Chương 13
The conduct was old, the damages difficult to define legally, the possible offenses dependent on facts nobody could reconstruct perfectly.
Nora found that unsatisfying.
Thomas told her the law was often unsatisfying when people expected it to operate like morality with paperwork.
Adrian remained out of the company.
Several independent directors requested an inquiry into older family-office transactions.
Charles stepped down from the foundation board after two members threatened to resign.
That consequence hurt him more than Nora expected.
He had spent thirty years using philanthropy as evidence of his own decency.
Losing the title did not erase what he had funded.
It did, however, deprive him of the easiest answer to the question of what kind of man he was.
Nora saw him once during that period.
They met in Julian’s apartment.
Charles had brought a cardboard storage box.
Inside were copies of Claire’s four letters, correspondence logs, and the returned cashier’s check for sixty-five thousand dollars.
The original check had never been deposited after Claire gave it back.
Charles had kept it.
Nora lifted it carefully.
Claire’s handwriting appeared across the endorsement line.
VOID.
One hard blue line crossed the amount.
Below it she had written:
Keep your solution.
Nora smiled.
Charles saw.
“She frightened me,” he said.
“My mom?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Charles nodded.
“Yes.”
He looked older than the last time.
Nora put the check back.
“Did you ever like her?”
Charles considered the question.
“I respected her.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
Nora waited.
Charles sighed.
“I did not allow myself to like people I believed might interfere with my plans.”
“That sounds lonely.”
He looked at her.
Nora had not meant it kindly.
Perhaps he understood that.
“It was,” he said.
She closed the box.
Charles asked, “Do you hate me?”
Nora looked at him.
Adults asked children terrible questions when they wanted simple answers.
“I don’t know you enough.”
He absorbed that.
Then nodded.
“Fair.”
She watched him leave.
Julian stood in the doorway afterward.
“You okay?”
“Why does everyone ask that?”
“Because we don’t know what else to ask.”
“Ask if I want pizza.”
“Do you want pizza?”
“Yes.”
They ordered too much.
Julian ate one slice.
Nora ate three.
He gave her a tour of the apartment because she asked.
There were rooms he barely used.
A formal dining room.
A screening room.
A guest suite larger than Laura’s apartment.
Nora found it ridiculous.
In Julian’s bedroom, she noticed an old photograph in a silver frame.
Claire stood beside him on a sidewalk.
Younger.
Laughing.
Her hair shorter than Nora remembered ever seeing it.
Julian saw where she was looking.
“I found that in storage.”
“Who took it?”
“Adrian.”
Nora stared at him.
Of course.
Life refused to arrange people into clean categories.
She picked up the frame.
Her mother looked happy.
Not trapped.
Not frightened.
Not pregnant.
Just thirty years old on a sidewalk beside a man she liked.
“What were you doing?”
“Leaving a terrible restaurant.”
“Why were you laughing?”
“Claire told the owner his risotto violated several international treaties.”
Nora smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
Julian looked at the photograph.
“Yes.”
Nora set it down.
“Do you still love her?”
He did not answer quickly.
That mattered.
“I loved who she was then.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No.”
“Would you have stayed with her?”
“I don’t know.”
Nora appreciated the answer more than she would have appreciated yes.
Julian continued.
“I might have failed her.”
“You kind of did.”
“Yes.”
“Even without knowing.”
“Yes.”
She sat on the edge of a chair.
“Mom wasn’t perfect.”
“I know.”
“She got angry.”
“I remember.”
“She once didn’t speak to Laura for six months because Laura donated a coat she liked.”
Julian smiled.
“That sounds excessive.”
“It was ugly.”
“Was it a nice coat?”
“No.”
They both laughed.
Nora looked at the photograph again.
“I think everybody keeps trying to make her perfect because she died.”
Julian’s smile disappeared.
“She wouldn’t have liked that.”
“No.”
“She would have corrected us.”
“Constantly.”
The room became quiet.
Not painful.
Just quiet.
Nora realized silence felt different with Julian now.
At the dinner it had been a weapon.
Now it was merely space.
The first time she called him Dad happened by accident.
Five weeks after the test, he came to Laura’s apartment for dinner.
Laura made chicken.
Julian brought wine for Laura and sparkling cider for Nora, which Nora found insulting.
They argued about whether she was allowed to watch an R-rated movie.
Laura said no.
Julian, foolishly, said it depended on the movie.
Laura stared at him.
Nora watched him discover that fatherhood sometimes meant being punished by an aunt in a kitchen.
After dinner Julian tried to repair a loose cabinet handle.
He made it worse.
Laura took the screwdriver away.
“You own construction companies.”
“I don’t personally build anything.”
“Clearly.”
Nora sat at the table doing homework.
Her pencil rolled off.
Julian bent to pick it up at the same time she did.
Their heads nearly collided.
“Dad, move.”
The word was out before she heard it.
Everyone stopped.
Nora froze.
Julian froze.
Laura became extremely interested in the cabinet handle.
Nora took the pencil.
“No one say anything.”
Julian straightened.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking something.”
“That’s difficult to regulate.”
“Try.”
He nodded solemnly.
“I’ll make an effort.”
They resumed moving.
Nobody mentioned it.
Nora could feel Julian smiling when he turned away.
She let him.
That night she lay awake regretting the word.
Then regretting that she regretted it.
Then becoming angry at herself for turning one syllable into a referendum.
At two in the morning she listened to Claire’s voicemail.
Do not let her confuse anger with certainty.
Nora whispered into the dark, “You could’ve left instructions for normal problems.”
The next morning she felt better.
Not healed.
She had begun to hate that word.
People used healing as though grief were a cut that behaved itself if kept clean.
May you like
Claire remained dead.
Nothing changed that.
