“Nadine is the one who’s whipped,” I said. “Delia’s holding all the cards.”
Zack’s eyes turned back to the flickering flames of the fireplace. “I’m not so sure about that. The Michaelses’ family lawyer, Graham Exton, appears to know something I don’t know, and that makes me uneasy.”
“Was he hostile?”
“No. He’s a nice enough guy. He said he wished we’d met under happier circumstances – that he’d known Abby all her life, and that she was a fine human being. He offered coffee and extended all the professional courtesies, but he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”
“Did he show you the will?”
“Sure. No reason not to. There were no surprises. Jacob gets $250,000 when he turns twenty-five. The rest of Abby’s effects, assets, and considerable property holdings go to Nadine Perrault. Delia Margolis Wainberg is designated as the person to raise Jacob in the event of Abby’s death.”
“Nothing personal for Jacob?” I asked. “No photographs or family heirlooms? I would have thought Abby would want him to have that painting of her with her parents that we saw at the house.”
Zack shook his head. “All that goes to Nadine.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Today Nadine told me that until three weeks ago she and Abby and Jacob were a family. They’d been through a nightmare, but they were doing what families do – they were pressing on. Why would Abby make a will that handed Jacob over to a woman who was a stranger and severed his connections with the only family she’d ever known?”
Zack sneezed percussively. He gazed at his box of tissues. “Man-size,” he said. “I’m flattered. And to answer your question with a question: Why would Abby Michaels do any of the things she did in the last few weeks?”
“If Graham Exton knew Abby all her life, surely he would realize that she was in a fragile mental state. Didn’t he have an obligation to keep her from changing her will?”
“You bet he did, and when I raised that point, he was ready for me. He said, ‘I satisfied myself that, given the circumstances, Ms. Michaels was justified in asking me to draw up a new will and that she was of sound mind.’ When I pointed out that two weeks after he had pronounced Ms. Michaels ‘of sound mind’ she walked away from her partner and gave away their baby, the situation got ugly.”
“What happened?”
“Mr. Exton told me to advise my client that if she dug too deeply into the question of Abby Michaels’s state of mind when she had him draft the second will, she’d regret it. Then he said, ‘Delia Wainberg has reaped what she sowed.’ ”
“That’s a little melodramatic, isn’t it?”
Zack raised an eyebrow. “For a guy who wears both a belt and suspenders, it’s way out there. And something else – Graham Exton can’t say Delia’s name without spitting it out. It’s as if he hates her. And she’s never met him. I asked. She’d never heard of him until she came to Port Hope.”
“As long as he keeps what he knows to himself, I guess his feelings about Delia are irrelevant,” I said.
Zack looked thoughtful. “I wonder. I hate secrets. They have a way of blowing up at a critical moment, and this adoption has to go through. My newfound empathy aside, I would hate to lose to that putz Nadine Perrault hired to represent her.”
“You don’t like Llewellyn Llewellyn-Smith?”
“We got off to a bad start,” Zack said. “By the time I arrived at his office, after my meeting with Exton, I had to go to the can. There was only one men’s room in the building. There were three regular stalls and one that was accessible. The three regular stalls were empty but the accessible stall was in use. So I waited – and waited. Whoever was in there was either reading the comics or whacking off. By this point, my need was great. So I rapped on the door, and said, ‘There’s a cripple out here who needs to be in there.’ ”
I laughed. “You didn’t.”
“I did, and the son of a bitch still didn’t come out. So I banged the door, and yelled, ‘Listen, fuck-wad, when you come out of there, you’d better be in a wheelchair or I’m going to sue your ass.’ Finally, the toilet flushed, and guess who swaggered out?”
“Llewellyn Llewellyn-Smith?”
“The putz himself, zipping up, proud as hell for having kept the big-time lawyer waiting. So that’s how we started.”
“I take it the situation didn’t improve.”
“Nope. Llewellyn Llewellyn-Smith is a banty rooster – one of those strutting guys with a whiny high-pitched voice, and he yells all the time. He’s determined to make this the case of his career. I tried to explain that I don’t have a coterie of press people following me at all times – that the only time I’m on TV is when the case involves big names or big issues.” Zack wheeled over to the waste-basket, picked it up, placed it on his knee, and wheeled back. “Hard to sink a tissue from across the room,” he explained. “Anyway, in an ideal world, this shouldn’t end up in a courtroom. Llewellyn-Smith and I should be able to sit down with our clients and come up with an arrangement that semi-satisfies everybody.”
“But that’s not what he wants.”
“No,” Zack said. “He wants a three-ring circus, and he wants to be the ringmaster. He told me that he has detectives out there looking for Jacob’s father and that when Jacob’s father finds out ‘the truth,’ he’ll support Nadine’s case.”
“If he hasn’t found the father, how can he predict what the father will do?”
“He can’t,” Zack said. “Good lawyers know enough not to show their hand until the time is right, but Putz isn’t a good lawyer. He’s a chest-pounder. He also wears a bow tie, and you know your theory about that.”
“Wearing bow ties tells the world that you can no longer get an erection,” I said. “It’s actually David Sedaris’s line. I just used it to get you to throw out your bow ties. So did you share the theory with Putz?”
“Hell, no,” Zack said. “I know how to keep my cards close to my chest.” He sneezed. “Shit, I
“I told you they’re dangerous. Come on, let’s order some dinner. I brought Gawain along. I’ll read to you till our meal comes.”
It didn’t take long. By the time Gawain had met and made his fateful pact with the lord of the great manor, our meal had arrived. We’d both ordered the brome duck. It was excellent, but Zack picked at his food.
“Do you want me to order something else for you?” I asked.
Zack shook his head. “I’m not hungry. I’m just going to try to sleep.”
I called room service to pick up our trays, made Zack as comfortable as possible, and settled by the fireplace with the
The article noted that while there had been readings and musical selections, the highlights of the gathering had been anecdotes about Abby Michaels. There were three pictures with the story: one was a studio portrait of Abby wearing her academic gown and Ph.D. hood; the second was of the crowd in the chapel; the third was of an unidentified young girl, her face tear-stained and knifed by grief. As I folded the paper, there was a lump in my throat, and I knew our decision not to attend the service had been a wise one.
The room contained a bookcase filled with paperbacks: a shelf of mysteries; what appeared to be the entire oeuvre of Zane Grey, and a small selection of worthy books about the history of Port Hope and Hope Township. I chose one of the history books and, seduced by the epigraph from Santayana, “History is a pack of lies about events that never happened told by people who weren’t there,” began reading.
The memories of the town’s first newspaper editors were compelling, but the combination of the wine I had had with dinner and the warmth from the fireplace made my eyelids heavy. Zack was snoring peacefully, and I decided that oblivion was not without appeal.
I readied myself for bed, slid in beside my husband, and closed my eyes. After an hour, the painful images of the day were still sharp. When my restlessness threatened to waken Zack, I slipped out of bed, put on my jacket, and went out onto the balcony. The air was chilly, but the night was clear. Beneath me, the Ganaraska flowed inexorably towards Lake Ontario; above me the sky was filled with stars. Finally, my pulse slowed, and my mind grew calm. I went inside, and this time when I lay down under the canopy, I slept.
The next morning, we awakened to the sound of rain. Beside me, Zack stirred. “Bet it’s not raining at home,” he said.
