Chapter 9 - What Felicity Knew
I pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store.
Turned off the engine.
Then asked Felicity to repeat herself.
She did.
"Margaret was considering leaving your father."
I stared through the windshield.
People pushed shopping carts between parked cars.
A man lifted groceries into his trunk.
A little boy dropped a red balloon and started crying.
The world continued behaving normally while mine tilted.
"How do you know?"
Felicity hesitated.
"Because she told me."
I closed my eyes.
"You and my mother weren't friends."
"No."
"Then why would she tell you something like that?"
There was a long silence.
Finally, Felicity said, "Because she found out about me."
I felt the answer before I understood it.
My father had married Felicity less than two years after my mother died.
He told everyone they had grown close through grief.
That she had helped him manage the company during the darkest period of his life.
That she had been a comfort to Boone after his mother became a permanent part of his world.
I had never questioned the chronology very closely.
I hadn't wanted to.
Now I asked, "Were you involved with him while my mother was alive?"
Felicity began crying.
I closed my eyes.
That was answer enough.
"How long?"
She sniffed.
"Sloane—"
"How long?"
"Almost a year."
I sat motionless.
It was strange how little anger I felt.
Perhaps there was no room left.
Perhaps I had already spent so many years grieving the father I wanted that learning another unpleasant truth about him couldn't hurt me in quite the same way.
Or perhaps the injury wasn't really mine.
It belonged to my mother.
And she had been gone too long for me to ask what it cost her.
"Did my mother know?"
"Yes."
"Did my father know she knew?"
"Eventually."
I looked at the dashboard.
"Tell me what happened."
Felicity took a trembling breath.
"Margaret came to my office one afternoon."
I could picture it.
My mother in a cardigan.
Felicity younger than I was now.
The accounting department full of ringing telephones and filing cabinets.
"She didn't yell," Felicity said.
"She asked whether it was true."
I waited.
"I lied."
I looked away.
"Of course you did."
"Then she showed me a hotel receipt."
My father's business trips.
His conferences.
His habit of saying that running a dealership group required sacrifice.
I remembered how often my mother ate dinner alone.
"She told me she wasn't going to fight with me over a man who had already made his choice."
Felicity's voice broke.
"She said that if I wanted him, I should understand exactly what kind of man I was getting."
I stared at the windshield.
My mother had not screamed.
She had not made a scene.
She had looked at the woman sleeping with her husband and told her the truth.
That sounded painfully familiar.
"What happened next?"
"She met with a lawyer."
"Harriet Vale?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"I don't know everything."
"Tell me what you do know."
Felicity hesitated.
"Margaret wanted financial independence."
I looked down at my mother's letter.
"She wanted to make sure the dealership property couldn't be used to pressure her."
I swallowed.
"Or me."
Felicity was quiet.
Then she whispered, "Yes."
I sat back.
Pieces were beginning to fit together.
My mother's ownership interest.
The trust.
The letter.
The insistence that I should never have to ask my father for permission to make my own choices.
Perhaps she had been preparing to leave.
Perhaps she had been preparing to protect me.
Perhaps both.
Then she became ill.
And she died before either plan could unfold.
I stared at the cars passing through the lot.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
Felicity didn't answer immediately.
Then she said, "Because Boone came home from the dealership."
I frowned.
"What happened?"
"He asked your father about Margaret's ownership."
"And?"
"They had a terrible argument."
I waited.
"Dewitt said your mother never understood business."
My hands tightened.
"Boone asked why her name was on the property documents."
"Good question."
Felicity exhaled shakily.
"Your father told him to stop asking."
I looked down.
"And that's when you decided to call me?"
"Not exactly."
I waited.
She lowered her voice.
"Arthur Kessler called this afternoon."
"Why?"
"He said Boone should not sign any documents concerning the old property transaction until the records were reviewed."
I went still.
"Boone was asked to sign something?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"I don't know."
I looked at the time on the dashboard.
"Felicity, you need to tell Boone to get his own attorney."
She sounded surprised.
"His own?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because if Father is asking him to sign documents without explaining them, Boone needs independent advice."
She went quiet.
I could almost hear her thinking.
Then she said, "You're trying to take the company."
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The accusation she had been carrying beneath the confession.
"No, Felicity."
"Then why are you involved?"
"Because my mother left something for me, and I want to know what happened to it."
"But what if the company can't pay?"
I stared.
"Pay what?"
She hesitated.
"Whatever you think you're owed."
I looked down at the telephone display.
"Felicity."
"Yes?"
"Do you know something about the company's finances?"
Silence.
I waited.
Finally, she said, "The last two years have been difficult."
"How difficult?"
"Sales are down. Some properties were refinanced. Boone has been trying to restructure the business."
That surprised me.
My father's billboards still announced record success.
He still hosted elaborate charity events.
He still traveled in a chauffeured SUV.
But companies could look prosperous from the street while struggling behind closed doors.
I had seen that often enough during military transition programs.
People could hide problems for years when they believed admitting difficulty meant admitting failure.
"Then Boone needs accurate information," I said.
Felicity sounded exhausted.
"He worships his father."
"I know."
"He believes Dewitt can fix anything."
"Can he?"
She didn't answer.
I closed my eyes.
"Felicity, whatever happened between you and my mother is not something I can settle."
"I understand."
"And whatever happens with the trust, I'm not going to use it to punish Boone."
Her breathing changed.
"You're not?"
"No."
I paused.
"But I'm not going to sign away my mother's wishes to protect Father from uncomfortable questions."
She began crying again.
This time I did not offer comfort.
I wasn't cruel.
I simply understood that some consequences belonged to the people who created them.
Felicity had spent decades benefiting from a story in which my mother was gone, I was ungrateful, and my father was always right.
Now that story was cracking.
She would have to decide what to do without asking me to repair it for her.
Before ending the call, I asked one final question.
"Did you ever tell Boone what really happened between my father and me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
She was quiet for a long time.
Then she said, "Because Dewitt didn't want him asking why you left."
I stared at the steering wheel.
"Why?"
Her answer came almost too softly to hear.
"Because Boone might ask whether he could leave too."
I ended the call.
Then sat there for several minutes.
That was when I realized how much fear had governed our family.
My father feared losing control.
My mother feared losing the freedom to choose her own life.
Felicity feared losing the position she had gained.
Boone feared disappointing the father whose approval defined him.
And I had spent twenty-nine years afraid that the people who raised me had been right about my worth.
A car horn sounded behind me.
I looked up.
A woman was waiting for my parking space.
I started the engine and drove back toward the hotel.
That evening, I called Avery.
My daughter answered from her apartment in Maryland.
"Hey, Mom."
"Hey, sweetheart."
"You sound tired."
"I am."
"Long day?"
"Very."
She waited.
Then said, "Is this about Grandpa Merrick?"
I smiled sadly.
"How did you know?"
"Because Dad called to make sure I wasn't reading internet comments."
I closed my eyes.
"Of course he did."
Avery had met my father exactly once.
She was seven.
We had stopped at a restaurant near the interstate during a family trip.
My father walked in with Boone and two business associates.
Avery recognized him from a photograph.
She ran toward him before I could stop her.
"Grandpa!"
He looked at her.
Then at me.
And asked the hostess to seat his party somewhere else.
I had never forgotten the way Avery's face changed.
At seven, she didn't understand estrangement.
She understood that an older man she thought was family had refused to say hello.
Daniel had taken her outside.
I had stayed behind just long enough to tell my father never to approach my child unless he was prepared to treat her with kindness.
He had laughed.
Avery never asked about him again.
Now she was twenty-four.
Old enough to understand far more than I wished she had needed to.
"Mom," she said, "I watched the ceremony."
I smiled.
"Did you?"
"Three times."
"Three?"
"Lucy Bell is adorable."
"She is."
"And Owen standing up?"
Her voice softened.
"That was incredible."
I nodded.
"He's worked hard."
Avery paused.
"Grandpa looked unhappy."
I looked out the hotel window.
"Yes."
"Did he say something?"
I hesitated.
Then told her about the encounter outside.
Not every detail.
But enough.
She was quiet.
Then she said, "Mom, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Why do you still care what he thinks?"
I leaned back.
It was a fair question.
One I had asked myself many times.
"I don't think I care the way I used to."
"But it still hurts."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I looked at the photograph of my mother on the desk.
"Because part of me remembers being his little girl."
Avery was silent.
I continued.
"Before all the arguments, before the Army, before the company became the most important thing in his life, he used to take me fishing."
I smiled faintly.
"He taught me how to change a tire. He let me sit in the driver's seat of new cars before they went into the showroom."
I swallowed.
"When I was eight, he stayed up all night helping me build a model bridge for school."
Avery listened.
"He wasn't always the man you saw on television."
My daughter was quiet for a moment.
Then said, "Maybe that's why it hurts."
I closed my eyes.
"Maybe."
"Because you know he could have been different."
Tears gathered.
"Yes."
Avery took a breath.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"You're not like him."
I looked up.
She continued.
"When I decided to become an occupational therapist instead of joining the Army, you didn't make me feel like I was disappointing you."
I smiled through tears.
"Of course not."
"You came to my graduation."
"I wouldn't have missed it."
"You helped me move into a terrible apartment with a broken elevator."
I laughed.
"Third floor."
"And you carried boxes even though Dad told you to stop."
"Your father gives a lot of unsolicited advice."
Avery laughed too.
Then her voice softened.
"You made sure I knew I could choose."
I stared at the photograph.
The words came back to me.
You do not owe anybody the sacrifice of the person you are meant to become.
My mother had tried to give me freedom.
I had given it to my daughter.
And suddenly I understood that something good had survived my father's decisions.
Something he had not managed to destroy.
"Avery," I whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I'm very proud of you."
"I know, Mom."
She paused.
"You tell me all the time."
I laughed and cried at once.
After the call, I sat at the desk and wrote my mother a letter.
Not because I believed she would read it.
Because there were things I had never been able to say.
I told her about the Army.
About Daniel.
About Avery.
About the soldiers who taught me to listen.
About the people who helped me when I was frightened and far from home.
I told her that I had tried to live the way she asked.
Not perfectly.
But honestly.
Then I wrote one final sentence.
You were right, Mom. Freedom was worth it.
I folded the letter.
Placed it beside hers.
And went to bed.
The next morning, Rebecca Shaw called.
Her voice was serious.
"The successor trustee has located an initial set of records."
I sat upright.
"What did they find?"
"A payment ledger connected to the sale."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"Does it show where the money went?"
"Some of it."
I gripped the phone.
"And?"
Rebecca paused.
"There's a distribution recorded in your name."
I stared at the wall.
"How much?"
"Two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars."
I stopped breathing.
She continued.
"The records say it was paid sixteen years ago."
I looked at the date on my mother's letter.
Then at the photograph beside it.
"I never received that money."
Rebecca's voice remained steady.
"I understand."
"Where was it sent?"
She took a breath.
"That's the problem."
I waited.
"The ledger shows a receipt acknowledging the distribution."
My mouth went dry.
"And the signature?"
She paused.
"It appears to be yours."
I stood so abruptly the chair fell backward.
May you like
Because I had never signed anything.
And somebody, sixteen years earlier, had apparently signed my name.
