Julia saw her aunt enter the restaurant at precisely twelve thirty. Pamela scanned the tables, spotted Julia, and crossed the dining room as if it belonged to her. They kissed on both cheeks—only the Martinelli side of the family did that—and her aunt announced, “I have a deposition at two,” as she sat and pulled in her chair. “We should order right away.”
“They have good salads here,” Julia said.
Pamela seemed unmoved by this information. She placed her cloth napkin on her lap and gestured to the waiter with an expression that signaled, Hurry up and do your job. Pamela never just let things happen, Julia thought. Maybe she knew she wouldn’t get what she wanted if she did. She had none of Julia’s mother’s physical grace, flair, or feminine seductiveness. It wasn’t that Pamela couldn’t afford to look stylish—she was, after all, a highly paid trial attorney with an impressive record of keeping guilty white-collar felons out of federal prison. But she wore only minimal makeup—haphazardly applied mascara and a dark shade of lipstick that was completely wrong for her complexion—and she gravitated to tailored suits in dark colors. Today she wore navy pinstripes. Brooks Brothers, Julia guessed from the cut. Not Armani.
The waiter brought stiff, leather-bound menus and stood there while they decided. When he left, Julia said, “Thanks for meeting me.”
“How are you holding up, sweetheart?”
That was all the invitation Julia needed. While they waited for their salads, she told her aunt everything that had happened since her father had called her yesterday morning. “What if I hadn’t watched that video? We would never have known.”
Pamela registered no opinion. “What did the detective say to you?”
“That there weren’t enough red flags—her words—to warrant police involvement. She said I should ask for an autopsy—to put my mind at ease.”
Pamela glanced at the iPhone in her lap.
“I thought she was very dismissive,” Julia added. “The police never want to go out of their way, do they?”
Pamela looked up again. “They need solid evidence to open a case, honey. You’re speculating. But she’s right, you could request an autopsy if you want one. They would have to perform it.”
“I do want one, but my father would never forgive me. He’d take away—” Julia regretted the words instantly. “Never mind.”
But Pamela was already jumping on them like a seasoned cross-examiner. “He’d cut you off. Isn’t that what you were about to say?” She leaned in and stared at Julia. “The same way he threatened to cut you off if you didn’t get tested. Am I right?”
Julia twisted the napkin in her lap and shrugged.
“You’re too dependent on him. You have to stop living off his monthly checks, Julia. It’s bad for you. It’s the worst possible thing. You have to get a job—and not at BNA.”
“It’s only because of Park City,” Julia said. Park City was her way of referring to the accident. She preferred not to say accident, because every time she did, she visualized her body wiping out in the powder and doing three-sixties until her skis flew off and she slammed into a tree. “I’m going to start looking soon. I am.” But just saying these words terrified her, and she knew she would do anything imaginable not to have to face stony sets of interviewer eyes looking for excuses to disqualify her. You’ve been out of college for a year. What have you done since then? What skills do you have? What are you passionate about? Where do you see yourself in five years? Did other people really know where they wanted to end up or were they just better liars than she was? She was afraid she would never get a job without using the one qualification she didn’t want to use—the fact that she was the daughter of Thomas A. Merchant and Lucy Martinelli Merchant.
“I know you want the best for me,” she told her aunt. “But right now, I can only focus on my mother. There should be an autopsy, and I can’t demand one.” She paused. “But you could.”
Pamela sat back and laughed so loudly that the two women at the table behind her turned their heads. “Is that why you asked me to lunch?”
Julia hedged. “Don’t you want to know the truth?”
Pamela’s smile turned into a penetrating stare that made Julia squirm. Witnesses on the stand probably felt this way under her aunt’s cross-examination. “You forget one thing, Julia. Your mother and I were not close. Why should I pretend to be her grieving sister? When she didn’t attend my wedding three years ago, it was the last straw for me. You know that.”
The waiter arrived with their salads. Neither of them spoke while he set down the plates, offered freshly ground pepper, and asked if he could get them anything else. When he departed, Julia told her aunt, “My father didn’t want her to go. He said you were using her to get your wedding on Page Six.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Pamela picked up her fork. “I don’t give a fuck about Page Six and he knows it. He didn’t want Lucy associated with her lesbian sister—he was afraid to offend his rich conservative clients. I may defend them, but I don’t pander to them. Your father has no spine. And he still believes that rich white men are going to call the shots forever. I can’t wait for him to find out how it feels not to have a seat at the table. I hope I live to see the look on his face when no one takes his calls.” She stabbed a heart of palm. “And Lucy went along with him—my own sister, whose most ardent fans were gay men, for God’s sake.”
“I think the dementia was affecting her judgment even then,” suggested Julia.
“Possibly.” Pamela chewed as she spoke. “But that doesn’t justify her behavior for twenty-five years. She treated her fans better than she ever treated me—or you, for that matter. Hardly anyone in her circle even knew she had a sister—and plenty of them didn’t know she had a daughter, either.”
“That’s not true. Don’t say that.”
Pamela set down her fork, wiped her lip with her napkin, and leaned her elbows on the table. “You can live in your fantasy, Julia, but I don’t. I went through a lot of therapy to deal with my resentments of your mother, and you know what my therapist called her?”
“What?”
“A malignant narcissist.”
“What’s that?”
“Look it up.” She glanced at her watch. “I know this is a tough time for you, but my advice is move on with your life. Let her go. Stop trying to prove you deserved her love. It’s too late. It was always too late.”
Julia couldn’t think of anything to say.
Pamela set her napkin next to her plate. “I’ve got to go.” She picked up her purse, took out her wallet, and laid five crisp twenties on the table. “That should do it,” she said as she pushed out her chair.