Page 31 of The Favorite Sister

Last winter, Jen’s architectural overhaul included knocking down walls, adding a fourth bedroom and a saltwater infinity pool, and outfitting the kitchen in gray-veined Carrara marble, which should have been the second warning shot for Yvette, after Jen’s on-air claim that the reno was meant to make the house more comfortable for her mom. The thing about gray-veined Carrara marble is that it may look sexy, it may beallthe rage on the home décor porn sites, butit’s not recommended for people who actually cook in their kitchens because it stains, scratches, and chips like a wet manicure. (Source: Stephanie Simmons. I heard the word “Carrara” and had a craving for ice cream.) You would think Jen Greenberg, kale smoothie millionairess, would opt for quartz countertops—not as dazzling, but much more durable. Only Jen Greenberg never intended to use that kitchen to make her not food into food. Instead, her intention was to fix it up, jack up the market value, and sell it to some HGTV hornball for a cool 3.1 mil.

Jen has the legal right to do with the house as she pleases. Ethically, she should be fined for all she’s fucking worth. She’s given Yvette no say in the decision to sell even though, for the last twenty-some years, Yvette has paid the property taxes and utilities, taken care of the landscaping and the leaks and the clogs. She’s replaced the roof, the kitchen appliances, and the crap furniture with gorgeous gray linen sofas and chairs. She taught Jen to swim in the ocean down the road, she’s brined fourteen tofurkeys in the Tic Tac–sized oven, and she’s shared gin and tonics on the back porch with Sir Paul McCartney. The house may be Jen’s, but the home was always Yvette’s. She’s absolutely heartsick to lose it.

I park Kelly’s car in front of the cheery red “For Sale” sign, by the flowering Japanese maple Yvette planted in honor of her late mother. The driveway is empty. The Greenbergs share an old blue Volvo station wagon, though Jen is “considering” the Tesla.

The sky is more white than gray, the sun illuminating the clouds from behind. It’s been raining on and off all morning, and I had to keep the windows up on the drive out here. Kelly’s car hasn’t had working AC since Obama was elected for his second term and the back of my T-shirt is color-blocked with sweat. My feet slide around in my sneakers as I approach the front door and knock. I wait. Nothing.

I check my phone. 12:47. Yvette said to arrive at 12:30on the nose, which was anal and unlike her, but I figured it was because she wanted me to get there before Jen. She’s been out here two daysalready, trying to enjoy the peace and quiet before the weekend’s open house. I wait until my phone says 12:48 to knock again. Still nothing.

I cup my hands around my eyes and press my nose to the panel of windows shouldering the front door. Jesus. The house is now a Tibetan fur fever dream: shag white carpet, shag white side chairs, shag white throw pillows on the blessedly un-shaggy white linen couch. All this distinctively fuzzy décor paired with cold white stone floors. Limestone is what Jen went with, I recall Yvette telling me. It’s slippery when wet—which makes perfect sense for a beach house with a pool.I’m afraid someone’s going to crack their head open, Yvette confided in me.

My sigh fogs the window, and I wipe it clean with my shoulder, searching in my bag for my phone.

“Hello,” Yvette says, on the third ring. Her hello is always the same, a velvetyhell-low-ah, managing to be both unrecognizing and deeply intimate at the same time.

“Hiya,” I say. “It’s Brett.”

There is a pause. “Honey,” she says, “everything okay?”

“Ah, yeah.” I laugh. “Where are you?”

There is another pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean.” I slap away a mosquito on my thigh. I wonder if Stephanie will be avoiding the Hamptons this summer on account of Zika. Seems unlikely. “You told me to come at twelve-thirty.” I wait for her to remember but she doesn’t. “So... I’m here.”

“Where?”

“Yvette!” I cry, exasperated. “The house in Amagansett!”

Yvette mumbles something to herself I can’t make out. “I thought we said Sunday,” she says. I can picture her squinting at the Imagined Desks of Historical Women calendar I gave her last Christmas, Mary Shelley with a glass of white wine next to her pen. “Is it Sunday?”

I suffer a spike of fear as I realize this isn’t Yvette being flaky, this is Yvette being in her late sixties and having trouble with her memory. “No, it’s Friday,” I say, gently. “We said Friday.”

“Honey, I am getting so old!” Yvette chuckles. “I come outtomorrow. Jen was coming this afternoon to show the house to a listing agent. I must have gotten my days screwed up.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale hard. I’m stranded in the Hamptons with only the Green Menace to take me in.

“I feel horrible,” Yvette says, though she doesn’t sound horrible. She sounds like she’s in the middle of plucking her eyebrows or some other banal but satisfying activity, like I’ve interrupted her pleasantly productive afternoon. “Jen should be there soon. Why don’t you just wait for her?”

A smattering of raindrops cool my scalp. “It’s about to pour.”

“I don’t meanoutside. The key is under the rock in the second planter around back. Let yourself in. Make some lunch. Jen had scheduled a FreshDirect delivery for twelve-thirty.” In an offhand manner that seems anything but offhand, she asks, “Is it there?”

FreshDirect. I wouldn’t take Jen to be soprovincial. I scan the front patio, spotting faster with raindrops by the second, but I don’t see a delivery. “Nothing. No. It’s really starting to come down again.”

“Hmmm.” Yvette sounds concerned. “They might have dropped it off by the back door. Would you check?”

“Yvette, I’m sorry, but I’m not staying. I don’t feel comfortable being here without you.”

“Would you at least bring the food inside so it doesn’t spoil?”

I drop my arm by my side, shutting my eyes and taking a deep, calming breath. I return the phone to my ear and force a smile so that it sounds in my voice. “Sure.”

I unlatch the gate and walk parallel to the house. I can see the new pool, its tarp littered with leaves and dead bugs and one lone Solo cup.

“The delivery’s back here,” I tell her, as I round the corner and spot the cardboard FreshDirect boxes, soggy from the rain, piled two deep next to the double patio doors that have replaced the sliding door with the screen that used to always jump the track. The rain has almost washed away the ink on the note taped to the top box:two attempts to contact, left unattended per directions.

“Oh, good!” Yvette says. “Well, help yourself to anything you want—”