Cade was across from me, while Suzanne was in the kitchen.
The lawyer cleared his throat.
He read my dad’s will. He had a pen in his hand that he didn't use. He had a folder open in front of him, which he didn't look at much.
"To my wife, Vivienne…the house at…" He read the address. "And the contents thereof, and the property at…" He read the second address. "And the property at…" The third. "And the entirety of the residual estate…are bequeathed to you outright."
Mom’s hand didn't move on the table. Her hand was flat beside her coffee cup. The cup had a chip on the rim. I never noticed it until that minute.
The lawyer turned a page.
"To my stepson, Cade Nightingale — "
Mom's hand moved. It went onto Cade's wrist.
" — the entirety of the trust I established at the time of my marriage to Vivienne. The trust was modified twice in the intervening years, the most recent modification two years ago. The current value at the date of valuation is — " He read the number.
The number was significant.
Cade was looking at his own hand under Mom's. "He didn't have to do that."
His voice was even. Cade's voice was always even.
Mom said, "He did, Cade."
The lawyer turned another page. He looked at me.
"Mr. Cross, your father's last will and testament names you the chairman of Cross Real Estate Holdings, with full fiduciary responsibility and the controlling vote on the board."
The order of the words hit me before the sense of them did.
"Sorry," I said. "Could you read that again?"
He read it again.
I sat with it.
The chairmanship. The fiduciary responsibility. The controlling vote on the board. My father spent twenty-six years building Cross Real Estate Holdings, and at some point, in some recent revision of a document he probably hoped not to need for a long time, he decided to hand it to me.
Tome.
I ran the foundation for ten years, reasonably well. Cross Real Estate Holdings was a company whose worst day was a building falling down.
I didn't ask for Cross Real Estate Holdings. He gave it to me anyway.
He gave me a company on his way out of the room.
The lawyer cleared his throat again. "Mr. Cross also asked that I deliver these."
He produced three envelopes. Cream paper. Heavy stock. Three names in my father's handwriting on the fronts.
Vivienne.
Cade.
Beau.
The handwriting was the same scrawl that had signed every birthday card he’d given me since I was five. It was the handwriting on the back of the tag of a Christmas present that said:To my boy, from your old man. Don't open until December 25 (unless your mother says otherwise).It was the handwriting on the Post-it note he stuck to the inside of my luggage the first time I flew internationally without him —Call your mother on her time, not yours.
