Page 11 of The Manor of Dreams

“Mm,” her mother groaned, a hand cupping her eyes. “??.”

Nora looked at the nightstand. An open bottle of ibuprofen. Her mother was having one of her migraines. Calmly, in Mandarin, Nora asked, “Want anything? Something to eat? Water?”

Her mother’s voice was muffled. “Go take care of yourself.”

Nora made her way into the hallway. The two older women and Madeline stood in the kitchen talking. They stopped right as Nora approached. They stared at her as if she were the one trespassing.

The lawyer—Lucille—said, “Can we help you?”

Nora stood up straight, only to realize she didn’t know where anything was. “Are there cups somewhere?”

Lucille pierced her with a hard stare. Renata, the anxious-looking one in a loose dress with hair a shade lighter than the others, pointed at a cabinet. Nora reached for it, feeling all three sets of eyes on her. She went for the tap.

“Drink from that,” Madeline spoke up. She gestured to the kettle. “It’s boiled water.”

Nora nodded, filling a cup for herself and then another for her mother. She observed Madeline watching her curiously. Nora remained stoic. She was usually friendlier when someone as pretty as Madeline smiled at her like that. But Nora was operating under strict, albeit odd instructions.

What a dysfunctional family. Nora had looked them up yesterday afternoon with her spotty cell data. Lucille was a personal injury lawyer, the kind you’d see smiling hawkishly from a highway billboard. Renata had a more elusive and scattered profile: a few small movie credits from the ’90s and early 2000s to the name Rennie Lowell, and a 2022 TMZ article about her contentious split from a famous art exhibitor in New York, in which he accused her of stealing one of the pieces in his collection.

It was a little dramatic, but nothing out of line. After she’d looked up Vivian’s daughters, she’d searched the actress herself, more thoroughly than before. She scanned the details she knew: a 1986 Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress, a few movie credits, a late husbandnamed Richard Lowell. Nora had searched that name and found a long list of acting credits, an Academy Award Best Actor nomination for the same year Vivian had won, and an obituary attributing his death to an accidental overdose at age forty-four in New York. Nora had also looked up Madeline, only to find private social media profiles. Berkeley Environmental Studies, graduated spring this year. A year ahead of Nora. In pictures she had the same calm gaze and half smile. Nora had recognized her pearl earrings. The cell service dropped, and the page went blank.

Nora finished her tepid cup of water and brought the other mug into her mother’s room. “Here,” she said. “Water.”

“Thank you, Jia-Jia.”

Nora paused at the doorway. “Did you feel a small earthquake last night?”

Her mother shifted, keeping her eyes closed. “Hm?”

“Never mind,” Nora said. It must have been part of the dream, too.

five

AUGUST 2024

DAY 2 IN THE HOUSE

LUCILLEpulled into the parking lot of the law firm in Pasadena. It was half-hidden off the side of the road and hard to find even with her navigation. Her phone lit up with a notification, and she snatched it out of her bag. Any email could be the toxicology report. But this one wasn’t. It was just a work email. She’d been getting a steady stream of them—briefs to look over, contract language, indemnity clauses, forwarded communications meant to snare her in the CC trap. Her usual urge was to open them and fire off responses, to show how hard of a worker she was even during her time off. But this was too important.

She walked into the office and felt the cool hum of the air-conditioning. She adjusted her blouse. “I’m here to see Reid Lyman.”

The receptionist peered toward the offices in the back. “He’ll be with you in a second.”

Lucille cradled the printed copy of the will in her handbag and picked at a loose string on her pleated pants. She needed to get these tailored again.

“Lucille?”

There was his familiar warm tone. Lucille smiled wanly. “Hi, Reid.”

“It’s good to see you. Come in.”

Lucille followed him to his office. It was a corner room with light wooden walls, bare except for a clock and a Pepperdine Law diploma. She sat in the chair across from his desk, which was strewn with papers. There was an old coffeemaker, the carafe ringed with a gradientof stains. He pushed aside his keyboard and leaned forward. She was a little caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze. She thought of the first time their eyes met thirty-four years ago, those few electrifying weeks after her party. Her cheeks warmed. She slid the copy of her mother’s will between them. “Thanks for taking time out of your day for this.”

Reid raised a hand. His sleeves were pushed up. “We’re past those formalities. I’m sorry about your mother. I want to be here for you.”

She paused.

“I mean it, Lucy.”

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