“Making the final call,” she says in a mock solemn voice as she opens the door, relieved to see someone, anyone, who’s not family. “Rewriting the will to jilt the third wife and leave everything to the nubile nurse.” She’s feeling the whiskey, feeling the release from the tension of the morning, feeling the relief it’s not Pansy or Baldwin.
“Come on now, not everyone practices cutting-edge intellectual property law. Some of us are journeyman lawyers, serving the people.”
“Or the dog? I love it when they leave everything to the Pekingese. And a tiny percentage of estates need lawyers, journeyman.”
“Not all of us were on the law review, okay?”
“You’ve been researching me?”
“A lucky guess,” he says.
He’s already walking toward the flower room, leading her with that ease he has. He’s not impressed by the house and not dismissive of it, either. His energy of competence with a soup?on of detachment makes her want to let him handle everything. Maybe this is why Loulou chose him, in addition to the nice view. He accepts a glass of whiskey, rolls up his sleeves, putting his veiny forearms on display, and settles on the droopy chintz sofa in the living room.
He sits silently across from her, like a priest or a therapist. His particular branch of their profession requires a combination of both.
A cloud passes over his face as she explains her museum meeting and that the Moon might be worth more than anyone anticipated, resulting in Pansy’s not-so-veiled threats.
“They could make an argument that it’s part of Pansy’s jewelry and somehow got misplaced,” Nell says, taking a sip of whiskey. “I mean, she basically did. Could also argue it’s part of the contents.”
He’s nodding deeply. Does she imagine it, or does he lean back from her? “It won’t fly. I worded the provision to avoid a claim like that.” He’s become stiff, all business, and she worries that she’s offended him, implied his drafting is Swiss cheese and subject to challenge.
“I’m not saying they’d win if they made a challenge,” Nell says. “I’m saying they could make it hard for me.”
“Of course they could,” he says, while shaking his head no. “But it would cost them.” They both know pride might have the Quincys shelling out for a grudge, but legal fees would have them standing down. “Cost them quite a bit, actually. Besides, anyone can contest the will, you know that.”
“Still . . .” she says.
“Still.” Louis inclines his head in agreement. “Vegas isn’t even putting that one on the board. Also, now you have an ace up your sleeve.”
When she doesn’t react to his little quip, he says stiffly, “If you’re worried about this, I can recommend outside counsel.”
She realizes then he’s taking offense, though he’s trying not to look it as he loosens his tie. Every time he’s been here she’s had the impression that he belongs. He certainly feels comfortable enough settled back, ankle on knee, a convincing cover to the annoyance she hears in his voice.
“What ace?”
“Tax apportionment. Basically, the estate pays taxes on any specified gifts unless it’s been stated otherwise. Loulou didn’t specify, and I didn’t push. There was no reason to since I didn’t know the necklace was so valuable, hadn’t seen it, no insurance policy on it.”
Nell gets it right away. “So if I sold the necklace, the estate takes the tax hit.”
“Even if you don’t sell it. But now that we know what that thing likely is, the taxes on the sale would probably bankrupt Loulou’s estate. A great place to negotiate from.”
He’s dropped by, but she’s the one who took it as an invitation to talk shop. Perhaps he wanted to keep this all off the clock. Or perhaps he’ll bill her. These are her concerns now that she’s executor and keeping track of expenses. But it just felt so good to talk it through with someone.
“I’ve already taken up a good amount of your time,” she says. “Thanks for coming so far out of your way.” She’d like to make up for flubbing his prior invitation, would like to ask him to dinner. But now he might think her suggestion is a ploy to pump him for free advice.
“Why so formal?” he asks.
“I thought you might bill me.”
“Wow,” he deadpans. “Lawyers in Oregon must be cutthroat.”
“I was the one who started talking shop.”
“So maybe you should buy me dinner. You know, bartering.”
She smiles, and she doesn’t miss his pitch this time. “Big fancy firms accept meals as payment now?”
“You should know,” he says with a delighted smile at her tacit invitation.
“It’s your call. I don’t know any restaurants here. I’m completely at your mercy.”
“Excellent,” he says with an exaggerated grin. “That’s just how I like it.”
THE CHARTREUSE ON ICE
After May publicly offered at the gymkhana to board the Ragman at the farm, Ethan had little choice but to go along. Ambrose fell into a pattern of taking the train between downtown and the farm on the weekends to ride with his brother, attend May’s parties, and return to his father’s house on Sunday night to spend his weeks working in town. Months ago, even a week or so, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine such a schedule. And if he didn’t think about it too hard, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Work was a dreary haze of what seemed like never-ending accounting books. Ambrose was most interested in the cleanup of the Sandusky fire and the aid fund for the families, but whenever he inquired he was told that the fund was in good hands and being distributed properly. The mine was shut and obviously not to be reopened. What was needed was time, his father said. There was really nothing more to be done.
After these weeks in town, weekends at May and Ethan’s became what Ambrose most looked forward to.
Ethan, Ambrose noted, was never expected at the offices in town. He conducted most of his business out at the farm, sitting in the gunroom by the hour, loudly taking meetings down the telephone line and smoking cigars with the windows closed. May called it his Indian smoke house, and the ceiling was already turning gray. When Ambrose asked Israel about his brother’s schedule, his father had looked at him from under his paled-out gray eyebrows and said simply, “Newlyweds.” Ethan only came to town for board meetings.
This Friday, as Ambrose entered the farmhouse, he heard O’Brennan’s familiar voice booming from the gunroom. Ambrose found May in the living room, sipping Chartreuse and ice. Three sets of large French doors were open to the scent of baking box hedges still in the sun and juniper bushes cooling in the afternoon shade of the house.
“Help yourself,” she said, hooking a thumb back toward the flower room. “To whatever you can rummage up in there.”