Page 34 of False God

My grandmother smiles approvingly at my outfit. Her smile drops a little when she spots a slouched Bash, then another centimeter when Kit returns to the room. He pulled on a white T-shirt, but he’s still barefoot with messy hair.

“I’m not sure when breakfast became so … casual,” Gigi remarks.

“They’ll change before we leave for the parade,” Mom tells her.

Kit opens his mouth—to protest, I’m positive—but Dad shuts him up with a hard look.

“What time are you expecting Oliver and his family to arrive?” Gigi asks Dad.

He checks his watch. “They should be here in twenty minutes, Josephine.”

Gigi and Grandfather’s house is plenty large enough to host Uncle Oliver, Aunt Hannah, and my two cousins, but they’re staying at my parents’ house instead. A house I suspect Dad bought to avoid staying here, but Gigi always insists we keep them company to make up for “all the time spent on the West Coast.”

“Where’s Dad?” my mom asks her.

Gigi sighs. “He took an early tee time. He promised he’d be back by …” She glances at the clock above the mantel. “Now.”

My parents exchange a loaded look. Mom appears exasperated. Dad amused.

Gigi takes a seat at the table and fills a crystal bowl with yogurt and berries. A maid delivers a steaming cup of tea in front of her as she writes in the leather portfolio that was tucked under her arm. Her penmanship is the type of precise cursive that looks like it was drawn by a machine, the perfect loops evident from across the table. Her to-do list for today, I’m guessing. The Red, White, and Blue party is not a small event. In years past, the guest list was around a thousand.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the clink of silver against china. Breakfast with my parents and brothers is normally a much noisier affair, but we’re mostly on our best behavior here.

Gigi closes the portfolio a moment later, taking a careful taste of her hot tea. “I hope you’ll refrain from any unrefined activities today, Elizabeth.”

My mom’s parents have always called me by my full name. My dad’s father is the only one of my grandparents who calls me Lili.

“I just felt like doing something different,” I say, grabbing another muffin.

Playing yesterday felt like a golden opportunity to corrupt conventionality a little. Most of Atlantic Crest’s members probably think I’m a “vapid heiress.” At least I showed them I’m also proficient with a mallet. That I’m more than my last name and my looks.

“Events at Atlantic Crest aren’t meant for making bold statements, darling.”

There’s a cacophony of responses to that statement.

“Who cares? She’s a fucking Kensington.” Kit.

“If polo isunrefined, why do they play it at the club?” Bash.

“Lili played well.” Dad.

“Perhaps we should stop going to events at Atlantic Crest then.” Mom.

My family members all leap to my defense, and their support coalesces into a warm glow in my chest. Kensingtons are allowed to give each other shit, but no one else is.

Gigi dabs at her mouth delicately. I know her expressions well enough to tell that she’s regretting mentioning yesterday.

My grandfather’s booming voice alleviates some of the tension in the room. Even in his seventies, Hanson Ellsworth has the kind of presence that can’t be ignored. He’s had two heart attacks, and he sometimes walks with a cane, but his mind is as sharp as ever. He sold Ellsworth Enterprises eight years ago and has spent most days since golfing and telling other people how to run their businesses. The only two people I’ve never heard him dole out advice to are Mom and Dad. He draws better boundaries than Gigi does—barely.

“You’re late, Hanson.” Gigi gives the mantel clock a pointed look.

“Apologies, Josephine.” Grandfather takes one of the few remaining seats—the head of the table, of course—then surveys us all with a proud smile. “Busy morning. Had a hard time getting away.”

“Great breakfast, Gigi,” Bash says, grabbing a waffle.

We all murmur our agreement, even Grandfather, who hasn’t touched a thing on the table.

Gigi beams. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

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