Page 5 of The Beach Trap

My phone buzzes with an alarm, reminding me there’s somewhere else I have to be. As much as I’d like to skip the meeting and stay here, I know my mom would kill me. And one death in the family this year is more than enough.

•••

I find aparking spot outside Tin Lizzy’s in Midtown, where sounds of drunk, happy people drift out the open windows. I wish I could join them and drown my sorrows in a giant margarita and an order of buffalo shrimp.

The restaurant is Mexicanish, which makes it a perfect place for white yuppies to celebrate a holiday that doesn’t belong to them. Not that I’m any better than they are—an imposter in my own right, on my way to play the role of a supportive daughter, comforting her grieving mother.

It’s been just over a month since my dad passed away. He hada heart attack sitting at his desk, where his secretary found him after she realized he hadn’t left for his lunch meeting.

My father lived for his work as a commercial real estate developer, so it seemed appropriate that that’s where he died. I can’t stop thinking about the moment it happened, wondering what his last thoughts were—if he looked at the framed family photo he kept on his desk and thought about me and Mom, or at the stack of papers he’d never be able to finish.

Probably the latter.

While I loved my dad—idolized him, really—he always seemed more interested in the news or whatever game was on TV than the desperate girl clamoring for his affection.

Even back then, I knew I wasn’t the kind of daughter he wanted. I collected Barbies instead of baseball cards, built scrapbooks instead of model cars, and the ultimate sin: I grew up to have a career he couldn’t easily explain, much less understand.

One of our last conversations ended with him asking when I’d finally grow up and get a “real” job—even though I’ve monetized my Instagram account with enough sponsorships that the income alone has been paying my bills for almost a year.

But no matter how much success I had, David’s daughter the social media influencer would never measure up to Paul’s daughter the tax attorney, Stephen’s son the lawyer, or Brian’s daughter the financial planner. I hate that he died disappointed in me.

The blast of cold air-conditioning makes me shiver as I walk into the lobby of Callahan and Callahan, the firm handling my father’s affairs. There’s something familiar about the room, and I have the glimmer of a memory of being here once before. I was nine or ten, tagging along with my dad on an errand to sign some Very Important Papers. I remember the hunter-green walls and the rich mahogany furniture feeling like a library, and I knew I was supposed to be a Good Girl.

While dad and the senior Callahan spoke in hushed tones about a small trust for a child in Michigan or Minnesota, I sat so still and quiet it was like I wasn’t even there. Which was what my dad wanted. For me to be invisible.

And it must have worked, because when they finished talking, my dad turned and walked out of the room, leaving me alone with the stern-faced lawyer. My dad came back a few minutes later, growling at me to “come on,” as if it were my fault he’d left me.

Back in the same room all these years later, the pressure of being the perfect daughter is as strong as it ever was.

I find my mother sitting in the private waiting lounge, impeccably dressed as always. She makes being a widow look good in her all-black Eileen Fisher ensemble—wide-leg slacks, a cashmere sweater, and a black-and-white silk scarf with just a pop of gold. Her hair, the same chestnut shade as mine, is smooth and straight thanks to the keratin treatments we both get every twelve weeks.

Looking down at my own outfit—black jeans with a Topshop floral blouse—I realize my mom is representing my brand philosophy that “life is a fashion show” even more than I am. Although, in my defense, I did have the challenge of dressing for two very different audiences.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

I take a seat beside my mom and glance down at her hands resting in her lap. If it weren’t for the small tic of spinning her wedding ring around her finger, I wouldn’t know she was nervous.

From everything I’ve heard, the reading of a will is just a formality, but for my mom, this is a whole new frontier. My dad took care of this sort of thing for their entire thirty-year marriage, so I imagine it’s overwhelming for her to suddenly be the one in charge.

I place my hand on my mom’s back in what I hope is a comforting gesture. We’ve never been a touchy-feely family, but when she turns and offers me a small smile, I give one back to her.

After what feels like long enough but not too long, I bring my hand back and rest it in my lap. Like mother, like daughter, I start to twirl my own ring—a Yurman classic in topaz I got for my twenty-fifth birthday. Although unlike my mother, I actually have a reason to be nervous. There’s a very good chance the secret I’ve been keeping for my dad for the last fifteen years is about to be revealed.

Suddenly, I’m twelve years old again, sitting in the back seat of my dad’s rental car, wondering how many times a heart can break.My dad and my best friend. My best friend and my dad.

“Not now,” he’d said when I asked him about it as we drove away, down the bumpy dirt road. Of course, I knew he really meant “not ever.” Our family didn’t believe in talking about unpleasant things when they could just as easily be ignored. It was practically our family motto to put on a happy face, even if you were shattered on the inside.

After I got through the shock of my grandfather’s funeral, I’d tried to believe Blake hadn’t known we shared a father. Sure, she had told me that her father had another family, and she knew my last name was Steiner, but I desperately wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to believe it was all a big misunderstanding, that she was just as much a victim as I was.

But then I got her letter.

In the months after camp, Blake sent several letters, but I barely read them and never wrote back. I had nothing to say to her after I read that she’d gone to Camp Chickawah in an attempt to get closer to her father. Tomyfather.

The feeling of betrayal was as sharp as a knife in my back:Blake had never wanted to be my friend. She’d been using me to get to my dad, and who knows what would have happened if my grandfather hadn’t died, if she’d come to visit me in Atlanta like we’d talked about.

After reading that first letter, I shut Blake O’Neill out of my life and out of my mind. The memory of her eventually settled like a stone in the pit of my stomach—something that flared up every once in a while when I saw a young girl with blond wispy hair, or when I heard “Build Me Up Buttercup” on the radio.

---