The States

Chapter 1

The patriarch of the Sullivan family sat in his home office at an impressive mahogany desk, an heirloom passed down from his father’s father. Across the antique plush carpet, also from his father’s father, his eldest daughter lounged in silk pajamas on a European sofa, flanked by matching elegant armchairs, and played on her phone. Beside him hovered his lawyer, a man more firefighter than legal scholar, who stood and stared at an awaiting financial portfolio in anticipation. The rest of the modern room was sparsely furnished. The glamour of the floor-to-ceiling windows, which revealed the New York City skyline from fifty-five stories up, perfectly complemented the mixture of antique and modern furnishings. When Patrick Sullivan did speak from this desk, the vibrations of his voice bounced off the glass windows, returning to him the sounds he liked best in the world. His only remarks were no longer on the topic of the family meeting, but instead praise for his accomplishments in the past, parties of the past, celebrities and models of the past. The scars on the desk that bore witness to his father’s work, or his father’s father’s construction of the cosmetics empire of which he was king, were ignored. That was not a past that interested him.

At the nearest window, to the left of the elegant seating area and antique desk and lawyer and portfolio, his middle daughter, Tildy, stared down at the people on the sidewalk below. Her shoes rested in the permanent depressions her father’s feet had made in the carpet. He’d stand at this window often, looking at this view. From here, her father would say the people below moved like insects. He would see their smallness without acknowledging that he, too, was small when looked on from high above.

And Tildy knew that when he was down there, face-to-face with others, he would hate the people more, for their ugliness or poverty or whatever evidence of humanity he saw on their faces. The untidiness of life offended him. Everything he saw and touched must be immaculate, or it was a personal offense. Tildy knew this better than most. She was called from herself by her father’s voice.

“Gisele, come see,” he called to his eldest daughter. On his desk were various items, including a tablet, mainly used for photos and screenshots of news clippings, alongside the updated financial portfolio for Aibell Cosmetics. With a single manicured index finger, Patrick Sullivan swiped through the photo album on his tablet in perfect contentment. His daughter rose and joined the men at the desk. “Lee, you too. Something you said made me think of this photo. I love this photo of my wife. Do you see? The way she knew just the right angles for the light to catch her face. She was always ‘on’ when we did events. Kids these days do not understand how to be ‘on,’ to always think of your angles.”

“Oh my god, is that Kate Moss behind Mom?” Gisele leaned in to examine the photo from her father’s shoulder.

“Yes. This was the Met Gala, after we launched the Vitality line. We flew in all the best for our after-party. I heard Madonna wanted to attend, but no. She was a smoker in those days.” Her father said the word as if it were a dead rat in a crosswalk.

Tildy, satisfied with being ignored, turned back to the view. Block after block of grey and glass spears stood like fortifications between her and the rivers and bay and ocean. The old photos he cherished were not the mother she knew. Her mother apologized to paperbacks as she dogeared them, played Tetris on an old Game Boy to calm herself before big events, and would always take a deep breath when they exited Shannon airport and say, “Do you feel it, Tildy?” And Tildy would nod because whatever “it” was, she felt it, too. No, those airbrushed photos held nothing for her.

Peter Lee cleared his throat. “Mr. Sullivan, we should really return to the issue of… The, well, how we should proceed. Mr. Sullivan.”

“Lee, just sell off some shares and be done with it. I don’t know why you are bothering me with this nonsense. Your job is to handle the money. So handle it! Sell some shares! Not too many. Don’t risk my control of the company.”

Mr. Lee, a lawyer of some competence and more patience, looked to Tildy for support. She chose not to see this. Her gaze was focused beyond the people and the buildings and the boroughs, to the horizon, east of here.

“Mr. Sullivan, we can’t handle this the usual way. Your debt is considerable. Selling that number of shares will not cover it all. Perhaps we need to explore ways to reduce monthly expenses. The slip fees and maintenance for the Coronet, and of course the loan and insurance payments, are…”

Gisele folded her arms. “You want Daddy to sell the yacht? Lee, he couldn’t sell the Coronet.”

Tildy imagined helping Lee. She’d say, “If we don’t make the minimum payment, you stand to lose everything.” She imagined his indignation and her sister’s disgust, currently directed at Lee, turned to her instead, only sharpened by her father’s disappointment in her. The flow of anger outward preventing the inward flow of information. Tildy was independent of her father, but his family pride and the shares she’d inherited from her mother meant that she was, more often than she liked, called into the day-to-day operations of his life and the business, the two of which were hopelessly intertwined. No, she would remain silent. He would never listen to her.

She checked her watch.

Her father cleared his throat. “Well, then. We should… Gisele, what can we do?”

With a dramatic sigh, as if an entire day of work was just asked of her, Gisele flopped sideways into a designer armchair. “How should I know! You have to work, and I’m doing the branding for the new line.”

Tildy knew that Gisele had very little involvement in branding, beyond approving one of three options, but she said nothing.

Gisele threw her arm over her eyes. “We can uninvite Alexandra and her family from our trip to St. Barths.”

“Good thinking, Gisele dear. That’s for the best anyway. Alexandra is always at the beach in the Hamptons. She gets too much sun. Skipping this year will be good for her.”

Lee removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Sullivan, that won’t be enough.”

Her father raised his voice. “And what exactly is enough, Lee? I can’t maintain the relationships I need to maintain for this business to operate unless I keep up a certain lifestyle. Do you expect me to spend my whole life slaving away, with everyone knowing that I’ve sold homes and my yacht and canceled vacations?”

Tildy checked her watch again, willing it to move faster. She knew what flaws she harbored that kept her here, but she often wondered why Lee didn’t escape. Was the pull of her father’s image so strong, that even this was worth tolerating?

“We start small, Mr. Sullivan. What about that farm in Ireland? The real estate market there is very different than here. There was a telecom company that wanted it. Or was it green energy? And we had another offer to rent. A local. A chef or something, wanted to grow local produce. Let me pull up that email.”

Tildy’s watch on her wrist and the view outside were forgotten. Her family resentment, the financial portfolio — all of it, forgotten. She listened, flushed, as Lee continued.

“Some young guy, I looked him up. One of these modern restaurants with a moral theme. Oh, I can’t find it now. I can find it later. Either case, we can sell the land to someone for good money. No one would know, and I would be discreet.”

Her father was leaning forward, interested in this idea. Or, rather, his understanding of the idea.

“Now, if the land has value, Lee, perhaps this is a possible revenue stream. We can exploit it. I’m Irish, as you know. My mother’s people come from Cork, and my father, he was mostly Irish. His family were some of the Irish slaves that the English brought over.”

“Not slaves, Dad. Jesus,” Tildy muttered, unheard.

Her father nodded. “We could pitch it as a way to come home, return and help the locals. Bring sophistication and industry to a, uh, job creation project. It would be simple to get the necessary approvals and things. I know many politicians there, the former president was a good friend. I went to his daughter’s wedding. I know Bono, you know. Everyone knows everyone. It’s so much smaller there. They’ll love what I’d bring, because I’m one of them.”

“Well…” Lee began.

“Sorry, Daddy. That land is in Nana’s name, and Matilda has power of attorney. She won’t let you do a thing with that land, just like all the shares she refused to give you,” Gisele said, deploying Tildy’s full name as if it were a dagger. It didn’t hurt to be addressed formally by someone who she didn’t respect or love.

Lee joined Tildy at the window.

“No.”

Before the lawyer could try to convince her, she presented the word as a complete fact. Not as an argument—more like a locked door without a key. There would be no negotiation, no discussion on this topic.

“We’re up against it here, Tildy. You know that.”

“We always are. And it wouldn’t be enough,” she whispered.

The tension in the room had been noticed by a device on her father’s desk, ever present and always listening. The faint white light at the base turned blue.

“May I offer my assistance?” a woman’s voice inquired. It wasn’t a real human voice, but it was familiar to the family as though it were real.

Lee looked to his boss and Gisele, saw their interest in what the artificial assistant had to say, and jumped on the offer. “What should we do, Russell?”

“Have you asked Tildy?”

Gisele and her father rolled their eyes as Tildy returned her gaze back to the city view.

“She doesn’t want her grandmother to sell the land,” Lee said.

“The land wouldn’t be enough, as I’m sure Tildy has pointed out.”

Gisele yawned. “We have to solve this problem with as little inconvenience as possible, Russell. Mommy designed you to make our lives easier. And Matilda doesn’t understand how to be comfortable. She’s too busy working and having a career in data mining.”

“Data science,” Tildy corrected.

“Whatever.”

The sensor light indicated the device was processing the information. A dark blue line chasing a faint blue line, hounding it as they went round and round together. Tildy remembered how it looked, once. She remembered asking it her own impossible question, on a day that seemed like a lifetime ago. And what following that advice had cost her.

Russell spoke. “What about a relocation to Palm Beach? A discreet sale of New York City assets will look more like preparation for retirement than symptoms of financial trouble.”

Gisele clapped and bounced in her seat. “Oh, I love Palm Beach!”

Mr. Sullivan frowned. “Retirement? I’m far too young for that. No one would believe it. No, I’m not sure. All of my business is here.”

“Present it as a way to spend time with your children, then. If Gisele and Tildy relocate with you, and you make space for Alexandra and her children, no one will think of it as a retirement. It is common knowledge your daughters will inherit the business.”

Tildy’s stomach clenched. There were many places she did not want to live, and Palm Beach topped the list. Nothing about the climate, the politics, or the memories of the place appealed to her.

“Palm Beach,” her father said reflectively. “I do find it so peaceful, you know. We could buy a second jet for the commute, I suppose.”

Lee grimaced. “I’m afraid you couldn’t afford a, uh, second jet.”

Russell’s light turned dark blue again. “You could comfortably afford your existing jet by renting it out for private use by others when it is not of use to you.”

“Like a taxi?” Mr. Sullivan spat. “You want my Gulfstream to be used in the gig economy?”

“I can provide you with names of thirty-seven people on Financial Analysis’s list of the top fifty wealthiest Americans who rent out their jets when not in use, including Percy Weathers.”

“Oh. Percy does it? That’s interesting. Percy rents out his jet. I didn’t know that. That is interesting. Palm Beach.”

Tildy’s hand was cramping. Looking down, she realized her fist was clenched and forced herself to relax each finger, then stretch them all out and return her hand to a languid position. She checked her watch.

“Leaving so soon?” Lee asked desperately.

“I have a meeting.” Tildy crossed her father’s office and collected her coat and purse from the armchair in the far corner.

“Oh yes, Matilda has a job.” Gisele laughed.

“I do, yes. And you have a branding meeting downstairs in ten minutes. Remember?”

“Oh! Why didn’t you tell me! You could’ve told me! Just standing there, like a stupid sad mannequin! Now I have to rush to get dressed.”

Her sister ran from the room, snapping her fingers as she yelled, “Constance! Constance, get here now! Did you steam the silk jumpsuit?”

Her father ignored his eldest’s outburst and his middle child’s departure. “Lee, if we did this Palm Beach idea, would we still need to sell the Coronet?”

Tildy passed through the office and let the enormous wooden door swish shut behind her. In the dimly lit corridor, with the soft sconce lighting at each side, Tildy relished the quiet. She needed this moment to be alone, before the rush of the sidewalk and subway. As she often did here, in private, she touched the wallpaper with her fingertips. Her mother had picked this pattern: an ocean in the midst of storm, etched on a dark matte blue, the lines accented with silver foil. As a girl, Tildy would trace her fingers over the shiny metal details as she and her mother left the residential wing and walked to the elevator, her touch part of the waves as they crashed into rocky shoals. When she was older, the water’s high crests reminded her of the sea on a day long ago, a day when she broke two hearts with one terrible choice. And now, he might be back in her life, her grandmother’s land bringing them together once more.

No, she told herself as her hand fell to her side. Not together. He needed something from Nana. He wanted nothing from her. She had been weak and foolish. When he had offered her love and acceptance, she had chosen to listen to her father, to Gisele, to Russell, and abandon him. Now? Now she was simply a part of his past.

Tildy continued down the hallway and hit the elevator button. As she waited, she shook her head and laughed.

“I know Bono.”