Eleanor kicks him under the table. Mr. Page frowns. There is a decorum he expects in dealing with matters of extreme wealth, a studied nonchalance.
“Well,” he says, “as I explained, the Batemans established a trust for both children, splitting their estate fifty–fifty. But since their daughter—”
“Rachel,” says Eleanor.
“Right, Rachel. Since Rachel did not survive, the entirety of the trust goes to JJ. This includes all their real estate holdings—the town house in Manhattan, the house on Martha’s Vineyard, and the pied-à-terre in London.”
“Wait,” says Doug. “The what now?”
Mr. Page presses on.
“At the same time, their wills both earmarked a large sum of cash and equities to a number of charitable organizations. About thirty percent of their total portfolio. The remainder lives in JJ’s trust and will be available to him in stages over the next forty years.”
“Forty years,” says Doug, with a frown.
“We don’t need much,” says Eleanor. “That’s his money.”
Now it’s Doug’s turn to kick her under the table.
“It’s not a question of what you need,” the lawyer tells her. “It’s about fulfilling the Batemans’ last wishes. And yes, we’re still waiting on the official pronouncement of death, but given the circumstance I’d like to free up some funds in the interim.”
One of the women to his left hands him a crisp manila folder. Mr. Page opens it. Inside is a single piece of paper.
“At current market value,” he tells them, “JJ’s trust is worth one hundred and three million dollars.”
Beside her, Doug makes a kind of choking noise. Eleanor’s face burns. She’s embarrassed by the clear greed he’s showing, and she knows if she looked he’d have some stupid grin on his face.
“The bulk of the estate—sixty percent—will be available to him on his fortieth birthday. Fifteen percent matures on his thirtieth birthday, another fifteen percent on his twenty-first. And the remaining ten percent has been set aside to cover the costs of raising him to adulthood from this point forward.”
She can feel Doug beside her, working out the math.
“That’s ten million, three hundred thousand—again as of close of market yesterday.”
Outside the window, Eleanor can see birds circling. She thinks about carrying JJ from the hospital that first day, the heft of him—so much heavier than she remembered, and how they didn’t have a booster seat so Doug piled up some blankets in the back and they drove to a Target to buy one. Car idling in the parking lot, they sat there in silence for a moment. Eleanor looked at Doug.
What? he said, his face blank.
Tell them we need a booster seat, she said. It should be front facing. Make sure they know he’s four.
He thought about arguing—Me? In a Target? I fucking hate Target—but to his credit he didn’t, just shouldered the door open and went in. She turned in her seat and looked at JJ.
Are you okay? she asked.
He nodded, then threw up onto the back of her seat.
The man to Page’s right speaks up.
“Mrs. Dunleavy,” he says, “I’m Fred Cutter. My firm manages your late brother-in-law’s finances.”
So, thinks Eleanor, not a lawyer.
“I’ve worked out a basic financial structure to cover monthly expenses and education projections, which I’d be happy to review with you at your convenience.”
Eleanor risks a look at Doug. He is, in fact, smiling. He nods at her.
“And I’m—” says Eleanor, “—I’m the executor of the trust. Me?”
“Yes,” says Page, “unless you decide you do not wish to carry out the responsibilities afforded to you, in which case Mr. and Mrs. Bateman named a successor.”
She feels Doug stiffen beside her at the idea of passing all that money on to some kind of runner-up.
“No,” says Eleanor, “he’s my nephew. I want him. I just need to be clear. I’m the one named in the trust, not—”
She flicks her eyes toward her husband. Page catches the look.
“Yes,” he says. “You are the named guardian and executor.”
“Okay,” she says, after a beat.
“Over the next few weeks I’ll need you to come in and sign some more papers—and by come in, I mean we can come to you. Some will need to be notarized. Did you want the keys to the various properties today?”
She blinks, thinking about her sister’s apartment, now a museum filled with all the things she will never need again—clothes, furniture, the refrigerator filled with food, the children’s rooms heavy with books and toys. She feels her eyes well with tears.
“No,” she says. “I don’t think—”
She stops to collect herself.
“I understand,” says Page. “I’ll have them sent to your house.”
“Maybe somebody could collect JJ’s things, from his room? Toys and books. Clothes. He probably, I don’t know, maybe that would help him.”
The woman to Page’s left makes a note.