Chương 5
The question angered her more than accusation would have. Richard spoke as though the freeze were a demand she had engineered rather than a safeguard against activity he had failed to question.
“I want to know where the money went.”
“And until then?”
“No transfers.”
“Payroll will fail.”
“I’m trying to separate it.”
“The insurance premium on the cottage is due.”
“We have until tomorrow to address it.”
“The foundation’s event could collapse.”
“Then someone should have mentioned that before planning to take one hundred and forty thousand dollars from a restricted trust.”
At the table, Emily’s mouth tightened in approval. Claire wished it did not feel good.
Richard was quiet.
Then he said, “You froze it before dinner.”
“Yes.”
“You came anyway.”
“You invited us.”
“Why?”
Claire understood what he meant. Why attend a family celebration while preparing to expose the way it was financed? Why bring gifts? Why allow Sophie to carry something handmade into a room where Claire suspected contempt?
Because she had believed she could separate money from family. Because she wanted one evening in which Jonathan’s absence did not determine their place. Because hope could be humiliating when held too long.
“I came because my daughters still thought they belonged,” Claire said.
Sophie pushed back her chair and left the kitchen.
Richard heard it.
“Was that Sophie?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t want her hurt.”
“But she was.”
“I’ll speak to Evelyn.”
“Speak to yourself first.”
Claire ended the call.
Emily studied her. “That was mean.”
“I know.”
“He deserved it.”
“That doesn’t make it less mean.”
Emily took a sip of cold tea. “You’re allowed one.”
Claire almost corrected her. Instead, she carried the mugs to the dishwasher.
Upstairs, a door closed.
Claire waited outside Sophie’s room for several seconds before knocking.
“Come in.”
The birdhouse sat on the desk beneath the window. Sophie had placed it carefully on a folded towel. Snow moved past the glass in loose spirals.
Sophie sat on the floor with her back against the bed.
Claire lowered herself beside her. Her knees complained. She had turned forty-three in October and resented every physical reminder that grief did not stop time.
“I should have told you there might be tension tonight,” she said.
Sophie picked at a loose thread on the rug.
“You should have told me she didn’t like us.”
“I don’t know that she doesn’t.”
Sophie gave her a flat look.
Claire leaned her head against the bed frame. “She resents me.”
“She looked at me when she said it.”
“I saw.”
“She knew I made that for her.”
“Yes.”
“Then it wasn’t just about you.”
“No.”
The honesty caused more pain than reassurance would have, but Sophie did not turn away.
Claire looked at the birdhouse. The small wooden roof was slightly crooked. One side had a thumbprint in the blue paint where Sophie had touched it before it dried.
“Your father would have loved it,” Claire said.
“I didn’t make it for Dad.”
“I know.”
“Everyone keeps giving dead people credit for things they didn’t do.”
Claire folded her hands in her lap.
“I’m doing badly tonight.”
“You’re doing differently.”
“That may be worse.”
Sophie considered this. “Not worse.”
The phone in Claire’s pocket vibrated again. She ignored it.
“Why did Aunt Evelyn hate that Dad trusted you?” Sophie asked.
“She and your father were close before he married me.”
“So she was jealous?”
“Not exactly.”
“That usually means yes, but politely.”
Claire smiled despite herself.
“Evelyn was used to being the person he called first,” she said. “They managed family decisions together. Your father began including me, and she saw that as losing something.”
“Did you take it from her?”
“Sometimes.”
Sophie waited.
Claire looked toward the dark window. “I was younger than she was. I thought she treated me like a child, so I made a point of disagreeing. Your father enjoyed watching us argue more than he should have. He would tell each of us part of what the other said, then act surprised when we fought.”
“That’s awful.”
“It was also occasionally funny.”
“Not to you.”
“Not usually.”
Sophie stretched her legs across the rug.
“Did you freeze the account to embarrass her?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
Claire thought of the doorway. The phone in her hand. The moment she could have left quietly.
“A little,” she said.
Sophie nodded. “I thought so.”
“I’m not proud of that.”
“I am.”
“Please don’t be.”
“I didn’t say it was good.”
Claire reached over and smoothed the loose thread Sophie had been pulling. “What do you want to do with the birdhouse?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
“I’m not giving it to her.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
Sophie looked at Claire. “You might have yesterday.”
Claire could not deny it.
Before leaving the room, she moved the birdhouse farther from the window, away from the draft.
At six the next morning, Martin sent a message asking to meet at the family office at eight. Claire slept for less than three hours and woke with the imprint of a pillow seam across her cheek. She made coffee too strong, burned one piece of toast, and found Emily asleep on the living room sofa beneath a throw blanket.
Sophie had left a note beside the kettle.
Taking Margaret groceries. Don’t call her first.
Claire read it twice. Then she transferred another hundred dollars to Sophie without comment.
The family office occupied the fifth floor of a restored brick building near Copley Square. Jonathan had chosen the space because the windows opened, a feature he valued far beyond practicality. In winter, no one opened them.
May you like
Martin waited in the conference room with two accountants and Lydia Chen, counsel for the trust. Three binders sat on the table, along with paper cups of coffee and a plate of pastries no one touched.
Lydia was fifty, compact, and incapable of pretending a meeting was less serious than it was. She wore a charcoal suit and reading glasses with red frames.
