Chapter 13 - The Choice I Never Expected
I opened Richard’s letter.
It was shorter than expected.
Daniel,
If you followed the path I built for you, the Carter girl will eventually become useful.
Marriage consolidates what lawsuits cannot.
Never confuse affection with strategy.
I stopped reading.
Daniel looked sick.
“My father planned it.”
“He tried to.”
I looked at Daniel.
“But he didn’t plan us.”
“How can you know?”
“Because Richard couldn’t plan the stupid things.”
Daniel frowned.
“The what?”
“The terrible diner where you took me on our second date.”
He almost laughed.
“The milkshake machine was broken.”
“You spilled coffee on my coat.”
“You said you hated jazz.”
“I still hate jazz.”
“You married someone who owns six Miles Davis records.”
“That was my first mistake.”
He smiled.
Then I became serious.
“Richard could arrange a meeting. He couldn’t manufacture six years.”
Daniel’s eyes filled.
“No.”
“But you still lied to me.”
His smile disappeared.
“Yes.”
“And I’m not pretending that letter erases it.”
“I know.”
I folded Richard’s letter.
For once, a dead man would not decide what happened next.
The following months were difficult.
There was no miraculous reconciliation.
Daniel rented an apartment.
We went to counseling.
Sometimes I left furious.
Sometimes he did.
Sometimes we laughed.
Trust returned in millimeters.
Claire began dating someone.
A pediatrician named Marcus who met Noah after the warehouse incident.
When she told me, I teased her.
“Does he know about your dramatic mall wardrobe?”
“He likes green.”
Margaret began therapy.
Stephen moved back to Chicago.
Brother and sister had thirty years of grief to untangle.
Anna and I met for coffee.
The first time was awkward.
The second less so.
By spring, she showed me my father’s letters.
I showed her photographs.
We cried over a man neither of us had possessed completely.
The company became Carter & Whitmore Community Development.
Not because I wanted Richard’s name preserved.
Because Stephen asked that his family name be reclaimed from the man who had corrupted it.
Daniel did not return as CEO.
He started a smaller nonprofit housing initiative.
One evening in June, he came to the house.
We sat on the porch.
“I have something for you.”
My stomach tightened.
He handed me a key.
I stared.
“Please tell me this family has stopped giving women mysterious keys.”
He laughed.
“This one isn’t mysterious.”
“What does it open?”
“My apartment.”
I looked at him.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not asking you to move in.”
“Good.”
“I’m giving you access because I don’t want any locked rooms between us.”
I closed my fingers around it.
“That’s symbolic.”
“Yes.”
“Symbols are easy.”
“I know.”
“What’s hard?”
“Telling you things when I’m afraid you’ll leave.”
I looked at him.
“And will you?”
“Yes.”
I believed he meant it.
Not enough to erase everything.
Enough for tomorrow.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
“Who is it?”
He turned the phone toward me.
May you like
Victor Hale.
Calling from jail.
