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appeared alone. My hope sunk. Gladys wasn't going
to give us an audience.
"Mother will be down," she said, "but my father
is not able to see anyone at the moment. You might as
well sit," she told Beau. "It will be a while. She's not
exactly prepared for visitors right now," she added
bitterly. Beau took a seat beside me obediently. Toby
stared at us a moment.
"Why were you so obstinate? If there was ever
a time my mother needed the baby around her, it was
now. How cruel of you two to make it difficult and
force us to go to a judge." She glared at me and then
turned directly to Beau. "I might have expected
something like this from her, but I thought you were
more compassionate, more mature."
"Toby," I said. "I'm not who you think I am." She smirked. "I know exactly who you are. Don't you think we have people like you here, selfish, vain people who couldn't care less about anyone
else?"
"But . . ."
Beau put his hand on my arm. I looked at him
and saw him plead for silence with his eyes. I
swallowed back my words and closed my eyes. Toby
turned and left us.
"She'll understand afterward," Beau said softly.
A good ten minutes later, we heard Gladys Tate's
heels clicking down the stairway, each click like a
gunshot aimed at my heart. Our eyes fixed with
anticipation on the doorway until she appeared. She
loomed before us, taller, darker in her black mourning
dress, her hair pinned back as severely as Toby's. Her
lips were pale, her cheeks pallid, but her eyes were
