Читать книгу Icing On The Cake - Laura Castoro - Страница 10

“I’m glad you could join us, Mrs. Talbot.”

The attorney of record, Lionel Dunlap, and I face each other across the conference table in the law offices of Dunlap, McDougal and Feinstein. He doesn’t glance at his watch but he doesn’t have to. Sarah has already told me that I’ve held up the proceedings by a billable top-attorney hour. Wonder who’s paying?

Maybe I should have rethought my optional Dana Buchman. Every other person present seems to have realized the sartorial significance of the moment.

On my right, Sarah, prim and serious as her tweed business suit and tortoiseshell glasses, clutches my hand. At my left elbow sits Riley in a man’s pin-striped seersucker suit sans shirt. The flexible dancer’s leg folded against her chest puts considerable strain on the one button holding closed the jacket. A colorful batik fabric snugly wraps her head. I hope my urban Amazon aka vegan counter-culture purist hasn’t shaved her head, again.

To one side and a little behind, she sits between two men-in-black-Halston attorneys. So far, we’ve avoided making eye contact. That’s because she’s wearing, yup, a mafiarina-style mourning veil. Yet her widow-black Carrie Bradshaw-goes-Goth micro sheath exposes enough leg to distract even me. If possible, she’s even tanner, with deep red undertones. Swinging from the toes of her crossed leg is a Moschino black-heeled sandal with a crystal-encrusted suede-flower ornament. The pair would pay my flour bill.

“Shall we begin?” Lionel is an old-school lawyerly type, In an impeccable custom-made suit, terribly expensive and understated. Doubtless he would never wear anything as vulgar as a designer label. “For the record the date is Monday, September12. The last will and testimony of Edward Duncan Talbot…”

I’m still at a loss as to why my attendance is such a big deal. Surely, Ted left everything to her and our girls. If he did leave me anything, it’s probably something completely useless like a case of eight-track cartridges. Hmm. Collectors’ items could be sold on eBay for cash. If that’s why she brought in the former law review, to stop me from owning the Bee Gees and K.C. and Sunshine Boys, she can have them.

My attention swings back to old Lionel just as he reads aloud, “…I devise and bequeath to Elizabeth Jeanne Talbot all goods and possessions…”

My first thought is, of course he left everything to his wife. Elizabeth Jeanne Talbot? “Me?”

“Oh, Mom!” whispers Sarah.

“Holy crap!” echoes Riley.

“What!” she gasps, and jumps out of her chair like a goldfish jerked out of her bowl.

“This is, of course, a mistake,” begins one of her attorneys as the other snags his client by the elbow to draw her back into her chair, “one, unfortunately, not uncommon in instances of divorce and remarriage.”

“Teddy would never do that to me. He made another will.” She points at Lionel. “Tell them.”

Lionel nods slowly. “While it is true, Mrs. Talbot—”

“For the record, I’m Mrs. Talbot, too.” I may be in shock but I’ve watched enough episodes of Judge Judy to know that if you don’t protest these little items at the time, they can come back to bite you in the ass. “The Elizabeth Jeanne Talbot referred to in the will, that’s me.”

I can’t see the expression behind her veil but I can hear it in her voice. “But you’re not Teddy’s wife, I am!”

Sarah grips my arm. “Mom, what does this mean?”

I lean toward her to murmur, “Who the heck knows?”

Lionel waits to see if there will be another volley before saying, “As I was saying, while it is true this office apprised Mr. Talbot repeatedly of his need to alter his will after his second marriage he never in fact signed the new document.”

“What does that mean?” We all hear her whisper to her attorneys. After the more subdued whispers of counsel she wails, “But how could Teddy do that to me?”

I can answer her question, though I wouldn’t dream of it.

“Dad didn’t like the idea of wills,” Sarah offers.

“What exactly do you mean, Miss Talbot?” Her attorney looks like a tiger that has scented prey. “Do you have knowledge that your father was coerced into signing this will?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Riley snarls. A tigress in her own right.

Reluctantly I decide to weigh in on the topic.

“I’m surprised but not shocked that Ted didn’t make a new will. This will is the result of the one and only time I could drag him to an attorney to make one. We’d just been in an accident. We escaped with a few cuts and bruises, but a totaled vehicle. It brought home to us the fact that the girls were just eight years old and would require legal guardianship if something happened to us.”

“There! That’s proof that Teddy would want his family, his new family, taken care of,” she says to no one in particular.

Not looking her way I say, “Ted viewed having a will as tantamount to signing a death sentence.” I’ve read that this is not an uncommon reaction even among smart, upwardly mobile men. “Mr. Dunlap can confirm that Ted paced like a caged bear the entire time.”

Lionel nods his head. “He was a very impatient man.” Of course, Lionel did present us with enough estate-planning and trust options to rival the choices on a Starbucks menu.

But I’m happy to take his side and give him a big smile. “As I remember it, Ted cut the conversation off by saying, ‘Just give us the stripped-down, vanilla, no frills version. I die, Liz gets it all. She drops dead, it’s mine. We both die—Jesus H. Christ! Liz’s mother, Sally, gets guardianship of our girls. Okay?’”

Again, Lionel nods.

One attorney for her says, “Mr. Talbot may not have crossed all the t’s and dotted all the i’s, but certainly his intent was clear in his decision to have a new will drawn up.”

“Mr. Talbot might be forgiven for thinking that the courts would understand when he named his wife he meant whichever wife held the title at the moment,” says the other.

“Which-ever?” Riley snarls. “You make my father sound like a serial bigamist.”

I lay a soothing hand on her forearm, then again engage old Lionel’s gaze and smile. “There is no mention of a ‘wife.’ I am named in the will as sole beneficiary.”

Lionel smiles back. For a member of the firm who dug my financial hellhole during the divorce, he seems almost amused by this turn of events. “It is not the usual wording for a will. I pointed that out to both of you at the time. Naming a beneficiary without a designation of the relationship can prove legally difficult should one’s situation in life alter at a later date. However, as I have said, this is a legitimate will in accordance with New Jersey law.”

Her mouthpiece says, “New Jersey law provides for a widowed spouse in ways that cannot be circumvented by any will.”

Lionel’s expression sobers. “Quite right. Mrs. Brandi Talbot is entitled to a significant share of the deceased’s estate. Providing there are no other documents to supersede it, such as a prenuptial agreement.”

She gasps. “Teddy would never have asked me to sign anything like that.”

“You mean my mother will have to share?” Riley demands, as if it’s her and not me who has come into this dizzying windfall of unexpected possibility.

“In a word, yes. Possibly as much as a fifty-fifty share.”

“Share?” She tosses back her veil. Her face is flushed, her eyes tight, and her mouth thinned by anger. “You were Teddy’s attorney. Do something!”

Lionel says dryly, “Without evidence of the possibility of tampering, duress or diminished capacity on the part of the signer, a lawfully executed will should stand up in court, aside from the aforementioned widow’s portion.”

While watching her squirm has been fun, the last thing I need around my neck is another millstone business. “What if I refuse the bequest?”

Lionel leans back and steeples his fingers. “If I may, Mrs. Talbot, I would strongly caution you to consider every possible ramification for your long-term future. The Talbot estate is estimated to be worth in excess of fourteen million dollars.”

Now it’s my turn to gasp. “Fourteen mill-ion?”

Lionel picks up a bound folder. “This is a recently complied list of assets of Mr. Talbot’s estate.”

When I don’t reach for it Sarah whispers, “Know thy enemy, Mom.”

This feels like an invasion of privacy to which this Mrs. Talbot is no longer privileged. Scan it only for the essentials, I tell myself.

Okay, Talbot Advertising is estimated to be worth thirteen million. I knew Ted was doing well after the bobble in profit caused by my leaving the firm. But, this well? Jeez!

For one wild moment I envision myself rolling in a king-size bed full of crisp green dollar bills, feeling as flush as Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal.

The next, I feel the sting of a hundred paper cuts from those bills. This can’t possibly be real. No court is going to give me Ted’s company. The buzzing in my head is not, I realize, caused by evaporating euphoria but the next line of words swimming before my eyes.

“Well hell!” Ted had a second retirement fund the size of which my lawyer suspected but could never discover. Worth one point three million. Mental note to me: never hire cheap when it comes to divorce.

“A time-share in Vail?” I look up at my girls. “Did you know about this?”

They look off in different directions.

“That’s in my name,” she answers smugly, then leans in and whispers to one of her attorneys.

He nods then addresses Lionel. “The Vail property is in Mrs. Talbot’s name as sole proprietor.” He slips some paperwork onto Lionel’s desk. “In addition, you have before you paperwork to prove she is the sole owner of her house and its contents, two cars and a string of tanning salons.”

“What tanning salons?” I glance at her hard-body bronzed thighs with new understanding. That day with Celia at the tanning salon. Oh, no. That was her tanning salon!

She smirks. “Teddy said he wanted to invest his portion of the divorce settlement in something people could actually benefit from. So I suggested tanning salons.”

My vision blurs. So, Ted took his portion of the divorce and invested it for her?

“The hell he did!” I toss the papers as if they’d suddenly burst into flame. “He—I…the bastard! What kind of—of—?”

“Mom, you’re stuttering,” Sarah points out unhelpfully.

“Don’t let this weird you out, Mom,” Riley adds in solidarity.

I swing my head toward Riley but I can’t focus on her face. My eyeballs are jumping as if I have a tic in both at the same time. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

When I’ve subsided into my chair Lionel says, “Mrs. Brandi Talbot claims the aforementioned items seem to be in order. Therefore, the estate mentioned in the will would seem to include only Talbot Advertising and Mr. Talbot’s retirement fund. His insurance has been left in trust to his daughters.”

“How much?” I ask this after a second’s hesitation because I know my girls are reluctant to.

“The insurance in is the amount of one million dollars to be held in trust until Ms. Sarah and Ms. Riley Talbot reach the age of twenty-five.”

“Holy shit!” Riley says this in an unusually subdued voice.

“I would suggest,” Lionel says, “that both Mrs. Elizabeth Talbot and Mrs. Brandi Talbot seek counsel, who will look for a solution that will keep this out of the courts.”

“You’re advising arbitration?” Sarah is taking notes. My daughters have assumed the sisterhood alternative to her suited sharks.

“It would behoove both parties to consider it.” Lionel is one cool customer. “A protracted legal battle will tie up assets on all sides for the foreseeable future. An equitable agreement reached before the will is filed for probate would greatly simplify matters.”

“Like hell!” She folds her arms under her rib cage, drawing attention to what money can buy. “My attorneys say I should fight this.”

The other man in black, who until now has been mostly silent, speaks. “There’s every possibility that there will be a second claimant against Mr. Talbot’s will.”

The hair on my head snaps to attention. Oh, that’s right! She and Ted…

My gaze tracks down her front to where her dress wraps like cellophane about her torso. It’s been two months since…could it be?

Unflappable Lionel says, “You have informed these offices of Mrs. Brandi Talbot’s potential for procreation.” Who, but an attorney, talks like this? “The real question is—”

“Are you pregnant?” Riley, who has been hunkered down in her chair like a military combatant, springs to her feet and approaches her. “Well, are you?”

She dips her head. “Possibly. It’s still too soon to know.” She lifts eyes swimming in tears. “It’s what your father wanted. We were talking about it the day—”

It’s a good performance. I am maybe the only one in the room who doesn’t believe for a second she’s pregnant. There are tests accurate to within days of conception. Yet I wouldn’t put it past her to do something sneaky underhanded drastic.

But that’s not the reason I suddenly feel threatened. I don’t want anything to do with any of this. I don’t need—who am I kidding? Who doesn’t need half of thirteen million? I need any piece of it I can get. No! What I need is to get out of here and think. Think? What’s there to think about? I won’t know until I get a chance to do it.

I rocket to my feet, little puffs of flour escaping the folds of my baker’s duds. “If you will excuse me I need to find the ladies’.”

“Me, too. Me, too,” my girls echo, popping up from their chairs.

“I’m going to sue. I can sue, right?” she asks as I head out the door.

Sweet as they are, I don’t need daughterly advice just now. I bypass the ladies’ and step into the elevator. Events of this magnitude require consult with a higher power.

As the door closes I hear my daughters, caught short on the other side of the closing door, chorus, “Mom? Where are you going?”

“To Olympus.”