“Jonathan was upset to find you here,” said Rocco.
“He had no reason to be,” said Cassandra stiffly.
Rocco smiled. “You’re his little sister. He’s worried about you. He’s afraid someone’s going to come along and break your heart. When do I get to see you again?”
“When do you want to see me again?”
“Lunch?”
“All right.”
“Dinner?”
“All right.”
“After our show?”
“All right. But won’t you be tired?”
He leaned forward out of the chair, and scooped her up in his arms. Her head fell delicately against his shoulder. “I’ve only seen men do this in the movies,” she remarked.
“Well, then,” said Rocco, “you’re in luck, Miss Hawke. I’m showing coming attractions in the bedroom. . . .”
Verity’s sleep the night before had been restless, disturbed by dreams of her dead father. After a long hot shower that did little to ease the tension in her shoulders and neck, she breakfasted on toast, coffee, and a screwdriver. Rattling the ice in her half-consumed drink, she wandered into the study and looked over the shelves of two book-lined walls, hoping to find something to interest her for the remainder of the day. Most of the volumes, however, dealt with real estate, New England architecture, or sailing; the novels she had read during her youth and adolescence. The most recent fiction was an early work by Joyce Carol Oates. A calendar bookmark inserted in its pages reminded her that, eight years before, she had given up on page thirty-two.
Verity sighed and resigned herself to the morning paper. She stood for a few moments by the French doors into the garden, and finished off the gin and orange juice in one swallow. She carried the glass to the kitchen, where she’d left Ida in the obituaries. When she emerged with the paper and another drink, Serena came down the hallway toward her.
“Someone to see you,” the young woman said softly. “In the living room.”
Verity looked at her questioningly. “I didn’t hear the bell.”
“He came up while I was bringing in the mail.”
“Do you know who it is?”
Serena shook her head.
“Good.” Handing Serena the drink and the paper, Verity turned toward the living room. “As long as it isn’t Eric.” She paused a moment before a hall mirror to straighten her blouse and flick back a wave of hair from her forehead.
Ben James was waiting by the unlighted fireplace when Verity stepped into the room. She smiled immediately, as did he. She went to him with her hands extended. He took both, and they exchanged friendly kisses of welcome on either cheek. Ben James was a man who very much resembled Verity’s dead father, not so much in specific features, but in dress, carriage, voice, and lineage. Both had been educated at Exeter and at Harvard, and such traces as those schools leave are not eradicated. Ben had gone to Harvard Business School after graduating from the college, specializing in advanced accounting techniques. Now, twenty-five years later, he had his own Manhattan-based firm specializing in managing the personal fortunes of the extraordinarily wealthy and financially naïve—sports stars, widows of foreign dictators, underage heirs, and the like.
“I had to come back up to Boston this week, and just wanted to tell you how sorry I was about Richard. He was a good friend, Verity, a very good friend.”
“Thank you,” said Verity. “It meant a lot to me to hear that you came to the funeral last week. How did you find out?”
“Find out?” he asked, with a puzzled expression.
“Yes,” said Verity, “how did you find out that he was dead?”
She showed him to the couch, and then seated herself in the opposite corner. He settled in, a little uncomfortably, and then said, “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“I was with your father when he died.”
“In Atlantic City? I thought Louise . . .”
“Well, Louise was in town, in the hotel. But I was in the casino. At the table with him.”
“I didn’t realize—” Verity faltered.
“Didn’t Louise tell you?”
Verity shook her head.
Ben James smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know why she didn’t. I was down there consulting with a set of clients—they had a stint at one of the gambling hotels there. It was a big chance for them. And I ran into your father on the boardwalk. So we had lunch, and that night we did a little gambling together. If I had known . . .”
“Known what?”
“Known that he shouldn’t have been drinking.”
“Father didn’t have a bad heart,” Verity said. “Or at least not that we knew of.”
“It went all at once then, I guess. It does, when you get to be our age.”
Verity grimaced. “You’re not that old, Ben.”
“Thanks. I was fishing for that one.”
“Did Father seem sick to you that night?”
“Pale, absentminded. He lost pretty bad. He wasn’t playing his cards right. And then all at once he had an attack. The casino had a doctor there in about thirty seconds, but your father was already dead. Just like that.” James snapped his fingers. “And then they got him out of there. Fast. I went with them, of course. They took us into a back room.”
“And then you called Louise?”
“No,” said James. “I called here, but there wasn’t anybody at home.”
“Why didn’t you call Louise? She was his wife.”
“I didn’t know that,” said James.
“Father didn’t tell you!”
“He didn’t say a word about it.”
“So you didn’t even know that Louise was in town with him, then.”
“Well,” said James, shifting one leg over the other, “in fact I did. Because I ran into her earlier that day, in a hobby shop, of all places. I was buying a stuffed animal for Beth’s little girl—Beth’s about to have her third, by the way, and she sends her best—and right in front of me there was a woman I thought I recognized, but I couldn’t place her, so when she was signing the credit-card slip I looked over at her name, and it was Louise.”
“What on earth was Louise buying in a hobby shop?”
“I don’t know,” said James. “It was already wrapped up.”
“Did you speak to her?”
James shook his head. “I’ve never cared for Louise. Louise is the type of person who never really listens to you because she’s always thinking so hard. Or not thinking, calculating.”
“Why do you think Father never mentioned to you that he was in Atlantic City on his honeymoon?”
“Maybe he was embarrassed. I hate to say this about your stepmother, but I would have been embarrassed.”
Verity stood up abruptly. “I need a drink,” she said. “Would you like something?”
“Whatever you’re having,” he said.
Verity went into the kitchen, and a few minutes later came out with more screwdrivers.
“He talked about you,” said Ben James without preamble, when Verity had sat down again.
“About me?”
“About the three of you, his children. He was hoping that you’d all be a family again someday.”
Verity’s expression over the rim of the glass turned sour. “It’s just the sort of thing real-estate men say to old friends in gambling casinos.”
Ben seemed embarrassed and said quickly, “I’m sure he meant it.”
“I think he probably did,” shrugged Verity. “But it wasn’t going to happen. Especially not after he had gone off and married Louise.” Verity looked up sharply. “Did Father know that you and I had an affair?”
“I don’t know,” said James. “He never mentioned it if he did. I certainly never mentioned it.”
“Louise knew. She threw it in my face after the funeral. I wonder how she found out.”
“Maybe Eric told her,” said James. “He definitely knew about it. Did you know that he tried to blackmai
l me?”
Verity sighed loudly. “I’m not one bit surprised. I hope you didn’t give him any money.”
“I told him that I’d have somebody tear his balls off if he ever called me again. He never called back. I warned you not to marry him.”
Verity looked up and took a long swallow of her drink. “How long are you in town?”
“Till tomorrow. I’m staying at the Ritz.”
“They still have those cozy little fires at the Ritz?”
Ben James smiled. “Should I call up room service from here, and have them set one up? It’ll be bright and warm by the time we get over there.”
“Sure,” said Verity, “just let me go get a jacket. I know it’s spring, but I haven’t felt warm since I got to Boston.”
7
A week later, by which time spring was firmly entrenched in Boston, Verity sat in a large leather-upholstered wing-backed chair in the living room. Her legs were crossed beneath a full-length teak-and-azure wool skirt. With one hand she tugged at a button of her wide-collared Shaker sweater, while the other rested listlessly in her lap.
The chairs in the room had been drawn out of their positions, and placed to form a crescent with the sofa in the center. Cassandra and Jonathan sat on either side of Verity, and Louise sat directly across from them in a similar wing-back.
Three vases in the room were filled with thick bunches of jonquils and King Alfreds, Cassandra’s favorite spring blooms.
Attorney Eugene Strable stood with the open French doors at his back. The sheer curtains had been drawn across the dusky blue twilight and they billowed as a temperate spring breeze wafted inside. He took a sip of the weak Scotch-and-water that rested on the refectory table at his side, and then continued with the reading of the last will and testament of Richard Alexander Hawke.
“I give, devise, and bequeath my entire estate, real, personal, or mixed, of every kind and nature wheresoever located, of which I may die seized or possessed, or over which I may have power of appointment at the time of my death, or to which I may be entitled at the time of my death to LOUISE LARNER HAWKE, provided, however, that she survives me. In the event that she does not survive me then I give, devise, and bequeath my entire estate to be divided equally among my three children, VERITY JANE, JONATHAN ALEXANDER, and CASSANDRA BENT.”
Then followed a detailed listing of all Richard’s holdings and property. He had a few hundred acres in New York State; the real-estate business, which included the building on Newbury Street that housed it; four apartment buildings in Brookline and Newton; and a small portfolio of municipal bonds handled by Peabody, Kidder and Peabody.
Strable paused. Louise shifted in her chair, her silk dress whining against the chintz. She glanced at Cassandra, sitting near her on the couch.
“What about the house?” Louise asked, when the silence continued. “You didn’t say anything about the house.”
“What house?” said Eugene.
Louise cleared her throat. “This one, of course. What other house is there?”
The lawyer glanced at Richard Hawke’s daughters, but it was Jonathan who spoke. “Louise,” he said, “this house didn’t belong to Father.”
“What?” she cried.
The lawyer shook his head slowly, and his brow bore a puzzled, uneasy expression.
“Who did it belong to, I’d like to know, if it wasn’t Richard’s?” said Louise peremptorily.
“It was Mother’s,” said Verity, with a sweet smile. “And it was part of the trust that Mother left the three of us. Father of course was allowed to live here, but he couldn’t have sold it, and he certainly couldn’t have left it to . . . anyone else in his will.”
“This house has always belonged to the three of us,” said Cassandra. “The place at Truro is ours too. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
“Of course I didn’t know that! I just naturally assumed, that as Richard’s widow, the house—”
Louise left off abruptly. Her movements had become jerks. All three of the Hawkes were watching her, and she forced a semblance of calm over her features. “Of course it’s yours,” she said, in a slightly choking voice. “I remember now. Richard told me all about it, some time before we were married. But it didn’t make much of an impression. And of course I’m glad it works out this way—I don’t know what I’d do with a house this size. The upkeep alone . . .” She trailed off, under Verity’s knowing smile.
When Louise fell silent, Verity said, “Well, Louise, it’s a pity that the house didn’t come to you, I suppose. However, I am so glad that Father had the forethought to change his will in the first four days of his marriage.”
Louise glared at Verity.
Jonathan turned his attention back to the lawyer. “Father was executor of Mother’s will,” he said. “Who becomes executor now?”
“I do,” said the lawyer. “There won’t be any changes to speak of, I can assure you, because, for all practical purposes, I was the executor anyway. Richard didn’t have the time to look over all the details. I’ve always overseen that trust.”
Cassandra said to the lawyer, “You know, I really don’t know anything about this trust. It came as a bit of a shock to me this year when I turned twenty-five and starting getting a check for three thousand dollars a month.”
Louise suddenly leaned forward, and adjusted the skirt over her knees, clearing her throat at the same time.
“I don’t even have any idea how much money is in the trust,” Cassandra went on. “I know when Mother died it was about three million dollars. Do you have any idea what it might be now?”
“Yes, in fact I do. The estate held in trust for the three of you has grown steadily. Recently, in fact, we’ve been averaging about eleven percent a year.”
Jonathan whistled. “That’s pretty good.”
“I would say so,” said the lawyer modestly. “And the money’s always been completely safe. We didn’t once take a loss on any of our investments.”
“How much is it worth now?” asked Jonathan.
“Approximately eight-point-seven million.”
Louise evinced less surprise at the amount than did Verity, Jonathan, and Cassandra. She smiled knowingly, as if to imply that she and Richard had talked over the matter of the trust in some detail.
“Eight million,” remarked Verity, eyeing Louise suspiciously. “It does mount up.”
“Taking out thirty-five, seventy, a hundred and five thousand dollars a year as allowances for the three of you didn’t even begin to make a dent,” Eugene continued. “As you know, when each of you reaches twenty-nine, you are to receive your third of the inheritance. Verity, at twenty-eight, you’re the eldest. Next February, you’ll be able to withdraw your portion of the trust as capital. You can do with it whatever you like. I imagine that by then it will be something just over three million dollars. Jonathan and Cassandra will get proportionately more, because the money will have been set aside for just that much longer.”
“I had no idea,” said Verity.
“Nobody did,” murmured Louise.
“That’s why Richard felt no compunction in leaving everything he had to Louise: there was no reason to leave anything to the three of you when you were already so well provided for. Now, with your father gone, I have the responsibility of seeing that the provisions of your mother’s will are carried out as specified.”
“I still have a couple of questions,” said Verity.
“About your father’s will?” asked the lawyer.
“No, about the trust,” Verity pursued. “Father never really told us anything about it. He seemed to think the whole business was in bad taste.” Verity glanced at Louise with a broad smile.
Strable passed over this. “What would you like to know?”
“Why twenty-nine?” asked Jonathan suddenly. “Why do we come into the money at that age particularly? It’s such an odd age. Why not thirty?”
“Your mother was twenty-nine when she came into her inheritance,” ex
plained Strable. “She thought it was a good age to deal with a large amount of money, apparently.”
“What would happen if one of us died?” asked Verity. “Who would get the money?”
“Well, that depends entirely on when you died.”
“How do you mean?” asked Cassandra. She and Jonathan were not uninterested.
“Verity,” said the lawyer, “if you died after your twenty-ninth birthday—that is to say, after you had come into your portion of the inheritance outright—then the money would be left according to any will you had made out. If by any chance you hadn’t made a will, then everything would go to Eric.”
Verity winced, and said in a low voice, “I’m drawing up a will tomorrow.”
“If, however, you died before your twenty-ninth birthday,” the lawyer went on, “then the entire fund would simply be divided in two, between Jonathan and Cassandra. Any will, so far as the bulk of the money went, would be invalid. And of course the same holds for you, Jonathan, and you, Cassandra.”
“And if two of us died before our twenty-ninth birthdays,” prompted Cassandra.
“Then the entire trust fund would revert to the survivor.”
“And if all three of us died?” asked Jonathan.
The lawyer demurred. “That’s hardly likely.”
“Last week,” said Jonathan, “a drunk driver ran down and killed four children in the same family. It could happen.”
“The money would have gone to your father in that case. Now that your father is dead—” The lawyer glanced, almost involuntarily, at Louise.
Louise looked up, and smiled vaguely, as if she understood little of the conversation, and cared even less.
“—the money would go to your father’s estate,” the lawyer concluded.
“To Louise,” said Verity.
“Yes,” said the lawyer. “Now,” he said quickly and with a reassuring smile, “I’ll see that you continue getting your monthly allowances, and I’ll be overseeing the administration of the fund. It will be my responsibility to pass judgment on any ‘extraordinary expenses’ that can’t be taken care of by your monthly allowances. But I want the three of you to come to me just as you went to your father. In this, I’m taking his place, and I’d like to think that I have your confidence just as your father did.” He made a short nod.
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