Page 72 of Gifted & Talented

“He’s lazy,” said Thayer dismissively. “He’s not hungry. His life was too comfortable—everyone was too soft with him.”

“I’m comfortable,” said Eilidh, unsure what line she was treading.

“Yes, but you’ve got that spark, that drive. You’ve got focus.”

“Lot of good that did me.” Eilidh instantly felt guilty about descending to self-pity, but Thayer only shook his head.

“You were injured. That’s not your fault. You and Arthur aren’t the same.” He gave her a look as if to say please don’t make me explain what you already know, though in fact Eilidhdidn’tknow, and wasn’t sure in what way she was so different from her brother except for knowing that everyone loved Arthur and only Thayer loved her.

“Of course we aren’t the same. I work nine-to-five for my father,” Eilidh said bitterly, thinking of a conversation by the proverbial water cooler that had stopped completely the moment she entered the room, “whereas Arthur is the youngest congressman in—”

Again, Thayer flapped a hand in demurral. “That’s Gillian’s doing,” he said. “She made a man of him. I should be more grateful to her, really.” Hehad a lost look in his eye then, not unlike the thoughtful look that Eilidh had just seen on Gillian’s face.

Eilidh realized the conversation had been about a month ago. Had Thayer decided to include Gillian in their inheritance? Was it possible he’d weighted the shares in Arthur’s favor, purely by virtue of the marriage, toward the woman that even Eilidh agreed deserved a reward?

But then she remembered there had been more to the conversation. A hollowness grew out of her gut, a tiny maelstrom of sorrow, or worry.

Worry.Don’t worry about it,Thayer had said. “Arthur performs for applause. He thrives when he’s in the sun, but the moment the crowd stops clapping, he falls apart.”

On some level, Eilidh knew that was true. Arthur didn’t like to fail; hated to do so publicly. Meredith was the same, except Meredith didn’t fail, because Meredith picked the right battles, the smart battles. Meredith was a genius. Arthur was a different kind of genius, something potentially more singular, but less… not to borrow a word from her father, but less focused.

Still, the problem with drawing any sort of distinction between herself and her brother seemed obvious to Eilidh. “The crowd isn’t clapping for me anymore, either.” She glanced down at her hand, the way it guilelessly held a salad fork. She had set it down when she realized she was about to pay thirty dollars for a head of lettuce.

No, not her.Her fatherwas paying the check, which was unspeakably worse. No wonder nobody commiserated with her at work unless they had something to gain.

(Except of course for Dzhuliya, who had been in the background of the conversation somewhere; Eilidh could feel her presence in its quietly evergreen way. Arriving with the town car, sending an email on Thayer’s behalf, her eyes meeting Eilidh’s so naturally over Thayer’s shoulder, her name sluicing the blackness of Eilidh’s idle phone screen.)

Thayer, unconcerned, had reached across the table and patted Eilidh’s hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re not done yet, my Eilidh.”

“Eilidh,” said Gillian then, startling Eilidh back to the present. “What about you?”

“Hm?” asked Eilidh.

“Would you like a glass?” Gillian asked with an air of repetition.

Eilidh realized that Meredith was gone. Yves was spreading honey sensually over a piece of bread. Dzhuliya was on her left, nibbling, kitten-like,on a cracker. Gillian was holding a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, a handful of glasses.

“Oh,” said Eilidh. “Sure.”

“Wonderful,” Gillian said, and withdrew an additional glass from the cupboard.

Arthur, Eilidh noticed, had looked up from his messages as Gillian poured. She handed one to Eilidh, then poured the other two, sliding one across to Philippa and offering the final glass to Dzhuliya. “Would you like one?” Gillian asked, with an impressive lack of noticeable agenda.

“Oh, no, I’ve got to drive soon,” Dzhuliya demurred. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Gillian, who was probably too young to be exclaiming things like “nonsense” in situations that weren’t utterly contrived. “Are you sure we can’t tempt you?”

“No, not tonight—”

“Well, then… Yves?” asked Gillian, and proceeded to hand the glass off to an unfailingly delighted Yves while Eilidh took a sip from her own glass, the thing inside her unfurling for warmth like a thirsty lizard’s tongue.

It was a grippy, fruity wine, red but still light, a characteristically perfect selection by Gillian although it was probably chosen by Thayer, by virtue of whoever Thayer chose to select his wine. Eilidh felt a pang of sadness, reminded suddenly of being young and taught things by her father, like what to look for in a glass. The color, the opacity, the thing Thayer called legs that Eilidh thought of as drips. She watched the liquid cling to the side of the glass, the slow, treacly evanescence of the wine as she swirled it with one hand. For a second, she was gripped by the knowledge that he was really gone; that all that was left of Thayer Wren was his wine and his work, and his untold promises.

And, Eilidh supposed, her.

She shoved aside the pang of distress, the tasteless sensation of loss. She looked up from a swell of feeling to find that Arthur was gone now, and so was Philippa. Yves and Gillian had moved into the living room, looking up through the shadowed skylight at the canopy of trees.

As always—wasn’t it always?—it was Dzhuliya who remained. She was perched uncomfortably on a stool beside Eilidh, looking longingly at nothing, one long leg wound atop the other. There was an unclaimed glass of wine, the one Gillian had poured for Philippa, which looked at first glanceto be untouched. But then Eilidh noticed that Philippa had left legs behind, the sheen of at least one sip. There was that for Arthur’s laughable pregnancy candidate, Eilidh supposed, which left Gillian’s—admittedly the only valid theory of the two.

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