showering his largesse on these two women?”
“No.” Seeley’s shrug came with a knowing look. “I live here, so I’d started hearing rumors about him and Carla. But that was all. Other than that he wanted to make her his principal beneficiary, he never said a word about her-not their relationship or why he was leaving her money. Zero.”
“Did he ever say she’d asked for anything?”
“Never.” Seeley paused. “In the will he gives the reasons for his bequest to Jenny: to help her succeed as a writer. He even had me put in that sentence about you. But all he did was leave Carla millions of dollars. He never said why, and I never asked.” He smiled sheepishly. “I mean, that would have been a stupid question, right-a woman who looks like that? With all respect to your mother.”
“In other words,” Adam said evenly, “you figured the privilege of sleeping with Carla Pacelli was worth millions of dollars. Sounds reasonable to me. Especially given my father’s scant experience with women.”
“Maybe he’d lost his mind, all right? I know you’d like to think so. But he didn’t seem like a man who’d be led around by anyone or anything-including his own dick, if you’ll excuse my frankness. So maybe it’s possible your father really loved her.”
“That would be a novelty,” Adam replied. “Didn’t you think his bequest to me-‘To Adam, who has the courage to hate’-was also a little bizarre?”
Seeley seemed to consider this. Then he said, “Only until I met you.”
“Meaning…”
“That you seem so much like him.” Seeley paused. “You did hate your father, didn’t you? And you impress me as a very determined man.”
Seeley was sharper than Adam had thought. Softly, he replied, “You have no idea.”
For a moment, Seeley looked away. “While we’re on the subject,” Adam continued, “why did he leave me an album of old photographs from Southeast Asia? He must have had a reason, however strange.”
In profile, Seeley nodded. “I assume so. But he never said.”
Adam waited for the lawyer to meet his eyes again. “So let’s sum this up,” he said succinctly. “My father canned his longtime lawyer, changed his will entirely, disinherited his wife and oldest son, gave millions to his thirtysomething girlfriend, and left me-who despised him-a hundred thousand dollars and a bunch of yellowed photographs of a trip I wasn’t alive for and don’t give a damn about. But none of that struck you as peculiar.”
For a moment, Seeley took him in. “Maybe it’s not what I’d have done, or you’d have done. But I’ve got no doubt whatsoever that Benjamin Blaine knew exactly what he was doing.”
A few hours ago, Adam realized, Dr. Lee Zell had spoken of his father in almost the same words. “Anyhow,” Seeley continued, “he signed those documents in the presence of two witnesses-my receptionist and my legal assistant, who doubles as my wife. You can step outside and talk to them both. They can tell you what he was like.”
“Not really.”
“They can for the purposes of the will. They spent a half hour with your dad, waiting for the accountant next door to free up and notarize his signature. He was completely charming-telling stories about the places he’d been and the people he’d met. All of us found him fascinating-”
“And sober?”
“Definitely. His speech was clear, and so were his eyes. He seemed like a man taking a weight off his shoulders. Settling your affairs can do that for you. Especially if you’re dying-”
“And screwing your wife in the bargain,” Adam cut in. “Your obligation wasn’t just to him, but to draft a will that acknowledges her interests under the law. Sullivan suggests that you didn’t, and the postnup is shaky at best. Surely you told him that.”
A feral look flickered through Seeley’s eyes. “You’re questioning my integrity as well as my competence as a lawyer. That cuts pretty close to the bone, all right? You can think whatever you want-about him or about me. But there’s no way you’ll ever prove your father had lost it.
“I did what my client wished. Now it’s your turn. You’re the executor of his estate, not your mother’s lawyer. If you’re pissed off about this will, blame him; if you’re pissed she signed the postnup, blame her. Frankly, signing it was crazier than anything your father did. I don’t have a clue why she would have, or any obligation to find out. So ask her-better yet, let her lawyer ask her.” Abruptly, Seeley tempered his voice. “Sorry if I went off on you. I know this is emotional, okay? But you can’t stay as Ben’s executor and try to undermine his estate plan. When he signed that will three months ago, under the law he was as sane as you or me. Understand me?”
Adam stared at him. Should he try to waive the privilege to help his mother, Adam now knew, Seeley would make a formidable witness against her. “Well enough,” he answered. “Including the things you don’t yet understand.”
Adam got up and left, feeling Seeley’s look of doubt follow him out the door.
Nine
On the sidewalk, Adam paused to gaze at the waterfront-in high school, his point of embarkation for athletic contests on the mainland-taking in the sailboats at mooring as they bobbed in the water, the three-decker ferry from Woods Hole laboring toward the cement and steel pier. Then he drove the length of the island to a white frame house overlooking Menemsha Harbor.
Charlie Glazer sat on the porch. Standing, he greeted Adam warmly, his smile filled with pleasure and curiosity. An eminent psychiatrist who also taught at Harvard, Glazer had spent all sixty-nine summers of his life on Martha’s Vineyard. For fifty of those he had known Benjamin Blaine from the cycle of sailing, fly-fishing, and socializing in which both men partook. In Adam’s life between fifteen and twenty-three, Charlie had been an amiable presence, chiefly because of his dogged but fruitless efforts to best Ben Blaine in the summer races on Menemsha Pond. Glazer was a bright-eyed man with white hair and mustache: instead of the mandarin gravity common to his profession, he combined a certain restless energy with an air of sweet-natured good humor that at times concealed the tough-minded psychoanalyst beneath. Adam had always liked him.
As they renewed their acquaintance, Glazer recounted his last and most vivid memory of Adam. “The racing season of 2001,” he said. “You against your father-I’d never seen anything so intense as that last race. Then you just disappeared. All of us wondered why, and Ben would never discuss it.”
Once again, Adam felt the familiar stab of pain and loss. “Then I should honor his wishes.”
Glazer tilted his head. “Nonetheless, he seems to have brought you back.”
Adam nodded. “Ostensibly, to carry out a will that destroys my mother’s life. I’m trying to figure out if he had the mental capacity to do that, or to resist pressure from this actress. So far I’m not having much luck.”
Glazer gazed past him, seemingly absorbed in the waters of Menemsha Pond, sparkling with afternoon sun. At length, he said, “Armchair psychiatry is an iffy exercise. Ben was never a patient of mine or, I’d have to guess, anyone’s-the last thing he’d have wanted is to let anyone pierce that carapace of confidence and swagger.” He turned to Adam. “So I can’t say anything about his last six months. But whenever I looked at him, I imagined a deeply frightened man peering back. I’d guess fear was at the heart of everything Ben did.”
“‘Fear,’” Adam repeated. “Of what?”
“The black hole at his core.” Glazer gathered his thoughts. “At the risk of sounding portentous, I’d say that Ben suffered from a poverty of spirit. Only the admiration of others could slake his hunger. But there was never enough. So he kept reaching for the next achievement-a woman, a race, the accolades of fans or critics-and whoever stood in his way got hurt. Beginning with your uncle Jack.”
The summary was so concise, yet so devastating, that it left Adam speechless with surprise. At length, he said, “Sounds like you gave him a great deal of thought.”
“Oh, I did. Your father was an extremely interesting study, as well as a man to be wary of.” Glazer sat back in his rocking chair. “How much do you know about his childhood?”
“Only what he told me, plus a few scraps from Mom. The father he described was barely human-coarse, brutal, and drunk-and his mother seemed like a shadow.”
Glazer nodded. “That may be more accurate than you know. My understanding is that Nathaniel Blaine was a limited man who seethed with resentments, and was given to violent rages that reduced his wife to a timorous
