Page 30 of Gifted & Talented

“She should be here soon,” Eilidh said, glancing at her watch. It was a new Wrenfare model, Arthur noticed. He did not wear one himself, but he did listen to his father’s keynote speeches. He realized with a sudden jolt that perhaps Eilidh would be giving those speeches now—or Meredith, who was the better choice for running the company, albeit not as talented as Eilidh at garnering public adoration—which was another confusing rush of emotions. Not that Arthur envied the speeches, per se, but this wasWrenfare Magitech. It was more than just a company. It was the touchstone of an industry, as ubiquitous to modern society as indoor plumbing and personal computing. It was worth at least tens of billions, conservatively speaking, and more importantly, Wrenfare was their birthright, their collective legacy, and their meaningful claim to history, which was far more than Arthur could say after two dismal years in Congress.

Given that Arthur would almost certainly be out of a job come November—this thought he suffered with an emoticon grimace, followed by the caving in of his own chest—wouldn’t it be a neat little sidestep for him to fill the role of Wrenfare CEO? Politics were tiresome anyway, he looked pretty on a stage, and he could devote a significant portion of the Wrenfare budget to philanthropic efforts. Hell, he’d probably get more done as an anonymous donor than he would as an elected official. Money did have a very particular magic when it came to accomplishing things quickly, and everything Arthur knewabout the world suggested that wealth, at Wrenfare’s scale, was the one thing that didn’t have any rules.

It occurred to him belatedly that Eilidh seemed to know where Meredith was, and that he had not gotten an answer to that question earlier, and that in the moments since realizing this, Yves had sat on the ground, opening his doggie bag of pancakes and beginning to eat them like tiny, rolled taquitos, dipping them euphorically in syrup. “You’ve spoken to Meredith?” Arthur asked Eilidh, beginning to wonder where drugs began and Yves ended. Arthur was suddenly in the mood for pancakes as well, which was another of Yves’s talents. It was like he could predict the perfect thing before anyone else could identify a craving.

Soup wasn’t always the perfect food for bereavement, Arthur realized, weaponizing the thought at Cass with a flush of loathing. Suddenly he felt deeply in love with Yves all over again.

“Oh yes, sorry, I forgot to tell you. She called me from the car,” said Eilidh just as Gillian returned from the house’s stairwell, this time bearing the antique rifle that hung in their father’s study as she waded into the greenery. The rifle had never been loaded, having been gifted by one of the conservative presidents at some point during Arthur’s childhood, though of course any paparazzo hiding in the bushes would not have any reason to know that. There was a brief scuttle, some yelps, and a few fleeing figures before Gillian returned to Arthur’s side, tucking a handful of SIM cards into her pocket with only the faintest indication of sweat.

Not for the first time, Arthur thought fleetingly of kissing her in gratitude, though he had other things on the mind, and anyway, it wouldn’t work.

“Wait, Meredith calledyou?” Arthur asked Eilidh, bewildered. He realized he hadn’t checked his phone very carefully, short of looking for Gillian’s arrival message. He dug it out of his pocket and realized that yes, he had several notifications he had apparently missed in the haze of deplaning, including multiple calls from Meredith and countless alerts for himself from every major publication (these he consulted with routine dread, waiting to be canceled; so far so good, but there was always, inevitably, tomorrow).

“Actually, Meredith’s the one who told me the news.” Eilidh’s expression became very stiff, forcefully pleasant, which was how it looked when she was experiencing any strong emotion. “Well, I suppose technically Jamie was.”

“Who’s Jamie?” asked Gillian at the same time that Cass said, “She’s still with Jamie?”

“Oh, is that—? I mean, I wasn’t…? I don’t think,” Eilidh began, and then ran out of steam. She looked at Cass, then at Arthur, as if she assumed Arthur could fix whatever she’d just done, which was very unclear to him.

“Jamie is Meredith’s ex-boyfriend,” Arthur explained to Gillian, deciding to start there, and then thought about it for another millisecond. “Wait, she’s with Jamie?”

“Who is Meredith?” asked Yves, who was smiling. He bit into a pancake taquito, still smiling.

“Well, that explains a lot,” said Cass, looking a bit surlier, the way older men tended to do. It was an expression that Arthur associated with paying taxes and telling people they’d inevitably become more conservative as they aged, which was of course to disregard the reality that social services were not what they once were, meaning that almost nobody would have the same resources their parents had (Arthur excepted—he’d havemore,he realized, the reality of his father’s death dawning on him once again. Although that was neither here nor there).

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Gillian said reassuringly to Cass, inspecting Arthur’s father’s gun. (It was actually Napoleonic in origin, and Gillian took great pains to keep it clean. It occurred to Arthur to hope his father had left it to her, because it would make her really happy. Something Arthur did technically know how to do, so suck on that, Cass.) “I spoke to her earlier. It’s really more blackmail related than romantic.”

“What?” said Eilidh and Arthur simultaneously.

“Oh good, the food’s here,” said Gillian as another set of headlights appeared in the driveway, marching toward it with the rifle held in the crook of her arm like a newborn baby.

Oh, thought Arthur with another pang. Oh, Riot, what a shame it will be if you can’t have Gillian in your life, though at least your mother will be plenty of entertainment.

He missed Philippa feverishly then. What would Philippa be doing right this moment, had she been there? Probably trying to get them to write a play about their feelings, not that Arthur had any. But for Philippa, he would make some up.

Arthur jumped at the sudden clap of a hand on his shoulder. “This willbe a difficult few days for you, Arthur,” said Yves soberly. “There is much to be done when a loved one passes.”

“Yes,” said Gillian, her arms now laden down with enormous containers of soup. “I called the funeral home and explained our need to protect the family’s privacy, what with all of you being such public figures”—and one of us, Arthur thought, being an electrokinetic menace—“and I gave him the go-ahead to start arranging the funeral for Friday, but beyond that, I don’t know what Thayer’s estate plan entails. The executor will have to see to the details. Do you know who it is?”

“Me,” said Eilidh with another forced look of pleasantness, which likely meant she was dying inside.

“You’ll all have to speak with the attorneys, probably tomorrow,” said Cass, and Arthur thought briefly of challenging him to a fight. Not over Gillian’s honor, necessarily, but Cass was meddling in Arthur’s family affairs, which was a step too far. It was Gillian’s family, too, but only insofar as she remained married to Arthur, which made Cass tertiary to the situation at best. At best!

“Once Meredith gets here,” Cass continued, unperturbed by Arthur’s growing agitation, “you should get in touch with any remaining family members and friends. When you have the will, you can start sorting through the assets and clearing out the house. Unless one of you plans to live here?”

He looked between Arthur and Eilidh, who looked at each other, and then back at Cass.

“Well, like I said, that can wait,” said Cass with apparent indifference.

“I meant that there was much to do with your soul,” said Yves, who was resting nearly his entire weight on Arthur’s shoulder. “Grief can be a heavy thing, and only when tended to properly can new things begin to grow. Do I smell chicken soup?” he added with a sudden look of ecstasy.

“Matzo ball,” said Gillian.

“Oh, yummy,” exclaimed Yves, taking a bag from her and leaving her with a free hand to hoist the rifle against her shoulder as she followed him up the stairs.

“I’d better go help them,” said Cass, gesturing, before putting his hands in his pockets to begin the ascent. He was carrying a leather overnight bag, very stylish. He was a stylish person, Arthur realized glumly, and reached out just before Cass passed him for the stairs.

“Hey,” said Arthur quietly. “Be good to her, all right?”

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