Erik raised his brows. “You mean my son?”
“For the moment.” Michael walked over to the love seat and sat, forcing Erik to follow. “That’s what I’m here to discuss.”
Erik sat on the edge of the sofa. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Look, you don’t really want Simon. He’d interfere with your ‘student projects,’ for one thing. I do want him, so I’ll adopt him and you’ll consent to the adoption.”
A crafty smile lifted Erik’s face. “You’re not the only one who wants him. His aunt and uncle already filed an adoption petition. How do you know I won’t consent to theirs?”
Michael had expected—even counted on—Erik’s willingness to bargain away his own son, but it still made him want to punch the guy in the face. Simon deserved a better father figure—andMichael would give him one. “Because that wouldn’t be in Simon’s best interests—or yours.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars for your consent.”
Erik scoffed. “It’s worth a lot more than that. The kid has a trust fund worth millions.”
Michael’s opinion of Erik reached a new low. “You’re going to skim off your son’s trust fund? Seriously?”
Erik shrugged beefy shoulders. “I’d make sure it was used to provide a high quality of life for Simon. That would also mean a high quality of life for me, of course.”
Michael gripped the arm of the love seat. “Your quality of life? You should be worried more about your quantity of life.”
Erik turned pale beneath his tan, but he said nothing.
Michael took a pen and a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket and set them on the coffee table in front of Erik. “You know what? I’ll sweeten the deal for you. Sign the consent now and you not only get one hundred thousand dollars. You also get my personal promise not to take you into the swamp, stake you to the ground, and leave you for the gators and rats like you deserve.”
Beads of sweat appeared on Erik’s forehead. Michael could almost read his thoughts. The man was a coward. He’d run away last year because he was afraid of TGU’s late provost, Beckett Harrison. Beckett was dead because he’d crossed the Willard clan. Would Erik stand up to the head of that clan? Of course not. He couldn’t run, so he’d roll over like a scared puppy in front of a junkyard dog.
Erik licked his lips and signed the consent with shaking hands.
Chapter 11
Even as a little girl Savannah had loved poking through the stacks of old books and boxes in the presidential records room. Her love of history had often driven her to spend time here discovering the stories behind the Willard Treasure and the early days of the university. It felt a little like coming home to step into the space steeped with the scent of old leather and paper. She had a few minutes before meeting Hez and Simon for dinner.
The only way she could end the vendetta with Michael was to find out more about the way it had started. Her father’s old journals might hold the answers.
She flipped on the overhead lights, and one of them began to hum loudly. She made a mental note to let maintenance know, even though she was likely the only person to come in here much. Had past presidents spent time in here hoping to glean wisdom?
Her mother had often spent afternoons scribbling in journals when Savannah was growing up, but she wasn’t certain those records had been kept. If they were incriminating to her father, he would have destroyed them, but maybe he’d missed one or two. Savannah hadn’t found them among her mother’sbelongings after her death, but maybe a few had made it to the records room because Mom had been the president’s wife. It wouldn’t hurt to search, and Savannah would even be happy to find some of her mother’s poetry. She had all the published works, but it would be wonderful to discover poems that hadn’t made it to publication.
Stacks of old books stuffed every inch of the bookshelves lining all four sides of the room. The back ones held her great-grandfather’s journals, and those records would be older than the ones she hoped to find, so Savannah turned to the ones on her right. She started with the shelves to the right of the door. When she lifted the top book, dust motes tickled her nose. It was an accounting ledger, so she moved it to one side and delved farther down into the stack.
She gasped at the sight of her parents’ wedding album. She hadn’t seen it in decades, and she flipped through the pages before stopping at an engagement picture. Her mother’s green eyes were so hopeful and joyous. At this captured moment in time, Marie Corbin had no idea of the tragedy her life would become.
Savannah’s gaze went to her father, and she couldn’t help the old admiration from surging a bit. He’d always been handsome, and charm oozed from him in the photo. They’d had so much going for them at the start of their marriage. How had it all gone so wrong?
She closed the album and moved it atop the accounting book to reveal a fine leather journal. She sneezed and opened the cover to discover her father’s distinctive bold script sprawling across the first page. While she’d hoped to discover her mother’s words, her father’s perspective might reveal thingsshe longed to know. She carried it to the table by the door and pulled out a chair.
The dates at the tops of the pages ranged from 1985 to 1990. She turned to the first entry.
My first day as president of TGU. I’ve dreamed of this day. My father will never raise his fist to me again, and he’ll never control me with money either. There will be no more whispers of how Andre Legare ruined Tupelo Grove University. My visions will remake it all. Once I implement all my plans, this university will rival Yale and Harvard. I started raising money for Legare Hall last month, and the architect’s plans will ensure it’s a monument to my vision for this place.
Savannah grimaced at the thought of his grandiose plans for the crumbling marble building. She’d been struggling with whether to have it razed or try to finish it. It was more of a lesson in how to mismanage money than any kind of accolade in her father’s honor. His extravagant ideas rarely came to fruition.
Her attention caught on the “raise his fist” comment. Had her grandpa Andre beaten Dad? The text seemed to say that. She’d always wondered about her father’s unquenchable desire for admiration and power. Maybe he’d been powerless to stop his father’s abuse growing up. Grandfather Andre’s blight on the university could have trained her father in corruption too. If so, he’d been an apt student.
She scanned through the next pages where he cited distractions and his need for more and more money. It was one thing they could agree on—funding was a constant problem, and she’d found life as TGU’s president to be full of meetings where her role was to stroke egos and hold the hands of donors and staff. It wasn’t how she’d envisioned making a difference here.
