Extraordinary (6 page)

“Huh.” As Phoebe looked, and as she felt Mallory's anxious gaze on her, thoughts tumbled through her head. It was all so strange.
Phoebe
had been Mallory's sibling, these last years. She felt like she had done a good job. But maybe she wouldn't be wanted now. Had Phoebe just been a substitute? A substitute for this irresponsible loser who had left his little sister all alone to take care of their unstable mother? And would Mallory stop visiting the Rothschilds so much now? Would she no longer occupy the little turquoise bedroom across the hall from Phoebe's, the room that, to all intents and purposes, had belonged to her for these last years?

She managed to focus once more on what Mallory was now saying.

“Mother actually spent the weekend getting the spare bedroom ready for Ryland! She's so happy. I think she did sort of forget he existed. You know how she is. But she remembers now.”

Phoebe looked up from the picture. “Your mother actually did physical
work?”

Mallory laughed shrilly. “God, no! Mother directed
my
work. But still, it's a change from lying on the sofa sleeping or eating Skittles. Maybe, with Ryland here, she'll wake up. Be more active.”

“Do you know how long he'll stay?” Phoebe asked.

“No. But a while. He says he's earned a long vacation.” Phoebe was dying, suddenly, to go home—alone—and find her parents and spill it all to them. They'd be amazed!

“Phoebe,” said Mallory quietly. She reached out and put a hand on Phoebe's arm.

“What?”

“Phoebe. Could you just—”

“Just what?”

“Be happy for me? Be happy that I have a brother who's coming to be with me?”

Phoebe was stricken to the heart. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Will you be nice to Ryland? Make him feel welcome? For my sake?” Mallory's eyes were huge. If she hadn't known better, Phoebe might have thought she was holding back tears.

“I—of course I will,” said Phoebe, thoroughly abashed.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” said Phoebe.

After she dropped Mallory off, Phoebe went home and peeked into her mother's office. Catherine was taking a meeting on her computer, probably with people in Tokyo or Taiwan or someplace else where it was already Monday morning. Maybe even Australia.

Professor Catherine Rothschild, whose only official title was Senior Lecturer in Economics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, was actually at the center of an enormous, intricate global web of money, power, and influence. Being her mother's daughter was, Phoebe thought, a little like being the daughter of the U.S. president, except that Catherine's position in the world was neither dependent on elections nor subject to the scrutiny of the media. Catherine's power was like a swift, wide, underground river, fed not only by family wealth and history, but by decades of personal accomplishment and connections.

Phoebe had done an Internet search on her mother once and gotten hundreds of thousands of hits, almost all on pages having to do with finance and monetary policy. There was much more information online about Catherine than there was about her ancestor Mayer Rothschild, who—with his five extraordinary sons—had established the family empire in Europe two hundred and fifty years ago.

There had been one blog where it said that Catherine had won a top-secret penny-poker tournament that had happened during the wee hours of a weeklong world economic summit. There was even a ten-second section of a video, showing her grinning, her white-streaked hair rumpled, while she raked in an enormous pile of pennies and the president of the World Bank bellowed in mock outrage. The next time Phoebe looked for it, though, the video had disappeared.

Occasionally Phoebe had talked with Mallory about her mother's place in the world. Mallory liked to ask probing, even disturbing questions about how having such a mother made Phoebe feel. But Phoebe could only guess as to how her mother's reputation might affect her own future life and choices.

“I wonder,” Mallory had said, “if you're going to be vulnerable the way a child movie star is. You know. People will want to get close to you because they want something, not because they like you.”

“Maybe gorgeous international playboys will want to marry me for my inheritance,” Phoebe said. “They'll line up for my approval like in a beauty pageant. It wouldn't be all bad.”

Then Phoebe had felt compelled to add, “Except, I don't actually know if I will inherit much money. My mother has these ideas about how you have to earn your own way in the world. How each of us has to contribute, and how you especially have to do that if you're, well, privileged. The more you're given, the more you owe, that sort of thing. And she supports a lot of good causes that need her money.”

She groped for words. “She'd be so angry at me if I wanted a life where I just, I don't know, went to parties and shopped. Or even if I chose a career that she thinks is frivolous, like acting.”

“You don't want to be an actress anyway,” Mallory pointed out. “You sounded like a robot when we had to read
Julius Caesar
aloud in English class.”

Phoebe laughed. “That's just an example. What I mean is that I can't take anything for granted with my mother. She wants me to be worthy. I have to live up to her and everything she's given me. I have to make her proud.”

“Do you really?” Mallory asked. “Be honest, Phoebe. Sure, your mother probably wants you to have a career and all that, to use your mind and contribute, like you said.”

Mallory's voice got a little tight. “But she's also just so—so motherly. In her own way. So you'll have things to worry about in life, sure, because everybody does, but for one thing, there's no way you'll ever worry about money. She'll make sure you're all right, always, just like she does with your dad.” A tiny pause. “I mean, he's a really nice guy and you know I just love him. And he's a great father and all. But he's not, you know, your dad's not—he's sort of ordinary. You've said that yourself about him. I mean, compared to your mother and her family and all.”

Phoebe shrugged.

“I'm sorry, Phoebe. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. What I'm trying to get across—and doing a terrible job, obviously—is that your mother will always love you. Even if you turn out to be ordinary. You have the freedom to be ordinary. That's all. I'll shut up now.”

“I know what you mean,” said Phoebe. And she did. She knew she would always be loved. But that was not what Phoebe had been talking about, when she said her mother had expectations of her.

So Phoebe had changed the subject, because there was no way that Mallory was ever really going to understand this, and maybe also it was a little bit hurtful to even try to talk about maternal expectations and pressures with Mallory, given how different Mallory's mother was from Catherine.

Phoebe had been standing in Catherine's open office doorway too long. She saw her mother feel her presence, and look up from her meeting, the crow's-feet around her eyes and mouth deepening in a smile as she met her daughter's gaze. Catherine lifted one hand to indicate that she was going to be busy for a few more minutes. Phoebe nodded, made a “don't rush” motion with her own hand, and moved on into the family room, where she found her father standing tensely in front of the television.

Drew Vale claimed that he was a rational being who knew perfectly well he couldn't control the play in a football game by standing in front of the TV shouting. But you wouldn't know this from watching him.

Phoebe was used to her dad. She noted that the Patriots were ahead and sat down on the sofa to wait for a commercial so she could tell him about Mallory's brother's impending homecoming. He would be interested, she knew. Both of her parents would be. They were fond of Mallory and understood how important she was to Phoebe.

What Mallory had said about Phoebe's father was mostly true. He was fifteen years younger than his wife. He worked—not terribly often, to be truthful—as a producer of documentaries. People sometimes whispered that he was really a sort of peculiar boy-toy who had had the good luck to meet the extraordinary (but not exactly sexy or beautiful) Catherine Rothschild when she was past forty and wanting to marry and have a child. There had been all sorts of talk. But the bottom line was that Catherine and Drew's marriage worked, even if outsiders found it odd, and even if some people sneered at Drew. (Nobody ever sneered at Catherine; not even, at this point, behind her back.)

One reason the marriage worked was that the couple shared a near-complete indifference to what other people might think. Catherine Rothschild had trained herself to feel that way, but Drew Vale came by it naturally. It was, in fact, the quality in him that had originally caught and held Catherine's attention.

Phoebe was not like either of them in this. She knew it too.

A commercial came on. Drew turned to his daughter and listened with interest while she told him about Ryland. “Mallory thinks maybe her mother will perk up once he's here,” she said. “But isn't it weird he was never mentioned before? And it makes me think he's got to be good-for-nothing, that he hasn't been around.”

“Yeah,” said Drew. “Although sometimes people need a while to grow up. I was pretty bad too, until I met your mother. Speaking of whom, is she still in that meeting?”

“As of five minutes ago.”

“Okay. Are you hungry?”

Phoebe considered. “Yes.”

Drew switched off the TV “Let me watch this on the kitchen TV while we eat. Catherine will come when she's done.”

In the kitchen, they found roasted chicken and salad that Jay-Jay had left for them, along with strawberry rhubarb pie for after. As Phoebe ate, she thought about Mallory's brother. Mallory had asked her to be nice to him, to make him feel welcome.

When the next commercial break came, Phoebe asked her father, “Can we invite Mallory and Ryland over for dinner once he's here? And Mrs. Tolliver too, if she wants to come.”

“Sure,” said Drew. “Just say the word.” He reached over and patted Phoebe's hand. “Don't worry, honey. We'll go right on keeping a good eye on your friend. Brother or no brother.”

“Your Majesty, please, listen to me. Please change your mind. Don't send my brother! Listen to me—it's useless now. Phoebe isn't vulnerable as I thought at first. My brother won't succeed! I've been wrong all these years. I'm sorry! But there are two other Rothschild girls, Phoebe's cousins—they're old enough now. Send my brother to one of them instead. Or you could send me too. We would work together, fast—”

“No.”

“But I'm begging you—”

“Stop. You are grabbing at shadows. And you have wasted four years. Four years, child! If it is not this girl, we are all doomed.”

“I don't agree at
all
—”

“Do not contradict me. Do you think I know not of what I speak? You, who have been given borrowed strength from the court, you have forgotten how time is slipping away for the rest of us.”

“No, Your Majesty. I haven't forgotten. I swear I haven't. Your suffering tortures me. Let me explain what happened. You see, most human beings would feel ordinary next to her mother, and I thought for a long time that I simply needed to reinforce those feelings. But I know her better now, and—”

“Cease your babbling! I have little faith in your judgment anymore. This mission is now in your brother's purview. He will succeed in this where you have failed. She is old enough now to be vulnerable to a man, and from what you have told me, she has become wistful after love like most maids. Even if she has this inner strength you speak of, he will crush it.”

“But, Your Majesty, it will drain off even more energy to send my brother and glamour him to appeal to her! He is so far from human in appearance and—”

“It matters not.”

“Your Majesty—”

“I have decided. I would in fact bring you home now if you were not still necessary to the mission. You will now help and support your brother in every possible way to gain the girl's confidence and love. You shall do exactly as he says. He is now in charge. You will obey me and him.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You have both disappointed and exhausted me. Go prepare the way for your brother.”

“I've started doing that. But you see, she thinks it's weird that suddenly I have a brother I never mentioned before, and my mother—I mean, the Tolliver woman—she never had a son, and—”

“All these small problems your brother will handle with glamour. We will spare no expense. You are dismissed.”

“But—”

“Go!”

Mallory, her mother, and her brother, Ryland, came to dinner at the Rothschilds' the following Saturday night. That Mrs. Tolliver came too was a surprise because originally she had declined. But when the doorbell rang, there she was, flanked on either side by her son and daughter, and looking unexpectedly beautiful in her large, puffy way. She wore a violet silk dress with an enormous matching shawl, and she swayed slightly as she stood in the foyer in her backless high heels with their sharply pointed toes, her winter coat falling from her shoulders to the floor.

“My son is home now too?” said Mrs. Tolliver. Her voice rose in that insecure way of some women, making a question out of a statement.

“Yes, and we're so happy you can come celebrate with us,” said Catherine. Phoebe's father echoed the welcoming words with something Phoebe didn't catch because she was intercepting a significant glance from her mother. Phoebe contained a sigh, smiled quickly at Mallory, who waved back, and then slipped away to do what her mother wanted: Set another place at the dining room table and inform Jay-Jay that they needed Skittles.