A man in a three-piece suit sits behind the desk. He shuffles some papers and clears his throat. “Shall I begin?”
The elderly lady nods in a regal manner.
“This is the last will and testament of Jack William Elliot Junior. This document revokes all wills and other testamentary dispositions that I have previously made. Mr. Rahul Nair Esquire is hereby appointed as executor—”
“Just give us the basics, Rahul,” she interrupts. “I don’t want to be here all day.”
Rahul’s lips tighten at the order. “All of my shares in Elliot Industries are to be divided equally between my four children, Ethan, Emma, Beck, and Henry. My youngest son’s interests will be controlled by my eldest son, Ethan, until Henry is twenty-one years of age.”
A woman gasps. She’s around forty and wearing a formfitting black suit. I’ve never met a supermodel, but she could probably be one. “But what about me? I’m Henry’s mother, for heaven’s sake!”
The lawyer shuffles through the paperwork for a moment before finding the relevant information. “To my wife, Giada, I leave the Bertram Street residence and twenty-million dollars. A fund to continue paying staff wages and to maintain the residence and grounds has been established. The fund will remain in force for as long as the residence remains in the family.”
“Is that all?” Beige manicured nails dig into the shoulder of a teenage boy beside her. He winces, wriggling out from beneath her grip. “It can’t be. I can’t possibly be expected to live on just that.”
At this, someone snorts. I don’t see who.
“Forced to stay in that horrible museum for the rest of my life. I won’t do it!”
“Continue please, Rahul,” says the old lady, ignoring the drama.
“Yes, Mrs. Elliot,” he answers. “The cottage on Cape Cod goes to my ex-wife, Rachel, along with my apologies. You were right, I was an ass.”
A stylish middle-aged blonde laughs at this, before quietly sighing. “Yes, you were.”
“Apart from the established trust funds for the grandchildren and some smaller bequests to longtime staff members and other various donations, that’s basically it,” says the lawyer. “The rest of his belongings and properties are to go to the four children. Any unwanted items are to be sold at auction with the proceeds to be divided equally among them.”
Through all of this, Beck sits perfectly still. He might as well be a statue. His posture is perfect, the expression on his face set. Whatever he’s thinking or feeling is buried deep.
A different woman, who was seated beside Ethan, rises to her feet with a smile. She’s early to midthirties at a guess. “All of the years of bullshit and manipulations and he does this. Just breaks the pie into four easy pieces. Fuck me.”
The elderly lady, Mrs. Elliot, knocks her walking stick against the floor twice. “Language, Emma.”
“Sorry, Grandmother. But seriously…you have to see the joke in all of this.”
“It’s no joke,” cries Giada. Tears are making tracks through her heavy makeup. Can’t help but feel that it has more to do with her bank balance than burying her husband.
“If you honestly can’t survive on twenty-million cash and real estate worth at least twice that then I guess it’s time to go back to working for a living.” Emma shakes her head. “Or you could play to your strengths and marry another rich old man, I guess.”
“Emma,” Mrs. Elliot growls. “Enough.”
But Giada is already on her feet and storming from the room. How she can run in heels that high I have no idea. I’d break an ankle or fall on my ass.
“Darling,” says the sophisticated blonde with the cottage on Cape Cod. “That was unkind. It’s also neither the time nor the place.”
“Yes, Mom.” Emma takes the empty spot next to the teenage boy, sliding an arm around his shoulders. But he just shrugs her off. She smiles, undaunted. “Welcome to the Billionaires Club, kid.”
“Can’t touch it for five years so what does it matter?” Henry, the teenager, takes a cell phone out of his pocket and gets busy doing something.
“Like your trust fund doesn’t keep you in designer sneakers and sports cars and whatever other nonsense you feel you need,” says Mrs. Elliot. “That will be all, thank you, Rahul.”
In silence, the man gathers his papers and rises to his feet. “Each of you will receive a full copy of the document today. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions. I will begin executing the relevant provisions in the very near future.”
“The sooner the better.” Mrs. Elliot’s gaze fixes on the door through whence the angry widow just retreated.
Rahul nods. “Of course.”
“Thank you, Rahul,” says the Cape Cod lady.
Ethan, the big brother, stands up and shakes his hand. There’s some murmuring, but I can’t hear what they say. Not that it’s any of my business anyway.
And then the lawyer is gone. It’s just the family, and me. Some of the stiff formality of the occasion seems to ease with his departure.
Beside me, Beck is now scowling at the floor. If he had laser eyes, he’d have long since burnt a hole in the parquetry. Guess he just joined the Billionaires Club too, if he wasn’t a member already. Seems like everyone around here must have had some sort of trust fund. Because, holy shit. The kind of money they’re talking about…it’s a lot. More than my brain can handle. Money like that requires a high-class girlfriend. Someone from the right social set. Not me. Yet here I am—the girl whose hand he’s holding on to like it’s a lifeline. I wish there were something more I could do for him.
“He said I was out.” Beck’s forehead is furrowed. “That he was changing his will.”
Ethan’s stern gaze gentles. “Dad said a lot of things.”
“It feels weird not having him here, glaring at everyone and being disappointed in our life choices,” says Emma, ruffling Henry’s hair. He half-heartedly tries to duck away from her. “Speaking of which, who the hell are you?”
I sit pinned beneath her gaze.
“She’s my Alice,” answers Beck.
“Is she?” Emma’s brows rise. “What does Selah have to say about that?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I assume she’s staying?” asked Mrs. Elliot. “I’ll have a room made up.”
“Thank you,” said Beck. “But that’s not necessary, we can—”
“It’s necessary.”
Henry smirks. “Cock blocked by Grandma.”
Mrs. Elliot strikes her walking stick once hard against the ground, a pink tinge emerging beneath her white skin. “Language. All of you, go and circulate, we have guests. You will keep all mention of my son’s will from your lips. I will not have Jack’s funeral marked by petty squabbling. This family will show a united front. And Beck, make sure your mother doesn’t meditate on the front lawn half-naked again. I have no interest in explaining her odd habits to the neighbors.”
“I’ll talk to her,” says Beck.
“Good. Rachel, see to the girl, would you?”
“Of course,” says the Cape Cod lady, giving me a small smile. Wait. Am I the girl? And if so, what does seeing to me entail? Then Rachel, Cape Cod lady, follows the old dame out. Guess whatever it is can wait until later.