The Final Victim(41)
"Because it isn't what your grandfather wanted, right? He cut your cousins out of the will for a reason, and you want to respect his wishes."
'That's exactly right," she exclaims, relieved that he put it into words for her. "How did you figure that out before I even did?"
"Because I'm a very wise man," Royce says, rolling so close she can smell minty mouthwash lingering on his breath. "And you're a very wise woman. That's why you'll probably do the right thing, no matter how hard it is on you. On all of us."
"Things could be worse, considering that the right thing happens to be accepting my grandfather's entire fortune."
Royce laughs, folding her into his arms. "Don't get any big ideas. We're not going on any spending sprees in the near future… unless you've changed your mind?"
"Why? Do you need a little more bling bling?"
"I've got plenty of bling, thank you very much, Jenny from the block." He kisses her neck. "But I can think of something else I need…"
In her husband's tender embrace, Charlotte allows herself to relax at last.
Royce is right.
It's only money.
And, as Phyllida and Gib have yet to learn, money can't buy the things that matter most in life.
Royce's mouth is moving down, trailing kisses over her collarbone.
Grandaddy didn't withhold her cousins' inheritance in order to teach them a lesson-of that, Charlotte is certain.
He must have had a more compelling, much darker reason.
And I'm going to find out what it was, she vows silently, before giving in to her husband's quest to take her to a place where she can forget everything for a blissful little while.
Jeanne lifts the items out of her top middle bureau drawer one by one. Nearly all of them once belonged to her mother.
The stack of lace-embroidered handkerchiefs.
The crocheted woolen shawl for winter mornings when a cold draft permeates the third floor as effectively as does the summer heat.
The precious journals filled with poetry, day-to-day household events, and family secrets-ail of it jotted in mother's spidery handwriting.
The album filled with sepia-toned photos of unsmiling ancestors, some of whom played a role in those very secrets.
At the very bottom, beneath a locked wooden case that contains her last-resort salvation, is a stack of birthday cards from Gilbert, banded together with a faded, blue-satin ribbon that once adorned Mother's hair.
The cards didn't start coming until after Father and Mother had passed away, and Jeanne's mind started to go. Perhaps they were sent out of nostalgia, perhaps out of pity. Or, just maybe, out of guilt.
In any case, each card contained a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
Twenty dollars a year.
From a man worth tens of millions.
Twenty dollars, cash-as if she could take it right down to the mall and treat herself to a little something.
Ah, well, it will come in handy after all, this nice little wad of "mad money"…
In the truest sense of the phrase, Jeanne thinks, a sad smile grazing her lips.
"Don't you worry, Gilbert," she whispers into the empty room as she begins to count the bills. "I'll be sure and put it to good use."
CHAPTER 6
"I guess I just don't understand why you aren't flying home with us," Brian Harper tells his wife on Saturday morning, as she tucks another small T-shirt into the Vuitton suitcase that holds their son's clothing.
"I keep telling you," she says wearily. "It's because I have to see this through."
"Contesting the will? It's going to drag on for months, Phyll. You're not planning on staying here for that long… are you?"
"Not months. Weeks, maybe."
"You'll be trapped in this house without a car."
"Gib has one, and I can always rent something if I need to. Anyway, I'm sure Grandaddy's chauffeur will be back from vacation soon. He can drive me anywhere I need to go."
She closes the top of the suitcase-or tries to. It seems to contain more than it did when they came, which is impossible. It's not as though she's been out shopping for clothes lately.
Far from it.
When she isn't taking care of an increasingly irritable toddler, the last few days have been spent with Gib, talking to attorneys. Being a lawyer himself, her brother isn't content with just any legal representation.
We need the best if we're going to win this, he keeps telling Phyllida.
Right. Still, she can't help wondering if he's stalling his efforts a bit. Gib doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get back home to Boston. Which makes her wonder just what kind of life he left behind there.
She, on the other hand, would like nothing more than to return to the West Coast, with its ubiquitous central air-conditioning, utter lack of humidity… and Lila, her longtime live-in nanny for Wills.
Pushing aside her guilt for sending her son home without her, Phyllida reminds herself that he'll be in good care. Once they land at LAX, Lila will be perfectly capable of keeping Wills happy until her return.
It's just a shame his own father isn't more attentive. Brian has his limits. Which is why he's been virtually useless here. All he's done is golf, complain about the muggy weather, and express his outrage over Phyllida's token inheritance.