Page 31 of Take It Offline

After all the stress and heartache, they refuse to give up their lifestyle or this house. Anything to keep up appearances, as though nothing has changed.

Walking through the house is like playing spot the difference, except the differences are glaringly obvious. That blank spot is where the Chagall hung. Over there, the Renoir. Two Ligne Roset sofas, the Hermes throw, a library’s worth of rare books and first editions (none of them read).

When I was a kid, every room was filled to the brim, either with things or people. Parties for the foundation were thrown in different rooms, each with its own theme, and no expense was spared.

Back then, my parents were magicians, capable of conjuring up every wish I imagined and more.

As an adult, I’ve learned the lie that hides behind the spectacle, and it’s written in every empty space in this house.

Despite Harvey’s reassurances, I’m dismayed to discover Mom in what’s left of the wine cellar. She’s holding a checklist in one hand and a ’95 P2 in the other.

I steel myself as I come down the stairs. “Where’s Dad?”

“Oh, hi, honey. In his office, last I saw. Something, something Ethereum, something, something Logan…” she says with ayada, yada, yadakind of wave of her clipboard. “He disappeared after breakfast, and I thought it would be an excellent time to tackle some administrative tasks before you arrived.”

With a nod at the P2, she makes the decision she’s clearly been pondering, and the foreboding churn in my gut sinks deeper.

“Whatever you’re planning, we can’t afford it,” I remind her.

She looks up at me, her sigh echoing in the dim space. “Next you’ll be asking me to serve box wine to our guests.”

Wrong. I don’t want her to serve anything at all.

My heart sinks. “Mom, you promised me.”

“I know, but?—”

“No. No buts. No ifs, buts, or maybes. You promised no more parties.” If I have to camp out in this wine cellar to stop her, I’ll do it.

She quietly slides the wine back into place, rotating it until she’s satisfied. “I always host the annual gala. We raise more funds in one day than we do the rest of the year.”

I hate bursting her bubble like this. The foundation has been her second child for years, and I wouldn’t ask her to give it up if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.

But it’s become increasingly necessary.

“Let somebody else host,” I plead. Though she might never admit it, Logan’s mother has been angling to take over the foundation for years.

“Emma,” she says softly as she tucks my hair behind my ear. “And how would that look? I’ve been hosting since its inception. Everybody would think we can’t afford it.”

“We can’t.”

Every Sunday, I hop on a train, then into a cab so I can visit. And every Sunday, without fail, I’m reminded that the world of the rich does not exist on the same scale as the rest of the world.

If only I could make my parents accept that.

“Stop your stressing. Violet is taking care of everything this year.”

Oh, thank god for that. I let the relief settle as she returns to her notes. The cellar has always been cool and damp, a cavern of dark delights, but now half the racks are bare, and it’s another somber reminder of what used to be.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “How is Violet?”

“Oh, you know Vi. There’s an issue with her house on the coast, but she’s glad to have Logan back. Have you heard that he’s been offered partner?”

I pretend to check my nails. “No, but that’s impressive.”

Though I’m surprised he didn’t mention it at lunch.

“I suppose he’ll be joining her at the fundraiser, now that he’s home.” I shoot for a casual tone.

---