16 Wednesday afternoon I am standing on a stepladder, painter’s tape in hand—relishing my morning’s success of eyeballing the thirteenth floor in the stairwell—when the buzzer sounds. Clara, who popped over about ten minutes ago, is in the kitchen, so I call out to her. “Can you get that, Clara?”
I hope it’s the cable guy—Philip told me to have the cable company put a jack and modem in the den. I have no idea what those things are, but since the computer’s coming tomorrow, I want to have everything ready.
Which is why I am desperate to finish taping the line between the wall and the ceiling in my bedroom. I’ve already painted two walls, and if I keep pushing, I’ll have the entire room done by dinnertime. I painted the computer room yesterday and am terrifically pleased with the results.
Clara doesn’t answer, but I hear the click of her shoes across the tiled foyer. She leans into my bedroom a moment later. “Did you forget your mother’s lawyer was coming by today?”
“Aw, shoot.” I press another three inches of tape to the ceiling, then rip the piece free of the roll. “Yes, I forgot. But I’m coming. Just give me a minute.”
Clara’s face remains locked in neutral, though I’m sure she disapproves of me meeting Bert Shields in my paint-spattered jeans and T-shirt. The thought doesn’t bother me—after all, Mr. Shields said it was a routine matter.
I climb down from the ladder, wipe my hands on a wet rag, and bend to peer into the mirror I’ve set on the bed. The downward view distorts my face, but it assures me I’m not wearing buttercup buff as eye shadow.
When I’m sure my hands are clean, I lift my chin and hurry down the gallery and into the living room. Mr. Shields is sitting on the sofa across from Clara, but he rises when he sees me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Norquest.”
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Shields. And please forgive my appearance—I’ve been doing a bit of painting.”
“You’re a brave woman.” His smile gathers up his sagging cheeks like curtains. “Last time I set out to paint a room, I ended up wearing half a can of harvest gold. The wife hasn’t let me near a paintbrush again.”
“I guess I was ready enough for a change that I was willing to risk the same encounter with buttercup buff.”
When I gesture toward the sofa, he sits again and sets his briefcase on the coffee table. “This won’t take long, but I need to make certain you are familiar with the details of your mother’s will. According to the terms of the trust she established in 1994, the estate transferred automatically to you. There are, however, a few provisions we need to discuss.”
I try to catch Clara’s eye, but she is staring at the papers in the lawyer’s hand.
I sink to the sofa next to Mr. Shields and accept the document he hands me.
“As you can see”—he runs the tip of his pen over the typed lines of his copy—“the opening language is standard: the estate, including your mother’s personal property and interests, transfers to you upon your mother’s death.” He glances over at me. “These holdings, combined with the trust fund established by your father, have made you a wealthy young woman.”
The news slams a punch to the center of my chest. “T-trust fund?” I stammer. “My father established a trust fund for me?”
Mr. Shields’s face draws in upon itself, a knot of apprehension. “Surely you haven’t forgotten.”
I turn to Clara, who is glaring at the lawyer with barely disguised distaste. “Auntie? Did you know about this?”
“Subsequent to the divorce proceedings,” Mr. Shields says, speaking more rapidly, “your father established a trust fund for you with an initial contribution of one million dollars—an amount which has now multiplied to nearly thirty-three million.” He reaches up and tweaks the end of his mustache. “I’m sorry, but I was certain you knew about this. The file contains a sworn affidavit with your signature.”
As he lowers his head and peers into his briefcase, my thoughts skip back to Clara’s gentle insistence that she go through the papers in my mother’s files. Did she throw away evidence of my father’s provision for me? Why would she do such a thing?
I wave my hand before her frozen gaze. When she finally looks at me, I ask again: “Did you know about this?”
Her eyes have gone icy blue. “Your mother wanted nothing to do with that man. Yes, he established a trust, but I’m sure he did it only to keep people from thinking of him as a complete rogue. You don’t need his money. Your mother was determined that you should never need anything from him.”
Clara’s face is pale, with deep red patches over her pronounced cheekbones. “I blame him for your mother’s unhappiness in her final years. I know about dementia; I know how it makes people regress to their younger days. That’s why your mother was so difficult and angry—she was reliving all those bad times with him.”
Mr. Shields and I look at each other. I don’t know how much he knows about my parents’ relationship, but Clara’s outburst is bound to make him uncomfortable.
The lawyer tugs at his collar, then pulls a bound document from a folder. “Here it is.” He hands the folder to me. “On the second page you’ll see an affidavit dated February 15, 1990, and signed with your name.”
I flip to the second page and study the letter, signed the day after my twenty-first birthday. The slanted signature is a good forgery, but it is a forgery nonetheless. I can still remember spending my twentyfirst birthday alone in my dormitory at Sweet Briar. I was nowhere near Manhattan.
My mother forged my signature. I know it; Clara knows it. Mr. Shields now knows it, and he’s probably sweating bullets to think I might sue his firm for being remiss in their fiduciary duties.
But what good would it do to sully Mother’s name?
I force a smile and lower the document to my lap. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shields, that my memory is so spotty. I have forgotten all about this.”
“I can assure you, Ms. Norquest, that the fund has been well-managed. You have earned an average of 10.5 percent over the years, and your portfolio should continue to do well. Anytime you need to withdraw funds, all you have to do is ask and we will set the wheels in motion.” A flash of humor crosses his face. “So you see, if you want to hire a professional painter, you can certainly afford to do so.”
I acknowledge his comment with a weak smile, then skim over the remaining pages in the document. Theodore Norquest established the trust fund in April 1969 as a direct gift to his legal daughter, Aurora Rose Norquest. The trust remained under the authority of the directors of Shields, Wilt, and Stock until February 14, 1990, at which time legal authority transferred to Aurora Rose Norquest. In lieu of Aurora Rose Norquest’s personal involvement, the financial directors of Shields, Wilt, and Stock were to continue to manage the trust fund.
One caveat catches my eye: Before any of the monies can be withdrawn, Aurora Norquest must agree to meet personally with Theodore Norquest or one of his heirs.
“What’s this paragraph?” I jab at the paper with my index finger. “Before I can withdraw any money, I have to visit Theodore Norquest? What kind of stipulation is that?”
“An unusual one.” Mr. Shields presses his hands together. “Your mother and father did not have an amicable parting. Apparently your father was afraid your mother would prejudice you against him, so before the money can be disbursed, you must arrange a personal visit with Mr. Norquest or, if he is deceased, one of his other children.”
I shake my head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“It sounds like him.” Clara’s mouth is a thin line of disapproval. “That man looked for any opportunity to hurt you and your mother. Look what he’s doing even now.”
“I don’t know that asking a daughter to meet her father is hurtful.” Daring her disapproval, Mr. Shields lifts a bushy brow and transfers his gaze to me. “But unless you’re planning on buying a professional sports team or real estate, you don’t need your father’s money. Your mother’s estate is valued at nearly fifteen million in mostly liquid assets. In other words”—his lips twist into a cynical smile—“you don’t need to run to your father for an allowance.”
I accept this news in stunned silence. I knew Mother had come from money, but I had no idea her estate was still worth so much.
I manage a hollow laugh. “Sort of makes my plans to get a job seem silly, doesn’t it?”
Clara laughs too, but Mr. Shields only twiddles his mustache.
“Quite the contrary, Ms. Norquest. You are a fortunate young woman in that you’ve been given an opportunity to be useful to mankind. With the kind of money your parents have provided, you could establish a business, fund cancer research, endow any number of worthy philanthropies. You’re still a young woman with a lifetime ahead of you. I’m hoping you’ll take this opportunity to meet your father . . . for other than financial reasons.”
I lower my gaze, feeling the pressure of Clara’s eyes upon me. If she weren’t here, I’d ask Mr. Shields if he knew how I could contact my father, but Clara would recoil in horror if I even mouthed the words. I had hoped that Mother’s passing would temper Clara’s aversion to my father; oddly enough, she seems more determined than ever to despise him.
“Your father’s trust contained another interesting provision.” The lawyer flips to another page. “In addition to the fund he established, he has also bequeathed the copyrights of his first thirty books to you. After his death, royalties from those books will be paid into the trust. Given the rate his older novels are selling, that amount could be quite substantial.”
Clara sinks back, her hand going to her chest. Apparently this news caught her by surprise.
“And now there is this.” Mr. Shields picks up the copy of Mother’s will, then flips to the back. “If you’ll look on page 10, you’ll find that Mary Elizabeth was making an annual disbursement. She wished to continue this disbursement after her death, but she did give you the power to stop disbursing funds if you choose.”
“What was it, an investment?”
“It was a gift. To a friend.”
I read the terms of the bequest: On January 1 the estate of Mary Elizabeth Wentworth Norquest shall pay an annual sum of $350,000 to Mrs. Clara Bellingham, a gift that shall continue until the recipient’s death or until Aurora Rose Norquest chooses to invoke her authority and cease disbursement. Any revision by Aurora Rose Norquest must be offered in writing and copies delivered to Clara Bellingham and the offices of Shields, Wilt, and Stock at least ten days before the payment due date . . .
I turn wide eyes upon Clara.
“We were friends,” she whispers, looking small against the wide back of Mother’s wing chair. “My husband—your Uncle Charley—did not provide for me as well as he should have. He had a gambling problem, you see, and . . . well, when he finally died, he left me nothing but debts. But your mother, bless her, stepped in and made this . . . arrangement. She didn’t want me to suffer for Charley’s terrible decisions. Mary Elizabeth’s gift has enabled me to keep the apartment and maintain appearances . . . and that’s just one reason why your mother meant the world to me.”
She looks so frail, so frightened, that all I can feel is pity for her. This is why she wanted to be here today—and this is probably why she didn’t want me rummaging through my mother’s papers. Perhaps she had hoped to find a way to broach the subject beforehand but failed. Like Mother, she is a proud woman.
I stand and go to her. “Don’t worry, Auntie,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. “Why should anything change? Everything’s going to be fine.”
She is patting my arm, sniffling awkwardly in my embrace, when Mr. Shields clears his throat.
“If at any time”—he shuffles papers in his briefcase—“you wish to change the status of any of the items we have discussed, you have only to call my office. If you wish to avail yourself of your father’s trust fund, be sure that I will immediately make all the necessary arrangements.” He picks up his briefcase and leans forward as if to stand, but hesitates. “I should remind you”—he catches my eye—“that your father is an elderly man. If you want to see him, you should act soon.”
What can I say? My mother’s best friend is blubbering in my arms, weighting me down with the past. And I’ve just promised her that nothing will change.
“There’s no need,” I say, patting Clara’s arm. I release her, then stand and face the lawyer. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Shields. My mother trusted you implicitly, and I’d like to continue our association.”
He extends his hand. “Your father trusted me, too.”
I shake his hand and thank him again, then walk him through the foyer. Clara slips by us, murmuring something about getting something from the kitchen, but I know she is going to the bathroom to splash water on her tear-streaked cheeks.
I wish Mr. Shields a good day, then close the door behind him. I can hear water running in the bathroom—Clara will remain in there until the last trace of blotchiness has left her face.
I sink onto the bench beside the foyer table, my mind reeling with revelation. In the last half-hour I’ve discovered that both my parents had reservoirs of generosity I never expected to find.