“Should you decide to sell any or all of the properties,” says Cutter, “we can help you with that. Fair market value for the three combined is around thirty million, last time I checked.”
“And does that money go into the trust,” says Doug, “or—”
“That money would fold in with the current funds available to you.”
“So ten million becomes forty million.”
“Doug,” says Eleanor, more sharply than she intended.
The lawyers pretend not to have heard.
“What?” her husband says. “I’m just—clarifying.”
She nods, unclenching her fists and stretching her hands under the table.
“Okay,” she says, “I feel like I should get back. I don’t want to leave JJ alone too long. He’s not really sleeping that well.”
She stands. Across the table, the group stands as one. Only Doug is left in his chair, daydreaming.
“Doug,” she says.
“Yeah, right,” he says and stands, then stretches his arms and back like a cat waking from a long nap in the sun.
“Are you driving back?” Cutter asks.
She nods.
“I don’t know what car you’re in, but the Batemans owned several, including a family SUV. These are also available to you, or can be sold. It’s whatever you want.”
“I just—” says Eleanor, “I’m sorry. I can’t really make any decisions right now. I just need to—think or take it all in or—”
“Of course. I’ll stop asking questions.”
Cutter puts his hand on her shoulder. He is a thin man with a kind face.
“Please know that David and Maggie were more than just clients. We had daughters the same age, and—”
He stops, his eyes filling, then nods. She squeezes his arm, grateful to find something human in this moment. Beside her, Doug clears his throat.
“What kind of cars did you say again?” asks Doug.
*
She is quiet on the ride home. Doug smokes the other half of the pack, window down, making calculations with his fingers on the steering wheel.
“I say keep the town house, right?” he says. “A place in the city. But, I don’t know, are we really going to go back to the Vineyard? I mean, after what happened?”
She doesn’t answer, just lays her head against the headrest and looks out at the treetops.
“And London,” he says, “I mean, that could be cool. But how often are we really going to—I say we sell it and then if we want to go we can always stay in a hotel.”
He rubs his beard, like a miser in a children’s story, suddenly rich.
“It’s JJ’s money,” she says.
“Right,” says Doug, “but, I mean, he’s four, so—”
“It’s not about what we want.”
“Babe—okay, I know—but the kid’s used to a certain—and we’re his guardians now.”
“I’m his guardian.”
“Sure, legally, but we’re a family.”
“Since when?”
His lips purse and she can feel him swallow an impulse to snap back.
He says:
“I mean, okay, I know I haven’t been—but it’s a shock, you know? This whole—and I know for you too. I mean, more than me, but—well, I want you to know I’m past all that shit.”
He puts his hand on her arm.
“We’re in this together.”
She can feel him looking at her, hear the smile on his face, but she doesn’t look over. It’s possible that in this moment she feels more alone than she’s ever felt in her life.
Except she isn’t alone.
She is a mother now.
She will never be alone again.
Chapter 14
Painting #2
If all you looked at was the center frame, you could convince yourself that nothing was wrong. That the girl in question—eighteen perhaps, with a wisp of hair blown across her eyes—is just out for a walk in a cornfield on an overcast day. She is facing us, this woman, having only seconds before emerged from a tight labyrinth of towering green. And though the sky atop the cornfield is a somewhat ominous gray, the woman and the front row of corn behind her is lit by a feverish sun, febrile and orange, so much so that she is squinting through her hair, one hand rising, as if to make out an object in the distance.
It is the quality of light that draws you in, makes you ask—What combination of colors, applied in what order, with what technique, created this thunderstorm glow?