Lily, my sixteen-year-old sister, came to stand beside me, her eyes darting between our parents and the driveway. She was biting her lower lip, her fingers nervously picking at her mascara-stained eyelashes.
“They are talking about the money again, aren’t they?” Lily whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft jazz playing from the terrace speakers.
“They are always talking about money, Lily,” I said.
“Mother told me we might go to Nantucket next week,” she said, her eyes widening slightly. “She said we just have to wait for your birthday to pass.”
I did not say anything, only turned my ring around my finger.
By ten o’clock, the music had died down to a low murmur, and the terrace was mostly empty. The last of the Greenwich neighbors had driven down the gravel driveway, leaving only the quiet hum of the outdoor refrigerator and the distant sound of the highway. I walked down the long oriental rug of the second-floor hallway, intending to find my father in his study, but stopped five feet from the heavy mahogany door.
