Smith and Jonathan leaned forward. Spencer gaped. Two million dollars?
Mr. Calloway squinted at the words. “Two million dollars to her grandson Smithson, two million dollars to her grandson Jonathan, and two million dollars to her granddaughter Melissa.” He paused, his eyes landing momentarily on Spencer. An awkward look fluttered over his face. “And…okay. We just need everyone to sign here.”
“Uh,” Spencer started. It came out like a grunt, and everyone looked over. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, self-consciously touching her hair. “I think you forgot a grandchild.”
Mr. Calloway opened his mouth and closed it again, like one of the goldfish that swam in the Hastingses’ backyard reflecting pond. Mrs. Hastings stood up abruptly, doing the goldfish thing with her mouth too. Genevieve cleared her throat, pointedly staring down at her three-carat emerald ring. Uncle Daniel flared his enormous nostrils. Spencer’s cousins and Melissa gathered over the will. “Right here,” Mr. Calloway said quietly, pointing to the page.
“Uh, Mr. Calloway?” Spencer goaded. She whipped her head back and forth between the lawyer and her parents. Finally, she let out a nervous laugh. “I am mentioned in the will, aren’t I?”
Her eyes wide, Melissa grabbed the will from Smith and handed it to Spencer. Spencer stared at the document for a moment, her heart like a jackhammer.
There it was. Nana had left two million dollars to Smithson Pierpont Hastings, Jonathan Barnard Hastings, and Melissa Josephine Hastings. Spencer’s name was nowhere to be found.
“What’s going on?” Spencer whispered.
Her father stood up abruptly. “Spencer, maybe you should wait in your car.”
“What?” Spencer squeaked, horrified.
Her father took her arm and began to guide her out of the room. “Please,” he said under his breath. “Wait for us there.”
Spencer wasn’t sure what else to do but to obey. Her father shut the door fast, the slam reverberating off the courtroom’s quiet marble walls. Spencer listened to her own breathing for a few moments, and then, suppressing a sob, she wheeled around, sprinted to her car, gunned the ignition, and peeled out of the parking lot. Screw waiting. She wanted to be as far away from this courthouse—from whatever had just happened—as she possibly could.
8
ISN’T INTERNET DATING GREAT?
Early Tuesday evening, Aria sat on a cloth stool in her mother’s bathroom, her floral-printed Orla Kiely makeup bag in her lap. She glanced at Ella in her mirror. “Oh my God, no,” she said quickly, widening her eyes at the orange stripes on Ella’s cheeks. “That’s way too much bronzer. You’re supposed to look sun-kissed, not sun-broiled.”
Her mother frowned and wiped her cheeks with a Kleenex. “It’s the dead of winter! What idiot is sun-kissed right now anyway?”
“You want to look like you did when we were in Crete. Remember how tan we all got from that puffin-watching boat cruise? And—” Aria halted abruptly. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought up Crete. Byron had been on that trip, too.
But Ella didn’t seem fazed. “Tan skin screams melanoma.” She touched the pink, spongy roller in her hair. “When do we take these out?”
Aria checked her watch. Ella’s big Match.com date, the Rolling Stones–loving mystery man named—shudder—Wolfgang, would be here in fifteen minutes. “Now, I guess.” She unclipped the first roller. A lock of Ella’s dark hair cascaded down her back. Aria undid the rest, shook the can of Rave, and gave her mother’s head a quick spritz. “Voilà.”
Ella sat back. “It looks great.”
Hair and makeup normally weren’t Aria’s thing, but not only had styling Ella for her big date been fun, it had also been the most time they’d spent together since Aria moved back in. Even better, Ella’s makeover had been a good distraction from thinking about Xavier. Aria had obsessed over their conversation at the gallery for the past two days, trying to pick apart whether it had been flirtatious banter or friendly chitchat. Artists were so touchy-feely—it was impossible to tell what they actually meant. Still, she hoped he would call. Aria had signed her first name and cell number in the gallery’s register, putting an asterisk by it. Artists looked at those register books, didn’t they? She couldn’t help but picture their first date—it would start with finger-painting and end with a messy make-out session on Xavier’s studio floor.
Ella picked up a mascara wand and leaned in to the mirror. “Are you sure you’re okay with me going on a date?”
“Of course.” But the truth was that Aria wasn’t sure how promising this date was going to be. The guy’s name was Wolfgang, for God’s sake. What if he spoke in rhymes? What if he was the guy who impersonated Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart for the Hollis Conservatory’s Great Composers of History festival? What if he showed up in a doublet and hose and a powdered wig?
Ella stood up and walked back into the bedroom. Halfway across the carpet, she abruptly stopped. “Oh.”
Her eyes were on the teal dress Aria had laid out on the queen-size bed. Earlier that afternoon, Aria had gone through Ella’s closet for an appropriate date outfit, worried she wouldn’t find anything among the dashikis, tunics, and Tibetan prayer robes Ella typically wore. The dress had been stuffed in the back, still wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic. It was simple and slimming, with just the tiniest scalloping at the neck. Aria had thought it was a perfect choice…but judging by her mother’s face, she suddenly wasn’t so sure.