Page 71 of More With You

It's satisfying to watch Mr. DuCate reel back in astonishment. I wonder how many people have stood up to him in his life. Heat prickles in my eyes, but I can’t tell if tears are coming or it’s just the residual burn of my all-consuming anger. It better not be tears. I’m not crying in front of these people. They won’t get that victory over me.

Ben is up on his feet, too, slipping his arm around my waist in a gesture of unity. “I think she’s said everything that you need to hear,” he says coldly. “You used to claim you were a man of the people, Father, but I guess that was just another one of your lies, to keep you in power. If you took the time to know Summer, you’d understand why I love her so much. She’s a fighter. She’s stronger than you could possibly imagine, and now it’s someone else’s turn to make her feel safe and lighten the load she’s been carrying her whole life—it’s my turn to do that.”

“You’re breaking our hearts, Benjamin,” Cybil whimpers. “You can’t do this. There must be some way we can undo this.” She turns to her husband. “An annulment by proxy? We could say he wasn’t sound of mind?”

Ben bristles. “No court would uphold that. Pastor Cooke isn’t someone who can be bought, and he knows I was of sound mind. Give it up, Mother. This isn’t about you or your reputation or your public image. This is about your only son being blissfully happy in love for the first time in his life. You told me to find someone, and I did, so you can’t complain about who I fell in love with.”

“You can forget any hope of an inheritance,” Mr. DuCate growls, recovering from his momentary shock. “If you thought you could turn my son into your cash cow, Miss Larson, you’re going to be in for a nasty surprise.”

I snort. “Of course, you’d think that was the only reason people get married. For money. I don’t care how much is in his bank account, or how much he’s going to get when you die. I just care about him.”

“You’ll probably outlive me anyway,” Ben adds, smirking. “You’re stubborn enough.”

Mr. DuCate’s cheeks streak with purple: his nostrils flaring like a dragon. “If money won’t persuade you, Miss Larson, then you should know that I can make your life a whole lot harder. That deal with Vasily and the casino in Wisconsin was just the tip of the iceberg.”

“You don’t scare me, Mr. DuCate,” I say evenly, surprising myself with the eerie calm in my voice. “I’ve seen things you couldn’t even imagine in your sheltered little world. I’ve endured things that would keep you up at night, and I sleep just fine. Threaten me all you like, but I’m like a bad rash—I’ll keep coming back.”

Visibly flustered, Cybil decides to add her two cents. “Then, we’ll take you both through the courts! We will fight to get full custody of Grace!” She flaps her hands about, as if that will give more weight to her words. “You say you love my son—will you stand by and watch while his daughter is taken away from him? Or will you do the righteous thing, here and now, and agree to a divorce? That is the only way you can spare him from a lengthy lawsuit!”

“Hire every lawyer in this country; it won’t work,” Ben says, echoing my eerie calm. “Lyndsey is Grace’s mother. Lyndsey knows my character, and she knows what the two of you are like. If you weren’t laughed out of court, you’d be vilified in the papers. Don’t forget, the media is more powerful than all the money you’ve got set aside for emergency offspring situations.”

Cybil covers her mouth with shaky hands and starts to weep, sinking down onto the chaise lounge opposite in a self-indulgent display of “damsel in distress.” Only, she’s too old to play the innocent ingenue. All she does is make herself look more pathetic.

“And don’t forget that you seeing Grace is still in my and Lyndsey’s hands,” Ben continues. “If you want to keep having visits with your granddaughter, then act like grandparents who have their family’s best interests at heart. Grace loves Summer. I’m sure she’d be very upset if she heard the awful things that you’ve said today.”

Cybil freezes. “You wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t, because I’m not as cruel as you,” Ben replies, but there’s a caveat. “Unless you push me, that is. I’m not asking for you to have weekly dinners with me and Summer, or to spend any time with us at all. I’m asking that you be civil, and accept that what’s done is done, for everyone’s sake.”

Cybil keeps sobbing into her handkerchief, while Benjamin Senior stalks toward the windows and stares violently out at the gardens, as if he wants to rip up every sapling and trample every flowerbed. I can tell from his stiff posture that he knows he’s been cornered. He’s just buying himself a moment, to see if there’s any other angle that he can use that might put him back at an advantage.

New Orleans. Think of New Orleans. Think of The Chevalet. Think of coffee shops, rich with that earthy, nutty scent of fresh-ground beans. Think of Grace. Grace and Ben. Grace, Ben, and me. I repeat the mantra, letting it temper me back down onto the armrest of the sofa—not quite sitting, not quite standing, a good middle ground.

“Fine,” says Mr. DuCate acidly: his back to us.

Ben frowns. “Fine? You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“I’ll speak with my lawyer as soon as you leave. All of your inheritance will be transferred to Grace, in the event of my death.” Mr. DuCate’s arms and shoulders sway strangely, like he’s not sure whether to turn around for this or not. “In return, you allow us to continue our summer vacations with her, as well as having New Year’s Day with her and no less than four other visits throughout the year.”

“Eight!” Cybil chimes in, the tears miraculously gone.

Mr. DuCate nods and turns at last. “No less than eight other visits throughout the year, consisting of at least two full days.”

“So, a weekend?” Ben responds dryly. “That can be arranged, depending on what you plan to offer in return?”

His father raises a puzzled eyebrow. “The inheritance going to Grace.”

“It would anyway, eventually. I don’t need it, so even if I were still inheriting, it would just get put away for her.” Ben comes to stand on the far side of me, his hand lightly massaging the back of my neck, easing out the muscle tension.

Benjamin Senior expels a frustrated sigh. “What is it you want? Let’s start there.”

“A signed promise that you won’t carry out any of your threats, though we both know they wouldn’t hold up,” Ben answers, taking out the contract he drew up last night. It’s thorough. I checked it myself. “And a guarantee that you’ll behave amicably toward me and my wife, in situations that can’t be avoided. New Year’s Day, for example. That’s all I want, though I wish I didn’t have to get you to sign something in order to get you to agree.”

His father eyes the document and draws a pen from his breast pocket. In this case, the pen isn’t mightier than the sword—the contract is. “Might I add my stipulations at the bottom?”

“Of course.” Ben walks to his father, and they go to a small table on the far side of the room. Benjamin Senior sits, while my Ben looks over his shoulder like a hawk, watching every word that gets scrawled onto the crisp paper.

It leaves me to observe Cybil for a moment. She’s not looking at me but gazing away toward an old portrait on the wall. I don’t know who the image represents; it’s an old man with veined hands and a rigid posture, glaring through the oil paint like he’s glaring through the annals of time, disapproving of what’s going on. The views of a bygone relic don’t concern me, and neither does Cybil. In the sepia-toned light that mists in through the window, I see her for what she really is: an old woman in a gilded cage, shackled by the power and wealth she feeds on, who has endured embarrassment after embarrassment, with no choice but to persevere.

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