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“Of course. Howard knew that. As do I. As does everyone. When I pointed the loophole out to him, he was mortified and acknowledged that it was an oversight.”
Noah chuckled. “I think his Old World heritage sneaked in while he wasn’t looking. He was thinking of Maris as a daughter and wife, not as a senior executive of a multimillion-dollar company. He had enormous affection for her, as you know, and probably still regarded her as the sweet little girl in pigtails he used to bounce on his knee. Anyhow, I insisted that he add the codicil on the last page, which stipulates that the document is invalid until signed by all of us.”
He hoped that Daniel wouldn’t notice that the last page could be detached without it appearing that the document had been tampered with or altered. That had been a last-minute brainstorm, one he should have thought of sooner. He’d hired the unscrupulous lawyer with whom he’d threatened Bancroft to write the codicil. The legalese sounded legitimate, although it lacked the classy touch of the rest of the document. He hoped Daniel wouldn’t notice that, either.
Noah took one final draw on his cigar, then ground out the lighted tip and left it lying in the ashtray. He slapped his thighs lightly as he stood up, officially closing his sales pitch. “Speaking for myself, I’m bushed. Obviously you need to sleep on this. We can talk about it later. Have you thought about what you’d like for breakfast? There’s enough food—”
“I don’t need to sleep on it,” Daniel said abruptly. “Let me sign the damn thing and get it over with. I’m tired of talking about it.”
Noah hesitated. “Don’t decide anything this weekend, Daniel. Take the document back to the city. Have Mr. Stern review it.”
“And by doing so question the judgment of my late friend? No. Howard’s suicide has already generated nasty speculation. I won’t have people saying that his competence had slipped. Where’s a damn pen?”
“Signing won’t make it legal. It has to be notarized.” That had been another potential problem with an obvious solution—the lawyer downtown, whose breath was stronger than his principles. After this was all settled, Noah would have to deal with him or risk being blackmailed. But that was a problem for another day.
“We’ll make it official once we get to the city,” Daniel grumbled. “But I want this matter concluded tonight. For my own peace of mind. Otherwise I won’t be able to relax, or think about breakfast, or anything else. Tomorrow, I want nothing on my mind more problematic than baiting a hook. So give me a goddamn pen.”
Noah’s acting performance was superb, if he did say so himself. He reluctantly produced a pen and passed it over to Daniel. But before releasing it, he gazed deeply into Daniel’s eyes. “You’ve had a lot to drink,” he said, oozing concern. “Nothing will be lost by waiting until—”
Daniel yanked the pen from his son-in-law’s hand and scrawled his signature on the appropriate line.
* * *
The dinner party on St. Anne Island was moved out onto the veranda when a yellow jacket invaded the dining room.
The buzzing menace appeared out of nowhere and alighted on the rim of Maris’s as-yet-unused coffee cup. She sent up a faint squeal—ill-timed because it immediately followed Parker’s statement about sexual favors.
Remembering the instruction of a summer camp counselor many years before as to what one should do when stinging insects threatened, she froze in place.
Parker, seeing the real cause of her squeal, yelled, “Mike! Bug spray! Now!”
Mike charged out of the kitchen armed with a can of Black Flag. He aimed it with deadly accuracy, and the yellow jacket died an agonizing death, witnessed by the three who fanned chemical fumes away from their faces.
Parker ventured that the pest had been hiding in the flowers in the centerpiece. Mike insisted that if the magnolia blooms had had a yellow jacket in them when he brought them inside, he would have discovered it long before now.
Before a full-blown argument could ensue, Maris tactfully submitted that the insect could have gotten into the house any number of ways, and then suggested that they take their desserts onto the veranda, which should be comfortably cool if Mike were to turn on the ceiling fans that had been thoughtfully installed during the house’s refurbishing.
He served their pink sorbets in frosted compotes garnished with sprigs of mint. Maris insisted on pouring the coffee in the gracious manner that Maxine had taught her and accomplished serving them without one rattle of cup against saucer.
Parker frowned down into the bone china cup. “This thimble doesn’t hold enough coffee to taste. What’s wrong with an ordinary mug?”
Neither she nor Mike paid any attention to his grumbling. She rocked contentedly in the porch swing, listening to the night sounds that had been so foreign to her when she arrived and had now become so familiar.
“Penny for them,” Parker said.
“I was wondering if I’ll ever become reaccustomed to the sounds of traffic on Manhattan’s streets. I’ve gotten used to cicadas and bullfrogs.”
Mike gathered their empty dessert dishes onto a tray, then carried it into the house.
As soon as Mike was out of earshot, Parker asked, “Planning on leaving us anytime soon?”
The overhead fans blew gently on his hair. The light spilling through the front windows was cast onto only one side of his face, leaving the other side in shadow. Maris couldn’t make out his eyes at all, and what she could see of his expression was inscrutable.
“I’ll have to leave
eventually,” she replied softly. “When your first draft of Envy is finished and you no longer need me around.”
“Two different things entirely, Maris.”
