A horrible feeling came over me. My father had handed the document to me. I assumed he’d already read it over and given it a clean bill of health. I had no reason to question it. James, too careless to bother to read it once my father explained its supposed contents to him, signed it almost laughing, telling me, “Money or no money, I’m the luckiest groom in the world to be marrying a bride so beautiful and fair as you.”
“It’s a pity, isn’t it? If you read it, you’d realize it actually obligates you to pay three-quarters of your estate to James should he find any reason whatsoever to divorce you.” Simpkins’s smirk widened. I must have looked absolutely horrified, for there was real joy on his face. He winked at me. He was such an unctuous little bastard.
Picking up the phone as soon as James signs the promissory note and leaves, I dial Atavista Air, the private-jet charter company we’ve hired at a moment’s notice whenever the capricious urge to fly out of the country strikes us. Simpkins had rattled me badly. I’m in no mood for the tea that James prepared for me, so I push aside the carafe. An hour or more has passed since I took my last Valium, and my thoughts flicker like little jagged flames. James thought he left my hideaway office with a grand bargain, but $300,000 is chump change compared to what he could take me for in divorce court. Or what I might have to pay Simpkins.
And Simpkins? Though I’m not constitutionally opposed to paying for Simpkins’s silence, his grudge against my father and the steely manner in which he handled himself suggest that even if I pay him the $1 million he suggested, he’d demand further payments down the road, shaking me down periodically until, eventually, he’d claim my entire fortune—which is why, at least temporarily, I need to flee the country.
“I need to schedule a flight. To Grand Cayman Island,” I say to the chipper young woman who answers my call to Atavista.
“Splendid!” the young woman professes. I picture her looking like Laurel, blonde and a tad pudgy, the kind of acne-blemished girl who’d wear a knockoff designer scarf around her neck even though such accoutrements are no longer in fashion. I tell her my name, and she punches it into her computer.
“For two,” I add.
Our names must appear in Atavista’s computer database, for the woman asks, “For you and James, Mrs. Wainsborough?”
“I’m not sure James will be accompanying me. I recently had a baby daughter. She and I will be traveling alone to visit my father so we can introduce him to his new granddaughter.”
“And how long will you be staying? When should we schedule your return flight?”
Given the legal clouds, staying here with Anne Elise at Savory Mew is unwise. Even if Simpkins wasn’t on to me, sooner or later, I’d open the door and find a police detective who’s not as easy to mislead as the easily impressed Detective Adderly. Years ago, my father secured for me through his World Bank contacts a prized red United Nations laissez-passer, a kind of supernational passport to get me in and out of any country in the world, hassle-free. The Caymans are a British protectorate; American legal authorities and law enforcement personnel have no jurisdiction there.
“It’ll be an indeterminate stay,” I tell the attendant. How long we’ll stay is dependent upon the speed with which my father’s lawyers hatch up the necessary legal documents to paper over the issues of Anne Elise’s surrogacy, which will then make Simpkins’s claims that I “stole” Anne Elise less compelling. My father might also have ideas about the prenup and how to best deal with Simpkins. “I’ll need the flexibility to fly home or maybe elsewhere on twenty-four hours’ notice.”
“And when do you wish to depart?”
“This afternoon. Could you arrange a flight for two o’clock?”
“This afternoon?” The woman hesitates. Up until this point, she’s enthused that everything I said or requested was “splendid.” She puts my call on hold, and in the tick-tock moments that I wait for her to jump back on the line, I tuck the ends of a pink fleece baby blanket around Anne Elise.
“Mrs. Wainsborough? Two o’clock this afternoon might not be feasible for us.”
My heart sinks. Atavista’s ability to meet my travel needs is the one part of my plan that I failed to consider. I had hoped to be gone by the time James returns. He’d come home, see the pile of cash and the brief note I’d write him, saying goodbye.
“But we can commit to a four o’clock departure. Will that suffice?”
“Yes. That will do quite nicely.”
“Splendid.” The woman wishes us bon voyage, telling me it’s been a pleasure serving me, and then asks if she can do anything else for me.
I feel like thanking the woman for her fawning obsequiousness. In this land where everyone is a potential customer and everyone wants a continuing share of the money in your purse, it’s become an ingrained habit, this unquestioned respect afforded to the well-to-do.
After I finish the call, I make another call. I still bank at PNC, the bank that bought out Riggs, and after being patched through to the branch manager, I inform him of my wish to make a large cash withdrawal. Though humiliating on a personal level for my father, PNC’s takeover of Riggs was free of animus. The level of customer service they’ve extended toward me has been impressive. To them, I’m just another high-asset customer whom they’re eager to please.
“How much, Mrs. Wainsborough?” the branch manager asks.
“Three hundred thousand. Preferably in cash. And preferably in large denominations,” I say, realizing I need to move quickly, for Anne Elise might wake at any moment. “I’d prefer to pick the money up shortly. In person. Will that be a problem?”
Over the phone, I hear the branch manager punch my records up on his computer and scroll through my account balances. A $10,000 banded packet of fresh-pressed $100 bills is about a half inch thick, meaning that $300,000 would fit comfortably in a leather tote bag. When the bank manager jumps back on the line, he bears good news. “That’ll be no problem at all, Mrs. Wainsborough. When you come into the branch, ask for me. I’ll take care of everything.”
A gold-leaf dome tops the neoclassical bank building at the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and M Street, a ten-minute walk from Savory Mew. Because she’d fallen asleep again, I left Anne Elise in her cradle, but someday soon I will show her this dome. Suggesting permanence and integrity, the gold dome appeared in every television commercial produced for Riggs Bank, becoming synonymous with our family name. Seen from a distance, it still sends a shiver up my spine. We were as prominent in town as that dome, respected far and wide for our financial clout.
When I enter the building, the branch manager promptly identifies himself. Mr. Walters, courteous without being friendly, officious without being automatonic, is a throwback to the age of square jaws, 1950s-style crew cuts, pasty complexions, and coffee-and nicotine-stained teeth. Security officers—white shirts, blue blazers, and sidearms holstered at their waists—flank Walters at either side, a standard precaution whenever bank officials expect to handle exceptionally large cash transactions.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Walters says, leading me toward his desk. The branch’s open floor plan requires us to walk past the desks of Walters’s colleagues. Everyone pays me undue attention, eyeing me. Someone raises her phone and snaps my picture. Walters and the security officers were waiting for me at the door. He must have told people that the daughter of the former bank’s CEO would be withdrawing a ridiculous amount of cash, which strikes me as unprofessional—which I will mention after he hands me my money.
Walters invites me to sit down. Although other chairs are arranged around his desk, the security officers choose to stand directly behind my chair. Walters looks at the computer screen at the corner of his desk, and from that screen he reads my name, address, social security number, and the account number from which I’m withdrawing the money. “Is this information correct, ma’am?”
“Yes.” I withdraw a Montblanc pen from my handbag in anticipation of the forms and withdrawal slips I’ll have to fill out. “Do you have the paperwork ready for me to sign?”
“Mrs. Wainsborough? I’m afraid we have a problem.”