estate.”
Clarice folded her hands. With quiet dignity, she said, “I once did, Adam. But I signed them all away years ago.”
Adam shook his head in wonder. “He made you sign a prenup?”
“He didn’t make me do anything, Adam. I voluntarily signed a postnuptial agreement, giving up any claim to the income derived from Ben’s books.”
“But that’s everything we have,” Adam protested. “This is Grandfather Barkley’s house-my father took it, just like he took over your family’s life. Except for writing, Benjamin Blaine would have been as poor as a church mouse.”
“As poor as me,” Jack interposed.
Adam kept watching his mother. “When did you sign this?”
Clarice hesitated. “Before you were born.”
“Could I ask why?”
Clarice gazed out the window, as though into her own past, her unsipped scotch still cradled in her hands. “The books weren’t mine. I trusted Ben to care for us.”
To Adam, the answer was senseless beyond words. “Forgive me, Mom, but I don’t recall you making bold feminist gestures, especially ones this expensive. Besides which, you helped him a myriad of ways-researching, proofreading, scheduling his appearances.”
“Nonetheless,” Clarice said, “it’s what I did. No one regrets it more than me.”
Adam rubbed the bridge of his nose, staring at the last patch of failing sunlight on the deep-red Persian rug. “When did you first hear about this will?”
“Only after he died. When the police asked how we were getting along.”
“What did you say to them?”
“Not too well.” Clarice’s voice was hushed. “He’d never been as blatant as with this actress. It was as though he’d lost his mind.”
Adam searched for a way to comfort her. “He may have, Mom. Were there any other odd bequests?”
Teddy’s smile was no smile at all. “Only the one to you.”
Adam laughed in bitter amazement. “An autographed picture, signed ‘Love, Dad’?”
“Oh, it was much more elegant. He left you a hundred thousand dollars and an album of old photographs of a trip to Southeast Asia.” A sliver of anger entered Teddy’s voice. “Your bequest comes with its own valedictory, ‘To Adam, who has the courage to hate.’ A last poisoned dart at the rest of us, I assume. Especially me. His final way of saying that you were the one he admired, even now, and that I’m a faggot and a failure.”
Adam could not argue with this interpretation, and would not insult his brother by trying. At length, he said, “He always hated that we were close. He loved competition, no matter how perverse. Ask Jack.”
This seemed to awaken Jack from his trance. “There’s more, Adam. In his coup de grace, Ben made you the executor of his estate.” His voice roughened. “As I understand it, you’re responsible for carrying out his wishes. You now have the job of completing your mother’s disinheritance.”
Adam felt the expression drain from his face. For moments, as the others watched him, he did not speak. Then he stood, leaning over to gently kiss the crown of Clarice’s head. Softly, he said, “This will get better, Mom. I promise.”
She did not answer. Standing straighter, Adam spoke to his uncle in a wholly different voice. “Take me to the promontory, Jack. I want to see where he died.”
Four
Adam and Jack stood at the promontory where, countless times before, the younger Adam had watched the sunset with his father.
Like the bow of a ship, the point jutted out from land over the rocky beach below, affording a sweeping view of the Atlantic on both sides. The massive rock on which they stood, embedded in hard red clay, had been polished as smooth as a table by wind and rain. When Adam was a boy, his father had organized evening picnics for his wife and sons, exulting in the elemental beauty of the sun descending toward the vast cobalt sea. One memory from Adam’s last summer on the Vineyard was especially vivid-Ben at his most appealing, the nature sensualist enthralled by the gift of life. The evening was hazy, the setting sun a red ball, turning a backdrop of nimbus clouds into a panorama of brilliant orange. Grinning, Ben had told him, “This is my favorite place on earth-that rarest of things in these parts, a water view of the ocean with a western exposure. I never tire of it; every sunset is different. When I die, I hope to God someone will have the grace to scatter my ashes here.”
But his mother had not done so-she had buried him in the earth, next to the father he despised, perhaps the only revenge she had left. His father had died in this place, his skull shattering on the rocks below. Another memory came to Adam-as a small child, bold even then, he had stood at the edge of the promontory, gazing down the sheer cliffside with no thought to his safety. Taking his hand in a strong grip, his father had pulled him back. In gentle rebuke, Ben said, “Don’t stand so close, son. You could fall to your death. Follow my example and stay back from it.” Perhaps Ben, sure-footed as he was, had said this for a child’s benefit. But even on that last night, their final sunset together, his father had stood well short of the cliff.
Amid this skein of memory, another thought came to Adam-that, however subconsciously, his childish resolve to stand at its edge had been a way of showing up Teddy, who suffered from vertigo and endured these family picnics like a conscript. Odd, too, that in these memories his mother, though surely present, had left no image of herself behind.
Pensive, Adam walked to the edge. Ninety feet below, the coarse sand was covered with rocks and boulders; no one could survive such a fall. “Where exactly did you find him?” Adam asked.
Jack pointed at a group of jagged rocks. “Beside those. The last thing you’d imagine, I know.”
“The very last.”
“Ten years makes a difference, Adam. In me, in you-even in Ben. The man you remember wasn’t the man I found there.”
Adam shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling the wind on his face as he watched the sun, a red-orange disk, slice into the water. At length, he said, “Funny he died on the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. His favorite time to come here.”
Jack gave him a curious look. “You sound almost sentimental.”
“I’m just trying to envision what happened that night.” He turned to Jack. “The state police taped off this area, I assume.”
Jack inclined his head toward the hiking trail that ran along the cliff. “Only for a few hours. There’s too much foot traffic here.”
Adam looked around them, gauging how the police would evaluate their surroundings. Bordered by woods, the promontory would be visible only to hikers or from the waters below. The trail itself, running in both directions, headed past other homes until it meandered to the main road. The pathway from the Blaine house, trod by his mother’s family and then his own, ran to the cut in the trees perhaps fifty feet to Adam’s left. Peering over the rock again, Adam saw the wooden stairway to the beach, built by Ben for his sons when they were young. That night anyone could have approached this promontory from any of four directions, and likely remained unseen by anyone but Ben himself.
“They took your shoes,” Adam said. “That suggests there were footprints here. What was the weather like that day?”
Jack stared at the clay, his shaggy white-tipped eyebrows raised in thought. “It had rained that morning. Anyone coming by might have left some prints.”
Adam scoured the area around the rock. “Even wet, that clay is pretty hard.”
“True. Anyhow, no point looking now. A few hours after I found him it started raining buckets.”
Adam faced his uncle. “Tell me what you think, Jack. Did someone give him a shove?”
Jack shook his head, less in demurral than distress. “Why would they?”
“Take your pick. Fear. Greed. Reprisal. Not to mention the sheer pleasure of it.” Adam’s voice hardened.
