The Nest: America’s hottest new bestseller. Cynthia Sweeney D’Aprix

offered her cheek for a kiss. “It’s nice to see you, asshole.”

       CHAPTER FOUR

      That Leo had messed up so enormously was disturbing but, his siblings reluctantly agreed, not surprising. That Leo’s fuckup had activated their disengaged mother to exercise her power of attorney and nearly drain The Nest, however, was shocking. It was the one threat to The Nest none of them had imagined. It had been, simply, unthinkable.

      “Obviously it wasn’t unthinkable because I thought of it and your father set it up that way,” Francie said, the day she finally agreed to meet them, briefly, in George’s New York office, while Leo was still in rehab.

      “It was our money, too,” Jack said. His voice wasn’t forceful as he’d intended, more whiney than outraged. “And we weren’t consulted or even informed until it was too late.”

      “It’s not your money until next March,” Francie said.

      “February,” Melody said.

      “Excuse me?” Francie looked slightly taken aback to hear Melody, as if just realizing she was there.

      “My birthday’s in February,” Melody said. “Not March.”

      Bea stopped knitting and raised her hand. “I’m March.”

      Francie did the thing she always did when wrong, pretended not to be and corrected whoever had corrected her. “Yes, that’s exactly what I said. The money doesn’t become yours until February. It’s also not completely gone. You will all get fifty thousand, more or less. Is that correct, George?”

      “In that neighborhood, yes.” George was walking around the conference table pouring everyone coffee, clearly uncomfortable.

      Melody couldn’t stop staring at her mother; she was starting to look old. How old was she? Seventy-one? Seventy-two? Her long, elegant fingers trembled a bit, the veins on the back of her hands were dark and prominent, the slackening skin marred with age spots, like a quail’s egg. Francie had always been so vain about her hands, demonstrating the reach of her fingers by bending them forward and touching the tips to the inside of her wrists. “Pianist’s hands,” she used to tell Melody when Melody was little. Melody noticed now that Francie consciously placed the left (which was slightly less mottled) atop the right. Her voice had thinned, too; the slightest difference in treble had crept in, not a rasp or a scratch, but a waver that troubled Melody. Francie’s decline meant they were all declining.

      “You are still receiving a sum of money,” Francie continued, “that would make most people incredibly grateful.”

      “A sum that is ten percent of what we were expecting. Is that correct, George?” Jack asked.

      “Sounds about right,” George said.

      “Ten percent!” Jack said, practically spitting across the table at Francie.

      Francie removed a slender gold watch from her wrist and placed it on the table in front of her, as if putting them all on notice that their time was nearly up. “Your father would have been horrified by that amount. You know he meant the fund to provide a modest assist, not a true inheritance.”

      “That’s entirely beside the point,” Jack said. “He set up an account. He deposited money. George managed it—very well. Now the deadline is approaching and it’s supposed to—wait a second—” Jack turned to George. “Leo still isn’t getting fifty thousand, is he? Because if he is? That is truly fucked.”

      “Watch your language,” Francie said.

      Jack looked at Bea and Melody, mouth agape, and spread his hands wide. Melody wasn’t sure if he was gesturing in frustration or beckoning them to join in the conversation. She looked over at Bea who was intently counting stitches on whatever it was she was knitting.

      “We’re following the terms,” Francie said.

      “Your mother is right about that,” George said. “Leo can refuse his share, but we can’t refuse to give it to him.”

      “Un-believable,” Jack said.

      Melody wanted to speak up, but she was stuck on how to address her mother. Her older siblings had started calling Francie by her first name in their teens, but she’d never been able to do it and something about saying “Mom” in front of Jack and Bea embarrassed her. Also, she was a little scared of her mother. Her mother was a little mean. For years, the Plumbs had told one another that their mother was just a mean drunk. If she would just stop drinking! they’d say, She’d be fine! Shortly before Leonard died, she developed some out-of-the-blue alcohol intolerance and did stop drinking. Cold turkey. (Years later, they would realize Francie’s sudden sobriety had to do with Harold, the conservative, teetotaling businessman and local politician she swiftly married after their father died.) They eagerly awaited her transformation only to discover that they already knew her true nature: She was just a little mean.

      “Here’s the thing,” Melody said, clearing her throat and waving a little in Francie’s direction to get her attention. “We’ve been counting on the money and have made plans and—” Melody hesitated. Francie sighed and clanged her spoon around her coffee cup as if she were stirring in sugar or cream. She let the spoon drop and rattle a little on the saucer.

      “Yes?” Francie said, gesturing for Melody to wind up. “You’ve made plans and—”

      Melody froze, unsure of what to say next.

      “This is a blow,” Jack said. “This is a financial blow on top of several financial hits over the past few years. Is it unreasonable to expect you—as Leo’s parent and given your means—to absorb some of this financial loss?”

      Melody was nodding as Jack spoke and trying to gauge her mother’s reaction. There was a part of her, a tiny, contracted part of her, that thought maybe she could get her mother to help with college tuition.

      “Leo’s parent?” Francie said, nearly looking amused. “Leo is forty-six. And you’re not the only one who has taken a financial hit over the past few years. Not that any of you bothered to inquire after us.”

      “Why?” Bea asked. “Are you and Harold okay?”

      Francie had folded her hands in front of her and was looking down at the table. She started to speak and then stopped. Bea and Melody and Jack looked at one another nervously. “Harold and I are fine,” she finally said.

      “Well, then—” Jack started, but Francie put up a hand.

      “We will be fine, but most of Harold’s money is tied up in commercial real estate, which is a soft market right now. Obviously.”

      “And the money Dad left for you?”

      “It’s long gone. We used it to shore up Harold’s business until we’re on an upswing.” Francie straightened her shoulders and raised her voice a little, like a teacher reassuring a room of students during a fire drill. “Everything will be absolutely fine when the market corrects the way it always does. In the meantime? We’ve had to cut back, too. Harold has his own children to consider. At the moment, our liquid assets are negligible, and that will be our situation for quite some time. We’ve all had to readjust our expectations and plans given the recent economy.” Francie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, appraising her offspring. “Besides, Leo is your brother. It never occurred to me that you would not help him out of this dire situation—”

      “A situation entirely of his own making,” Jack said.

      Francie pointed a finger at Jack. “Your father set the conditions of the account so that I could tap into it in case of an emergency for this exact reason. This was a family emergency.”

      “Which part qualifies as an emergency?” Jack said. “Leo’s years