2. You Can’t Pick Your Famil（ies）

You Can't Pick Your Famil(ies)

The last time I saw my brother in person was more than five years ago.

We were at a dinner party to celebrate our uncle Joe's birthday. Joe is technically our father's cousin, but they grew up like brothers. They were raised together, went to high school together, lived together after they finished college, and spent the last several decades working together. If brothers tended to bicker, though—especially brothers who were as connected as they were—they managed to be mostly exempt from conflict. They weren't only brothers. They were best friends.

My father was hosting Joe's birthday dinner at Perry St, a restaurant just off the West Side Highway, one of his and Joe's longstanding favorites. Sam was seated next to me, at the far end of the table. He had recently started working for our father, and he was overseeing the rollout of a new property in Hawaii: a small beachside enclave on the North Shore of Kauai.

Sam flew back to New York for the dinner—which he seemed unhappy that my father had insisted he do, particularly because Tommy was spending most of the meal away from the table, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk on a work call.

Sam kept eyeing Tommy through the window. Tommy also worked for our father. He had been working for our father longer than Sam had. I couldn't tell from Sam's expression whether he was jealous that Tommy had a reason to not be at that table. Or whether Sam was feeling competitive that Tommy had a reason to be away from the table that didn't include him.

Either way, I was more interested in talking to Grace, who was seated on my other side.

"Your father tells me that you just opened your own shop?" she said. "That's really exciting."

I'd always liked Grace. She was quiet and whip-smart and had been working with my father since I was a little girl. She had been working there nearly as long as Joe—she and Joe, my father's two most trusted advisors. From the way my father described it, Joe helped him keep the trains moving on time, while Grace was more of a creative partner. This may be why it felt like she genuinely cared that I had managed to procure enough of my own client base to pay off my school loans (a BA in neuroscience and visual arts, followed by a MArch degree), leave my corporate architecture job, convert a garage in Cobble Hill into an open-floor studio, and become the principal at my own firm.

It felt like an accomplishment to have done that without a financial assist from my father. He'd certainly helped support me while I was growing up, but once I left home, it was understood I would do it on my own. I wasn't a martyr, but it was important to me to be self-made, and it was important to my mother. It was how she'd raised me. Too much money causes trouble, she used to say. And my father respected that this was how she (and later I) wanted to do it.

Grace certainly knew this, which was probably why she leaned in and gave me a smile, happy to see me on the rewarding end of a long road.

"We've started exploring a property on the Nayarit Peninsula," she said. "Has your father mentioned?"

"I don't think so, no."

"There are some geological complications, but it's quite special. We want to integrate the landscape, really lean into sustainability and health. Not just giving a nod to it but taking a page from a resort your father just visited in Asia. Creating a wellness clinic, having a medical director on staff. Obviously that will all start with the property design…"

I smiled. It didn't feel like a coincidence that Grace was raising this a few weeks after my father came to a trade talk I gave about the impact of built environments on health solutions and longevity. That was what my father did—he saw an opening to involve me, and he wanted to step into it.

"Anyway," she continued, "your father was hoping that might hold some interest for you?"

I could feel the air shift, Sam suddenly tuning in. "Grace, you know Nora here isn't interested in our little company…"

I looked over at Sam. "True," I said. "I am, however, interested in speaking for myself."

Then I turned back to Grace. This was a conversation I'd had with my father on many occasions, the answer never shifting from a hard and fast no. But I appreciated it all the same. I was grateful my father took pride in my work, in how I approached it. Even if I wanted to stay away from his.

"I'm fully committed at the moment," I said.

"You sure? We'd all really love to do this with you."

"I am. But thank you for asking."

Grace nodded, happy to drop it, especially because it was my father's mission to make me feel included, not hers. Also, because he was now motioning for her to come and join him and Uncle Joe at the other end of the table.

"I'll be back," she said.

And, with a squeeze to my shoulder, she was up and out of her seat, leaving me alone with Sam.

"Your own shop, huh?" he said. "Congratulations."

The way he lingered on congratulations felt loaded, like he meant the opposite.

I forced a smile and busied myself smoothing out my dress. I'd come straight to the dinner from a client meeting, so I was still wearing my work clothes: a button-down dress and structured loafers, a corduroy blazer. My long hair pulled back in a loose bun. I could feel Sam's judgment in the way he was eyeing me (in his suede jacket and Chelsea boots), like he'd decided I was somehow too dressy and not dressy enough.

I met his gaze, unbothered. My mother had modeled for me early on that the quickest route to unhappiness was to pay too much attention to anyone's disapproval, particularly someone that you barely knew.

"Thank you," I said.

"Dad said you were up for a big commission in Red Hook?" Sam said. "An art gallery or something?"

It was a primary school. I'd been working on it for the last two and a half years—collaborating with a team of engineers, educators, and neuroscientists. The school was right off the water, with large windows and open classrooms, everything centered on natural light and fresh air, on spaces for running and free movement. The Record had recently featured it in a cover story on buildings at the forefront of neuroarchitecture and education. And the response to my work on it—the positive reception—was a main reason why I had the freedom to become the principal at my own firm.

"Something like that," I said.

"How much money will you bring in a year?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

Sam kept his eyes on me. "I'm just wondering, from a business point of view."

"Well, from a business point of view," I said. "That's not really any of your business."

"Until you take Dad up on his offer…"

I looked out the window at Tommy—as if he was going to save me. But he had his back turned to me, rendering him completely oblivious to my stare. As if he would be showing up for me, in this instance, if he was paying attention.

I turned back to Sam, ready to ask him what I'd ever done to make him think I had any interest in following that path. In his job. In his life. In any of it. But then I reminded myself it wasn't about me. Like everything Sam seemed to be concerned about, it was about himself.

"It's cool with me if you do want to come in," Sam said. "Contrary to what you might think, I'm not against you."

"Why would you be against me? You barely know me."

He picked up his tumbler of bourbon, tilted it in my direction. "That, right there, is reason number one."

"There is just no way, he didn't just fall ," Sam says now.

We've moved into the kitchen, the kitchen Morgan wants to strip down—despite its floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into the yard, its newly pitched ceilings, a playful hunter-green Bertazzoni range.

The center island separates us. Like an agreed-upon safety zone. Or an impenetrable moat.

Sam stands at one end of the island and I lean against the other end. Neither of us sits down on the countertop stools, keeping open an easier path to leave. Morgan has left already. She is on her way back into Manhattan and a cocktail at Gramercy Tavern with her wedding planner. At this moment, for many reasons, I envy her.

"So what do you think happened exactly?"

"That he was helped," he says. "Over the edge."

"Like pushed? Intentionally?"

"That's usually how pushing works."

I turn away from him. My father's cottage, Windbreak, was his retreat, his private place. It wasn't unusual that he'd been there alone that night. He was often alone there. And there had been a joint investigation with local law enforcement and the internal Noone Properties security team. Their findings were in line: It was a rainy night. The cliff's edge was slick. There wasn't anything notable to suggest foul play or self-harm. He simply slipped.

"I was told there was an investigation," I say.

"Yeah. There was." Sam shrugs, like he is unimpressed by this. By that investigation. By any of its conclusions. "And it must have been really thorough to be put to bed less than a month later."

I take my brother in, his jaw clenched, his shoulders too tight. Sam was a ball player while he was growing up, an ace pitcher. And when I see him focused like this, intense and determined, it takes me back to that version of him. To the photograph of Sam on the pitcher's mound on my father's desk. To Sam's game face. His devotion. His talent.

Sam was the starting pitcher for Vanderbilt the year they won their D1 championship. Shortly after graduation, he was drafted in the second round by the Minnesota Twins. But on his way to practice the second week, a midwestern rainstorm surprised him, as did a student driver—whose driving academy car plowed straight into Sam's Jeep. Sam's wrist went through his windshield and was punctured in two places. His MLB career over before it started.

"Look, Sam, I get that you're concerned here…"

"Doesn't sound like you do."

"Well, do you have any evidence at all that someone else was there with him that night?"

"No," he says. "But that doesn't mean anything. You know how Dad was about privacy. There was limited security at Windbreak, except by the front gate. And just because someone didn't come through the front gate doesn't mean they didn't get in there another way. I can think of several."

"Sure. But… who would even want to do this?"

"Do you remember our father?" he says.

It's a joke and it's not. Even staying far removed from my father's business affairs, I knew enough to know that he had a particular way of doing things, which made him respected by some, but disliked by others. Professionally. And personally. His supporters called him exacting, his critics exhausting. A famous story was that the day before he was set to open a property in Napa Valley, just outside of St. Helena, my father did his final tour of the grounds and was unhappy. There was a new construction project on Highway 29 that you could hear from the main pool. So he pushed back the opening by six months (until said construction would be completed), turned over the entire staff, and personally rebooked every opening-weekend guest at other luxury hotels in Napa Valley, footing the bill himself. Also, of course, he offered a complimentary weekend stay at the hotel as soon as he did open the doors. Once the pool was quiet.

Sam walks around the island and reaches into his messenger bag. He pulls out a blue folder, places it on the countertop in front of me. There's a thick pile of papers inside. He motions for me to open it.

"What's this?"

"The most recent copy of Dad's will, among other things. Did you know he changed it earlier this year?"

I shake my head. I didn't.

"I don't know what it said before he made the alterations or why he made the changes. None of the lawyers will tell me anything, obviously."

I look up at him, processing what he's suggesting.

"Is there something weird in there now?"

"Not on the face of it," he says. "No."

"Then I don't follow you."

"My working theory is that there may have been something weird in there before he decided to change it."

"That's quite a theory. What does Tommy think about this?"

"At the moment, I'm not so interested in what Tommy thinks about anything."

I clock the edge in his tone. "What's that mean?"

He shakes his head, ignoring the question. "You've got to admit the timing is odd," he says. "Dad changes his will for the first time in decades and then he just dies not too long after…"

I look down at the blue folder. I'm unwilling to open it just yet, as if doing so will make Sam think I'm agreeing with him. I don't want to make any sudden moves that put us on the same side of this, a side he seems to be clinging to for air.

"How do you even know this?" I ask instead. "About the lawyers?"

"I have access to his calendar. Dad and Uncle Joe had eight meetings with Dad's wills and estates team over the course of several weeks. That much time? That had to have been… a reimagining."

He looks like this proves something, but all I can think is that a series of meetings with lawyers and an altered will (a will that could have been altered for a variety of reasons) sounds less like evidence of a murder plot and more like a grieving son reaching wildly for answers. A grieving son who is also a corporate heir.

"Look, Nora, before you go thinking that I'm stirring up trouble or trying to settle some personal score…"

I put my hands up in surrender, even though this is exactly what I was thinking.

"I wasn't," I say.

"Sure you were," he says. "But, just so you know, there is no score for me to settle. If anything, opening this whole thing up will only cause problems."

"How's that?"

"Dad walked us through what he was planning. It was copacetic. No party fouls. We got equal shares. Me and Tommy…"

Tommy, who is two minutes older than Sam but has always behaved as though it is closer to ten years. He earned a JD/MBA straight out of college, married his long-term girlfriend, and rose to the top ranks at Noone Properties, all before his thirtieth birthday. Tommy, who, my father would joke, came out looking more like my twin than like Sam's. The two of us have the same dark hair and eyes, same long legs and athletic build. It must have somehow come from our father's side of the family, even though you'd think both of us looked more like our mothers. But the resemblance is undeniable—something identical weaving through our facial structure—the turnup around our mouths, our cheekbones. Though any other similarities, at least those that are readily apparent to me, end there.

Not that Sam and I are any more similar. Sam, who is standing in front of me now. Sam who, since that car accident, has been (how did my father put it?) seeking. He coached baseball at a boarding school in Connecticut, moved to Bristol for an assistant job at ESPN, wound his way back to New York City and our father's company, working alongside Tommy.

For reasons I'm not unsympathetic to, the look that he is wearing now—suspicious, unhappy—isn't that far off from how his face has looked the other times that I've seen him since his baseball career ended.

What isn't clear to me, just yet, is why he is so beside himself. Is it really because he thinks something happened to our father? Or is he searching for something else?

"The point is," Sam says, "he left me and Tommy in charge."

He shrugs. And I can see he is surprised that our father left the company to him as well as Tommy. A little surprised, and a little proud. He shouldn't be. My father would never have picked one son over the other. That's not who he was. If I were the least bit interested, he would have figured out a way to include all of us.

"That's great, Sam," I say.

"Sure. I mean, he's keeping Uncle Joe in the top job for consistency," he says. "It's a logical choice, but Uncle Joe is just in there for a finite period. Fourteen months. Just to keep investors calm, keep the operations steady. This was all specified by Dad. Then Tommy and I will run it together."

"So what's the problem? Isn't that what you want?"

"Ask me when Dad discussed this all with us? His plans for the company, the details…"

"When?"

"Eight days before he died."

I must wear my surprise on my face because Sam leans into it. "Strange, isn't it?" he says.

"Or a coincidence."

"A pretty strange coincidence."

I meet his eyes. "Sam, I just…"

"You just what?"

"I get that this is really tough. It's tough for me too. But just because you have a feeling…"

"It's more than a feeling," he says. "If you want to try and push back on the timing with the will stuff, chalk it up to a coincidence, fine. I can't prove it's more than that yet. But that doesn't change the fact that Dad had been acting weird."

"Define ‘weird.'?"

"Distracted, absent. Coming into the office less. You know how close to the vest Dad held everything, but he wasn't himself."

He looks at me like that seals it. But all it seals for me is that my brother has convinced himself that something was going on with our father. Something that, if he's right, I knew nothing about. It nearly breaks something open in me to think that I didn't know. To think why I didn't know. And I start to feel it, a drumbeat pulsing in my head, the skin growing tighter and hotter behind my ears.

"You still haven't said one thing that contradicts what happened on the cliff that night," I say.

He nods. "Except for the one thing I don't need to say to you."

I look away, the drumbeat getting louder. Windbreak was my father's favorite place. It was his private refuge. He knew it like the back of his hand. And rainy night or not, too much bourbon to drink or not, moonless sky or not, would he really forget where the rocks started? Where they ended?

"Would you just do me a favor?" Sam says. "I'm flying out to Windbreak tomorrow to look around. To meet with the caretaker and the local police. See what I can figure out about what exactly happened that night."

"What's the favor?"

"Come with me."

I laugh out loud, before I can stop myself. "To California? No. You've got to be kidding."

"I'm not."

He isn't. And I start to double-down on my rejection of this plan when I see it in his eyes, those familiar eyes: his supreme discomfort to be standing here in front of me, asking me to be there for him. It stops me cold, partially because it's the first time I've seen that color on him—the first time he's been vulnerable with me. But also because of how it alters his face: the lines around the eyes creasing, his brow tightening up. Suddenly, like a magic trick, it feels like I'm standing in front of my father.

I open the folder, flipping through that thick pile of papers inside, neatly paper clipped and labeled. Color coded.

"The will's reading was two weeks ago," Sam says. "If you called anyone back, you would know he left it to you."

I look up. "Left me what?"

"Windbreak."

I try not to react, my face heating up and turning red. One of my last conversations with my father comes hurtling back. He called to ask me to come out to Windbreak with him. I didn't often go to Windbreak with my father, only a handful of times while I was growing up, a handful as an adult.

It was the place where he went to recharge, where he often went alone. So I was surprised to get the phone call from him. A little less surprised when he said: I could use your opinion on renovating it. I'm looking to make some changes. But I put him off. I said I was too busy with work. And I was busy. But, if I were being honest with myself, it hadn't been just about work. I was mad. I hadn't wanted to give that to him.

I feel a pulling in my chest, my breath trying to quell it.

"Sam…"

"If you're right, if this is totally crazy, we can be on the red-eye back tomorrow night."

He thumbs the folder, turns to the first page. He points to the single piece of paper, on which the itinerary is written down.

"Would you just think about it?" he asks.

I stare at the information: airport, flight number, the flight time in bold. 10:08 AM. Tomorrow.

I close the folder, ready to say no.

But when I look back up, my brother is gone.