I shake my head. “Neither of us should be there. It will be terrible.”
“We hold our heads high. All of those money-hungry bastards can sit there and be embarrassed when it comes out that they aren’t getting anything.”
And what happens when it comes out that you aren’t? “Mom, whatever happens… you know that whatever I have, it’s yours. Right?”
“You think he’s going to leave me out?”
I look away, at the nondescript painting on the nondescript hotel wall. We’re living on borrowed money right now, paying for this hotel room on credit because surely Daddy will have left us money.
Except I’m not so sure.
He loved me; I know that. And he even loved my mom in his own way. But he was always tied up about money. I could see him leaving me nothing as some kind of character-building experiment. I would have to quit Smith College without any way to pay the tuition, but I’m not as worried about me.
I’m more worried about what would happen to my mother’s fragile sense of self if she holds her head high against all those wives and then ends up humiliated. She hasn’t even met most of them. I’ve met them, on my annual spring break visits.
There would be glee, to see the first and most coveted wife taken down.
“I just think it doesn’t make sense to put ourselves through that. Everyone’s going to see someone else get taken down.”
“They’re going because they think they were important to him.”
I’m not sure Daddy was that black-and-white. He cared for his other wives; at least he didn’t treat them with disdain. But they got their small piece of their fortune with the ironclad prenup he made them sign. He won’t give them more than that, but not for the reasons that Mom thinks.
The other children will be there, too. Not biological children. I’m the only one he had, but there are plenty of other stepchildren through the years.
Including Christopher. Will he be there?
It will kill me to see him salivating for Daddy’s fortune. Except why wouldn’t he? He’s always wanted money, and Daddy’s money is as good as any.
“Whatever happens, we’ll be okay,” I say, but I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.
Mom gives a firm shake of her head. “He wouldn’t leave us empty-handed.”
The will reading takes place at my father’s lawyer’s office, which is on the thirty-eighth floor of a building that overlooks a park blooming with pink and white cherry blossoms. It’s strange to see the world so full of life when we’re wearing black and facing death.
Mr. Smith, that’s the name of the lawyer. A plain name for a rather plain man. He looks like he would follow the letter of the law down any path it would take him. Quite the rule follower, and it makes sense that Daddy would have used him for this purpose. Lord knows there are a large group of people who would love to contest even the smallest loophole. It’s standing room only, the wood door propped open to let wives seven and eight peek their heads in from the hallway.
It’s actually as much of a circus as I feared, with my mother and me being granted the dubious honor of the two chairs in front of the desk. It also means everyone can watch us.
Christopher is here, standing in the corner, looking as if he’d like to be anywhere but here—which must be a lie, because he didn’t have to come. Unless he wants the fortune.
Acid burns my throat. So, he’s as money hungry as everyone in this room. I wish I didn’t know that about him. It would have been better not to come, if only to avoid facing that fact.
That Christopher wants Daddy’s fortune.
“Thank you for gathering today,” Mr. Smith says in a voice dry as leaves in the fall. “While many wills are handled via mail, this is a rather unusual case. I have asked any interested parties to attend so that we may all have closure and put an end to the numerous inquiries to the firm.”
In other words the phone must be ringing off the hook with people wanting some of Daddy’s money. My stomach feels inside out. Did he know what kind of mess he would leave behind? He must have thought about it when he wrote whatever’s on that piece of paper the lawyer’s holding. Did he think of how it would feel to be surrounded by so many ex-wives and stepsiblings, all of whom are essentially strangers?
Did he know that Mom would be holding her head high, certain he would stand by her in the end? I sure as hell hope so. We’re about to find out in the most public way.
A violent, hacking clearing of the throat. And then Mr. Smith begins to read. “If you’re reading this, that means I’m finally at peace. And though I’ll miss a good many things on this earth, one of them won’t be the exorbitant amount of money I’ve paid lawyers over the years.”
There’s a nervous laugh from the side that’s abruptly silenced.
In the same monotone Mr. Smith continues, “To the son that I never had, Christopher Bardot, I bequeath Liquid Asset as well as a small trust with which to care for her. I wish we could have sailed together more than once.”
I’m jolted out of my grief-stricken stupor at the sound of his name. A ripple of excitement runs through the room. Christopher isn’t his biological child, which means there’s hope for everyone else in this room.
“As for the rest of my assets, both liquid and otherwise,” Mr. Smith reads, “I bequeath them in entirety to my daughter, Harper St. Claire.”
There’s a gasp in the room, and I’m painfully aware of the looks of pure venom being shot in my direction. All I can do is stare straight ahead, shocked at hearing my father’s final words, even if spoken in a voice so unlike his own. It’s strange that hollowness can feel so solid, a physical sensation that threatens to bend me at the waist. Daddy, come back.
Nothing is so cold and so calculating as money in a void where love and hope had been. I don’t want his billions of dollars, or however much his fortune amounts to. I never did. If there’s one upside in all of this, it’s that Mom will finally be able to relax. A small comfort.
“I have a stipulation for Harper, who is still young and impressionable as I write this. The money will be placed into a trust, which will only transfer to her when she turns twenty-five.”
A heavy hum of conversation pierces my haze. That’s seven years away. Seven years before I can return to Smith College. Seven years before my mother can stop marrying whoever will have her.
“Of course I don’t want to cause undue burden to her, so she may access money as needed for her education and living situation. But only for her. No one else may use the money, including my ex-wife.”
“No,” I say, my voice rusty. “Stop.”
He can’t do this to her, not in front of all these people. How can he humiliate her this way? He must have known. God, he must have known.
Mr. Smith gives me a pitying look before reading on. “To that end I name Christopher Bardot as the executor of the trust. I know that he will make sure my wishes are honored and that my only daughter is well cared for in my absence.”
The paper has barely brushed the gleaming wooden surface of the desk when the room erupts into chaos. There are demands to confirm the validity of the will, insistence that they will contest it. When I bring myself to look sideways, I see my mother has turned to stone—she’s frozen in place, a look of polite acceptance on her face.