Page 45 of These Summer Storms

“Those are yourfather’sfriends.”

Considering they’d summered and holidayed with all of those families throughout their childhood, this was a surprise. Nevertheless, Emily reached for a notepad on the corner of Elisabeth’s spindle desk. “Okay, so. Who is missing?”

Elisabeth waved a hand. “You know, the others.”

Happy to have a task, Emily wrote the names as she spoke, listing the who’s who of New England elite that Elisabeth had brought to the marriage.

“Mmm,” Elisabeth said, turning to Greta. “Evelyn needs Social Security numbers.”

Their presence on theMayflowerpassenger manifest aside, there would be at least two former presidents in attendance, and names weren’t enough for the Secret Service. Greta nodded. Before she could reply, Elisabeth added, “You’ll have to call them all. I don’t want to talk to them.”

Emily piped up from behind her mother. “I’ll help.”

“No. Greta can do it.”

The youngest Storm’s jaw clenched, and Greta watched as Emily took a deep breath—surely meant to be cleansing. She wondered how that went for her sister. “Mom, there are, what, forty people on this list? And that’s before we add our friends.”

Elisabeth’s brows stitched together. “Yourfriends?”

A beat. “Yeah, Mom. Our friends.”

“Why on earth would you invite your friends?”

Once, at Alice’s insistence, Greta had tried therapy and lasted three sessions (somehow going 165 minutes without revealing that she was a Storm as in Storm Inside™) before she’d confessed the infraction to their mother, who’d wrinkled her nose (a shock—Elisabeth never wrinkled anything on purpose) and said,Why on earth would you do that?

All those years ago, Greta hadn’t replied to the question, but Emily replied now. “Because they support us? Because it brings peace? And balance?”

If Emily thought any argument including peace and balance would win over their mother, she had not been paying attention for the last twenty-eight years. Elisabeth returned to the Storm Inc. spreadsheet. “No. The guest list is full.”

“What?” Emily stopped. Restarted. “Mom—”

Greta stepped in. “We should get started.”

Emily ignored her. “Mom—aren’t you…”

When she trailed off, Greta sucked in a breath and shook her head.Not now, Emily.We aren’t you.

Even if Greta had said the words aloud, she wasn’t sure Emily would have listened. “Aren’t you…sad?”

Greta froze.

Elisabeth did not, endlessly scrolling her 1107. “Not particularly.”

Emily’s gaze went wide, and she looked to Greta, her silentWhat the fuck?as clear as a gunshot. Greta lifted a shoulder in reply, but she couldn’t deny the thread of satisfaction that ran through her at the question. Emily didn’t understand, but Greta did. Because she was the good daughter.

She shook her head to stop Emily from saying more—instead redirecting her to the task at hand. For the next hour, the sisters played personal secretary to Elisabeth, making phone calls while she fielded emails and texts from an array of Franklin’s staff, peers, and personal friends.

Greta made two calls for every one of Emily’s, because the youngest Storm couldn’t seem to get through a single conversation without tears and some kind of discussion of healing energy.

And of course, Alice never turned up. Honestly, it was for the best as Greta always felt as though her middle sister was silently judging her. Maybe it wasn’t true—maybe it was just that they were so different. Where Greta had (almost) always been the steady, dependable one, who attended every dinner, every cocktail party, every nonprofit ribbon-cutting, everything that required a Storm to smile and speak on behalf of their father, and remained too insignificant to rate Elisabeth’s attendance, Alice…

Well. Alice had been the bad daughter.

“Right. See you both then, Twyla.” Emily was finishing another call—the last one, if Greta had been keeping correct records (of course she had). A pause, while Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you. That’s really kind.”

Greta returned her attention to her list, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. They barely knew the newly minted wife of the cofounder ofStorm Inc., Mike Haskins. Half his age, Twyla had been the head of marketing for Mike’s most recent venture and the society pages were happy to suggest she’d been the reason for his widely publicized divorce, leaving his first wife the wealthiest woman in the world.

Emily needed to hurry this along. Greta wanted the calls done, so she could leave here. So she could see Tony. She pushed away the knot of emotion that came with the thought of him.

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