not a hotel, it’s the Dire House.
Mark: The what?
The place my dad’s family lived. I guess it belongs to my cousin now!
Mark: ARE YOU RICH NOW? SUSHI’S ON YOU. BTW why dire? Ghosts in the attic?
No apparently that’s my dad’s family name. He took my mom’s name when they married.
Mark: Dire much cooler name than Garcia (no offence)
Tori sent a quick IKR and climbed out of the truck after her parents. A woman came out of the house dressed in a high-collared black shirt and fitted black skirt, stride long and professional despite her five-inch heels. Dark blonde hair was twisted back in a large elegant bun, leaving just a few artful strands loose to frame her face. Her expression was collected but not inviting, and although she was objectively beautiful, every inch of her was cold.
Tori was still trying to work out a polite way of asking if that was James when Dad said, “Adélaïde?” Surprised colored his tone. “I was expecting Brigitte or maybe your mother—”
“Mother and Brigitte have both retired,” Adélaïde said with a faint sort of French accent, gaze sweeping over Mom and then Tori in a calculating manner, lingering on the travel wrinkles in Tori’s skirt. Then she offered them a bland smile, hands folded gracefully in front of her. “Regrettably, the funeral has already concluded. It was a small, private affair, as these things usually are in the family. You’ll understand, David.”
A muscle in Dad’s jaw ticked. “I do.”
“Yes, I thought you might. Let’s all go inside.” She gestured toward the mansion looming behind her. “Now that you’re here, we can begin with the reading. Hopefully it won’t take too long.”
“You’re the executor?” Dad asked. He stepped forward to draw even with Adélaïde, who turned to walk with him to the house. Mom and Tori trailed behind them. Tori tried to take a picture of Adélaïde, but she always managed to stay just out of frame.
“I am,” Adélaïde said. “Jacquelyn amended their will as soon as Brigitte announced her retirement. It’s an honor, of course, but one I had hoped not to receive for a long time.”
Dad slowed to a halt just in front of the door, tipping his head back to study the intricate carvings along the frame. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Dad said softly.
Adélaïde inclined her head. “And yours.” She ran her fingers, calloused and delicate, over the large brass doorknob. “Sometimes I think it must be worse for you,” she admitted, “since you’ll never be able to hope for reconciliation now.”
“If that’s your reasoning, it’s definitely worse for you,” he said, shrugging with both hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I never thought we’d be able to make peace, Addie. I knew what I was doing when I left, and I knew that it was permanent. Frankly, I’m shocked to be back here at all.” He squinted back toward the tree line. “Nothing seems to have changed, but it’s barely familiar anymore. Why am I here, Addie?”
“To take your piece of Richard and Jacqui,” she replied, giving the doorknob a twist and push, “and do what you will with it.”
“I don’t want anything of the Dires’. I thought I was pretty clear about that twenty years ago.”
“Wait and see what it is,” she suggested. She stepped inside, ushering the Garcias forward. “If you still don’t want it, then you’ll never hear from us again, the d’Artois or the Dires.”
Dad studied her from where he stood just outside the door. “I forgot to ask,” he said, the mild tone such a complete match to hers that it made goose bumps rise on Tori’s arms. “How is James?”
Adélaïde looked back at him, a quiet defeat settling on her shoulders. “He is...composed.”
Dad’s smile twisted. “Toeing the family line, I see.”
“If you had been here when his grandparents died,” she said quietly, her mouth a thin line, “or Victoria, you would know—”
“I know enough,” Dad interrupted. He stepped into the house, turning slightly to beckon for Mom and Tori. “Come on, ladies. Let’s get this over with and go home. Be nice to James,” he said to Tori. “He won’t look like it, but this is a tough time for him.”
“Of course it is,” Tori said, startled. “I can’t even imagine if—”
“And you won’t have to,” Dad said firmly. He glanced at Adélaïde. “Where are we meeting?”
“The sitting room,” Adélaïde murmured. “I trust you remember the way?”
“The day a Dire changes anything is the day the sun stops burning,” Dad said. “Which I guess means the sitting room is right where I left it. This way,” he added to his family.
Tori followed him with a frown. “What is going on here?” she muttered to Mom in Spanish as they walked. “Is there some reason Dad hates the lawyer?”
“I’m not sure,” Mom whispered back in the same language, “but there has to be context around this somehow. Your dad is usually much better with people.”
“And way less bitter.” Tori glanced sideways at her mom. “Kind of says something about his life here, doesn’t it?”
“Conjecture,” Mom said under her breath.
Dad led them through a maze of sweeping hallways, passed heavy doors shut tight. Tori kept looking for tapestries or authentic family portraits dating back to the eighteen hundreds, but the walls were startlingly bare, just wallpaper, paint, and the occasional landscape in a gilded frame. Maybe one of the paintings was famous. Maybe there was a Monet or something. Mark would know.
Mark would love this.
Tori watched her father’s shoulders bunch, his jaw grind, his fists clench at his side, and increasingly just wanted to go home.
Eventually, Dad stopped at one of the doors, pushing it open to let his family into the sitting room. The far wall had floor-to-ceiling windows with rich blue curtains held to the either side by thick golden cords. A loveseat and two armchairs clustered artfully around a low, dark wood coffee table, topped with a pile of manila folders and a bowl of what Tori sincerely hoped wasn’t wax fruit. How was wax fruit even a thing anymore?
The fabric on the seats swirled in pale blue and black with the occasional streak of gold. The area rug was some kind of artistic statement containing a color palette of all the different blues in the room. Tall, dark bookcases stood along most of the free wall space; the covers of all the books were blue.
Weird people, Tori thought.
A boy of twelve or thirteen lingered by the window wall, looking out over the grounds with his hands folded neatly at the small of his back. His black suit fit perfectly, tailored to sit sleekly at the shoulders and waist. Everything about him seemed like he’d just stepped out of a preteen magazine. The gloss of polished black shoes, every strand of carefully styled chin-length black hair, the sharp line of his shoulders and the perfection of his posture. He looked as staged as one of Mark’s pictures.
“They’re here,” Adélaïde said, taking a seat in one of the armchairs.
The boy half turned, expression calm. His gaze flicked over each member of her family, assessing and dismissing them in turn. Tori caught his eyes for just a moment. A fission of shock moved down her spine when she realized she’d seen those eyes before, had looked into them every day of her life. They were her dad’s eyes in the face of a little stranger.
Oh shit.
James.
He was a kid!
“Good,” James said, turning to face them fully. Nothing else about him changed, not his expression or posture or the lay of his hands. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t like having strangers in the house.”
Mark’s gonna kill me if I don’t get a picture of this kid, Tori thought. She fiddled with her phone, still tucked safely in her sash. Maybe while they were discussing the will?
Adélaïde motioned to the armchair beside her. “Perhaps we can begin by taking a seat.”
James crossed the room to take the offered chair, sitting in it like a prince on a throne. Mom and Dad settled on the loveseat. They scooted around to try and make room for Tori, but she waved them away. It wasn’t like they needed her to figure out what Dad’s inheritance was.
Tori went to the windows instead, angling her body so they wouldn’t see her pull out her phone. Missed the funeral, reading the will. This place is crazy, probably haunted. James is here. Haven’t been able to get a good picture.
Mark: Is he hot?
You need a hobby.
Mark: I’ve got a hobby. It’s called babysitting whenever my parents go out, and it is hell. Is. He. Hot.
He’s maybe 13. Maybe.
Mark: Damn. Well, is he going to be hot someday?
Shame we’ll never know.
Tori tuned back into the conversation while waiting for Mark’s reply. “We have the paperwork ready to be signed,” James was saying, bent forward to slide a folder toward Dad. “All you have to do it sign and initial, and you can—”
“No,” Dad blurted.
Everyone in the meeting started at him, none looking more surprised than Dad himself. His grey eyes darted over to meet James’, who sat frozen with his mouth still hanging open in shock. The sight of him made Dad’s brow and shoulders lower the way they usually did when he knew he, and not the world, was right. “No,” he said again, setting his jaw like a bulldog holding onto a favorite toy. “I won’t sign it over. I’m not giving it up.”
I missed something, Tori texted frantically. Something big just happened and I don’t know what it was. Dad’s got his crazy face on.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” James said, one corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. He shoved the papers at Dad before lounging back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other in the most intentionally casual pose Tori had ever seen.
“I’m not,” Dad replied. He pushed the folder back toward James. “I don’t agree to the terms. I won’t sign it away. This is what Richard and Jacqui wanted, and I—”
“You shouldn’t be allowed to say their names,” James hissed, eyes narrowed in a glare even as he maintained his perfectly disaffected sprawl.
“Nevertheless.” Dad turned to Adélaïde. “What are our next steps for making this legal?”
Adélaïde gestured with a paper in her hand that Tori assumed was the will. “It’s already legal. This is the easier option; we just assumed you wouldn’t want it.”
“Well I do. So what now?”
James leapt to his feet, all pretense of calm forgotten. “This is unacceptable,” he said, voice raised nearly to a shout. Fury painted color high on his otherwise pale face. “What is it you really want?” he demanded. “Money? Something in the house? Tell me! I’ll give you whatever you want if you just sign the papers.”
Dad’s mouth pinched, but he didn’t respond. After a moment of tense silence, Mom stood, slow and unthreatening. “James,” she said gently, reaching out like she would touch his shoulder. “It’s alright—”
James jerked away from her. “Are you really going to let this happen?” he snapped at Adélaïde.
“Are you really going to speak to me in that tone?” she replied, cool as winter, reading over the document in her hand rather than so much as glancing at the boy.
Something in James’ expression went hard and brittle. “Is that all you have to say?”
She ignored him.
“This isn’t over,” he told Dad in a snarl. Then he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
“I apologize,” Adélaïde said in his wake. “His manners have been very poor lately.”
Mom sat back down. “He’s got a really good reason for that. I can’t even imagine what he must be feeling.”
“Be careful what you let him get away with,” the lawyer replied with a flat smile. “You’ll spoil him at this rate.”
“If you think making allowances for emotional trauma is spoiling,” Dad said, “maybe he needs it.”
Adélaïde shrugged. “I’m not in the habit of making parenting decisions for other people, so I guess that’s up to your now.”
“Wait,” Tori interrupted, “what?” All three adults turned to her. She flushed, embarrassed by the surprised attention, but said, “What’s this about parenting decisions?”
Dad and Mom glanced at each other. Mom gestured to James’ empty chair. “Why don’t you come have a seat?”
Adélaïde stood. “It’s getting late,” she said, “and you have a lot to discuss. Perhaps you’d like to stay at the house tonight? There’s plenty of food in the kitchen, and plenty of rooms for sleeping. David, I’m sure you can show your family around. Your truck is safe where it is in the driveway. I need to speak with James.”
“That’ll be fun,” David muttered.
Mom hit his shoulder lightly. “We’ll be fine,” she said to Adélaïde. “Thank you for the invitation. Maybe we can all have breakfast together? If James is feeling up to it.”
Adélaïde inclined her head but didn’t reply. Once she gathered up the folders and swept from the room, Tori moved cautiously toward her parents. She sat slowly, reluctant to hear the news she thought they were about to give her. “Please tell me,” she said, looking between them with very little hope, “that we just inherited a dog.”
“Not quite,” Mom said with a pat to Dad’s leg. He grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze, looking grateful and overwhelmed. “Honey, it’s— You know how, if anything ever happened to us, we set it up so you’d go live with Mark and his family?”
“Yeah,” she agreed slowly.
“We wrote them into the will as your legal guardians.”
“I don’t think it’s possible for you to be breaking the news to me that you seem to be trying to break to me.”
“Your dad and I were named in Richard and Jacquelyn’s will,” Mom continued, gentle but determined. “James is going to be our ward.”
“Oh my god,” Tori asked weakly. “But he’s so pissed about it.”
“He didn’t want us to agree with it,” Dad confirmed. “He thought we’d sign custody over to Addie.”
“The lawyer?”
“She’s his cousin, like you are, but on his mother’s side.”
“So James’ mom’s sister’s,” Tori worked out, “daughter. Why wouldn’t you let her have him?” she asked. “They seem, uh, close, and he kind of hates you. Us. …Everyone.”
Dad shrugged. “He’ll get over it. The d’Artois aren’t a good place for him anyway.”
“But we are?”
He nodded. “We can give him opportunities they can’t.”
Tori motioned helplessly. “But he doesn’t seem to want them. Shouldn’t he get a say?”
“That’s not the way it works,” Dad said, “not for the Dires, and not for the d’Artois. If Richard and Jacqui wanted us to have him, then we’re the ones who have to have him. Dying wishes are important. Sometimes they’re all that matter. If they’d wanted me to take a lamp or a book, I could have said no. The lamps here are ugly anyway. But James—” He shook his head, rubbing at the crease between his eyebrows. “I can’t turn James away. I have to believe Richard and Jacqui picked me for a reason. I have to believe there’s still a chance for him.”
“A chance for him to what?” Tori asked.
Mom leaned forward to grab Tori’s hands. “James is our family now, Tori. We’re all he has.”
“Except for Adélaïde,” she pointed out.
“Adélaïde won’t take him,” Dad said, “not against the will. We’re it, Tori. You’re a big sister now.”
“Holy shit,” she said weakly. Mom didn’t even scold her for it, which was when Tori finally leaned forward to rest her head on her knees, breathing deep through the swell of panic.
“It’ll be alright,” Mom murmured, stepping around the table to sit on the arm of Tori’s chair and rest a hand on the back of her neck. “We’ll figure it out together, I promise. Everything is going to be fine, Tori.”
For the first time in her life, Tori didn’t quite believe her.
