A shiver ran through her. Charlie stood and looked back to the suitcase on the bed. No, she thought, Jenny was not like the others, any more than Charlie was, had been, or ever could be. But Jenny had been lucky enough to escape each autumn to school, and each summer to Tess. And Charlie was left behind with her guilt.
She straightened the navy straight skirt of her custom-tailored suit and prepared to go downstairs. Ellen undoubtedly had arranged for tea to be served, as Elizabeth would have expected.
The library was as silent and somber as Charlie’s mood, filled with the tense rigidity of the deceased that prevailed from beyond the grave. She stepped onto the century-old Persian carpet and swallowed a scream before it could leap from her throat. Peter rose from the sofa, his six-foot, lean frame as starched as the air in the room. He extended his hand to her, then drew her toward him and placed a polite kiss on her cheek. His brother John also stood, as did John’s twelve-year-old son, Darrin. It was all very proper, all very refined, and all very unlike the Irish wakes of Pittsburgh, where tears flowed in buckets, whiskey splashed on carpets, voices boasted old memories, and love filled the room.
Williamson was seated at the long cherry desk. He looked up from his papers and nodded at Charlie.
Ellen was poised—posed—on a Louis XIV armchair by the door. She smiled a small, pink-lipped smile. Ten-year-old Patsy, so like her mother, stood beside Ellen’s chair and flashed the identical smile.
Charlie did not have the strength to smile back. Instead, she looked toward the tall, heavily draped window where Jenny stood, her slim body stiff, her gaze fixed outside. Charlie followed her daughter’s eyes out the window to the wide, circular driveway. There was nothing there. Jenny was, Charlie suspected, daydreaming as usual, about things at which Charlie could only guess. Her horses, maybe, or boys. Had Jenny yet crossed the emotional bridge from horses to boys? Surely, at fourteen, she must have. Another unsettling wave of not knowing Jenny washed through her.
Williamson cleared his throat. Charlie sat beside Peter. Her eyes fell on the silver tea set on the cocktail table and a small plate of scones next to it that seemed untouched.
“We all know why we’re here,” Williamson began. “Despite the amount of money involved, Elizabeth’s will is relatively simple.” The attorney put on half glasses and picked up the papers in front of him.
Peter shifted beside Charlie. John coughed. Ellen held her pose, appropriately expressionless, hands folded in her lap.
“The endowment to Amherst College was finalized five years ago,” Williamson said.
Amherst College, Charlie thought. A picture of Peter’s dorm swept into her mind. It was a two-story, brick, old New England-style house, set back from the quaint town green that had turned golden with the crisp shades of autumn. The house had tall shuttered windows, a large wooden door, and a dark, cozy interior that whispered of history and echoed of scholars. It was there, at Amherst, alma mater for Peter, his brother John, and father Maximillian before them, that Charlie had been introduced to Peter by Tess. For an instant now, Charlie longed to feel young again—the Smith College sophomore for whom the world beyond the steel mills and soot of Pittsburgh was finally coming into focus.
Williamson interrupted her thoughts.
“To my elder son, Peter Hobart, I bequeath the manor.”
Charlie was careful to show no emotion. But inside, her hear warmed. The twenty-four-room mansion would be theirs now, theirs, to do with as they wished. Maybe she could convince Peter to sell it, to build a newer, brighter, more contemporary home … more like the one Elizabeth had given John and Ellen when they were married. Away from this mausoleum, Charlie would truly be free, the ghost of Elizabeth Hobart exorcised once and for all.
“However,” the attorney continued, “if my son chooses to change residencies, proceeds from the sale of the house will be turned over to the Hobart Foundation.”
The Hobart Foundation? Charlie blinked. A bolt of pain vise-gripped the back of her neck. The Hobart Foundation? Elizabeth had no right …
“My remaining shares of Hobart Textiles,” Williamson droned, “will be divided equally between my sons Peter and John Hobart. It is my wish that the board of directors elect Peter to fill my vacancy as chairman.”
Peter straightened in his chair. He tucked two fingers beneath his white collar and tugged the starched fabric from his throat.
A numbing sadness filled Charlie’s heart. She studied Peter’s deep brown eyes, glossy from his contact lenses, distant since Elizabeth’s death three days ago, as though when his mother breathed her last breath, Peter had put on a mask, erected a wall, and hung a Do Not Disturb sign on his emotions. Yet Charlie had known him, loved him, and been married to him for too many years not to see through his armor and notice that his eyelids were puffy from his private tears.
Even in his grief, even with the light silver threads that now wove along his temples, Peter still resembled that handsome college boy who had captured her heart: clean shaven and short haired, unfashionably so by the standard of the seventies. Marina, Charlie’s roommate, had not understood what Charlie saw in Peter. “He’s a bit of a nerd, isn’t he?” Charlie suddenly heard her old friend’s voice, saw her old friend’s black eyes flash, her wide mouth smile, not in sarcasm, but rather in honest incomprehension. Unlike Marina, Charlie had been looking for a husband, not simply a guy to sleep with. And unlike Tess, Charlie had never wanted to be independent, alone. Marina and Tess both came from families of considerable wealth, families who didn’t have to worry about their financial futures, about making car payments or being laid off from the mill. They had no idea what it was like not to have that, and what a “nerd” like Peter represented to someone like Charlie.
Now, as Charlie’s gaze fell across her straight-postured, stiff-jawed husband, she knew that, in Peter, she had seen stability, security, and a world she so desperately wanted. Soon, it had evolved into something much more: it had become love. But blinded by the bliss of dreams coming true, Charlie had not foreseen that the world she was so eager to enter could become an inescapable trap. Inescapable until now.
“To my grandson Darrin Hobart,” the attorney’s voice jarred her from her thoughts, “I bequeath my cottage in East Hampton on his twenty-first birthday, along with the contents and a separate trust to perpetuate the cost of care and service people.”
The hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck began to rise. There were no contingencies, no threats of turning the beach house over to the foundation. Charlie glanced over at Darrin in time to see a slow smirk crawl across his fleshy lips.
“To my daughter-in-law Ellen Hobart,” Williamson continued, “I leave my responsibilities at the Hobart Foundation.” Now it was John’s turn to nod. The smallest hint of a smile passed across Ellen’s sweet face. Charlie clenched her fist and tried to take a deep breath—a “deep mental breath” as Tess once called it.
Ellen, Charlie thought, doesn’t deserve the foundation. Charlie knew that the foundation’s “responsibilities” meant little more than being a figurehead, at a six-figure annual income. She had assumed that, as the elder daughter-in-law, she would have been—should have been—given the job. She should have known better.
“To my daughter-in-law Charlene Hobart I leave the responsibility of watching over my son, Peter, of supporting him with the added pressures he will no doubt have in his new position at Hobart Textiles. Should they divorce,” the attorney added as he peered over his glasses, cleared his throat, then looked back at the document, “should they divorce, Charlene will relinquish all claim to either the manor, Hobart Textiles, or any asset—liquid or otherwise—presently, or in the future, connected with my estate.”
The air grew heavy in the room. Charlie stared at the floor. With mechanical instinct, she reached up and pretended to tuck a loose tendril behind her ear, and tried to assimilate what she had just heard: that Elizabeth Hobart—with all her power and all her millions—had left Charlie nothing but ultimatums.
“Two remaining grants to the family,” Williamson droned on, “are to my granddaughter, Patsy Hobart—who cherishes all things bright and sparkly. Patsy will receive my jewelry collection.” He paused, turned over a page, then read on. “To Jennifer,” he said, “I leave one Fabergé egg. She may select her favorite.”
Jennifer. The name burned through Charlie. Elizabeth had referred to Jenny by her first name only, as though she was not entitled to the Hobart name. As though she was not her granddaughter. Charlie looked over at Jenny, who continued to stare out the window. She would, Charlie knew, be leased with the Fabergé egg. But at fourteen, Jenny certainly new its value could never compare with Elizabeth’s diamonds and sapphires and pearls, the abundance of jewels that Elizabeth had now left to Patsy, Jenny’s cousin, Ellen’s daughter.
Charlie watched Jenny pull back a corner of the long velvet drape, then straighten the thick corded tassel, as though she were alone in the room, as though she had not heard that her ten-year-old cousin had just inherited a fortune, while she had been left an egg. Charlie wished her daughter would laugh, cry, or scream. She wished she would do something—anything. But Jenny remained stalwart, unaffected, unhurt.
Williamson rambled through a few more insignificant mentions. Charlie tried to fold her hands as Ellen’s were, but found her palms sweaty and cold. Nausea seeped through her. Nausea, and a growing urge to flee to her room, pull the drapes, climb into bed, and never come out. She closed her eyes and tried to feel the comfort of the covers, the safe cocoon of the sheets. And then Charlie realized that the bed she longed most for was not the one she shared with Peter; it was the small, lumpy bed of her childhood home, the home she once, long ago, had so avidly wanted to leave. The home which, for these past years, she’d avoided—an unwanted reminder of her true heritage. A solitary tear crept from the corner of her eye as Charlie wondered how long it had been since she saw her mother’s smile or felt her father’s hug.
The attorney snapped his briefcase closed, startling Charlie. She looked up to see that Peter and John and Ellen were standing; the now enormously wealthy Patsy and Darrin excused themselves and pranced from the library. Charlie said a weak good-bye to Ellen, then watched everyone depart. She remained seated; she could not get up. Her legs felt leaden, immovable.
When Charlie looked over at the window, Jenny, too, was gone.
She remained on the sofa, trying to think, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. I leave the responsibility of watching over my son, Peter.… Should they divorce, Charlene will relinquish all claim.… Elizabeth’s words echoed in Charlie’s mind. Even after all these years of trying, even after all these years of pain, she had not won Elizabeth’s acceptance. She had not even come close.
“They’re gone,” came Peter’s voice from the doorway. “You didn’t come out to say good-bye.”
Charlie sighed. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”
Peter walked into the room and sat in the high leather chair across from her. “It would have been courteous.”
Charlie said nothing.
He crossed one long leg over his other knee. “You’re upset about Mother’s will, aren’t you?”
“I think I have a right to be.”
Peter tented his hands, the tips of his fingers touching each other. “Well,” he said slowly, “you shouldn’t be upset about the foundation. You know how close she felt to Ellen.”
“And I was the thorn in her side.”
“Ellen was … well, Ellen was more in tune with Mother.”
“But I am infinitely better qualified to run the foundation.” Charlie’s heart began to race. “I am smarter than Ellen. Your mother knew that. For godssake, Peter, my degree is in economics. Ellen’s is in”—she jumped from the chair and began to pace—“Ellen majored in homemaking or some such nonsense.”
“At least she put her education to use.”
Charlie halted. She snapped around to her husband. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Peter seemed to shrink into the chair. “Jesus, Charlie, don’t take it personally. I was only trying to make a joke.”
But the edge of his words had caught Charlie’s guilt and inched under her skin. She could almost hear Elizabeth’s unspoken accusation: You only married my son for his money. Your college degree was only a ruse to get your claws into the Hobart fortune.
She readjusted the clip in her hair and tried to push the ghost of her mother-in-law from her mind. “Besides,” she said, “I’m sure you know that Ellen is not the only reason I’m upset.”
“The divorce? Are you angry she mentioned that?”
Charlie let her hands go limp at her sides. She was too tired to quarrel with Peter, too tired and too defeated. Still, Charlie knew Peter would expect her to carry on as she always had—as though Elizabeth didn’t bother her, belittle her, or make her feel undeserving. Peter would expect it because Charlie had let him believe it. It had been easier that way.
She returned to her seat on the sofa. Peter believed that Charlie had everything under control … much the same way his mother had. A strange thought passed through Charlie’s mind: Maybe Elizabeth, too, had put up a front. Maybe Elizabeth had been just as insecure, as weak, and as scared as Charlie. Maybe she had acted otherwise because she had been so damn afraid of losing everything she’d worked so hard to get.
Maybe Charlie wasn’t so different from Elizabeth, after all.
She felt Peter’s eyes on her now. She raised her head to meet his gaze. Suddenly, Charlie saw not the capable, grown man before her, but a little boy. A little boy who had just lost his mother, the woman who’d always kept everything well in hand; a little boy who needed a woman to tell him what to do next.
“What would you think about selling this place?” she asked. “About getting a place of our own?”
Peter laughed. “Charlie, this is our home now. Yours, mine, and Jenny’s. Besides, you heard the will. If we leave here, the money will go into the foundation.”
“You’ll make enough money as chairman.”
He winced and averted his eyes from Charlie. She watched his gaze slowly roam the room, past the fireplace, over the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, around the pedestal of the antique globe, then stopped at the huge cherry desk with the intricate brass drawer pulls and hand-tooled leather top.
“This was my father’s desk,” he said quietly.
Charlie was torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to groan.
“I can still see him sitting here. No matter how busy he was, he always had time to read to me. And to John.” He blinked and looked back at her. “I don’t want to leave here.”
Charlie had a sinking feeling of futility.
“I am almost forty years old, Charlie. I am almost forty years old and I have no parents. I feel like an orphan.”
She tried to quell her rising irritation. She was the one who should be upset now. She was the one who had been treated badly by Elizabeth. She, not Peter. “You have a family, Peter. You have me. And Jenny.” She twisted on the sofa and wondered why everything always seemed to come back to him. Why were his needs more important? Was he the only one who had a right to be happy—or sad? Charlie stared at her husband and wondered if all men were so self-centered.
“My family belongs here,” he continued. “This is the house I was born in.” Then Peter dropped his head. “Are you sorry you married me?”
She looked at the carpet, then back at Peter. The years in college flowed back to her mind, the years of eager anticipation, of hope, of early love. Then she thought of her mother, of her mother’s ongoing struggles. And Charlie remembered that life could have been worse.
“No, Peter,” she said quietly, “I’m not sorry I married you.” She rubbed the edge of the velvet sofa and noticed the cording was thin. Perhaps it was time to redecorate this room—no, this entire old tomb, now that the queen was dead. Perhaps she should continue to carry on as before, and hope that life would be easier with Elizabeth gone.<
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But then Charlie thought of Jenny, standing by the window, staring out. She thought of the responsibility she had to Jenny to give her the best life possible. “I’m not upset for myself so much,” Charlie said, “as for Jenny.”
“Mother never knew how much Jenny means to us. Especially after …” he cleared his throat as his words trailed off into nothingness. “At least she left her a Fabergé.”
“A token,” Charlie said, surprised at the sudden venom that spit from her voice.
“An item valued at a couple of hundred thousand dollars is hardly a ‘token.’ ”
Charlie laughed. “Come on, Peter. Your mother’s diamond and sapphire choker alone is worth more than any egg.” She rose again and paced to the window where Jenny had stood. She willed her control to return. “Besides,” she said as she waved her hand, “it isn’t about money, Peter. Elizabeth never accepted Jenny. Even in death.”
Peter walked up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sure Mother realized that Jenny will be my heir. Any money gleaned from the business will eventually go to her. As will the house.”
Charlie looked out the window. Jenny was crossing the lawn, head down, pace slow, headed toward the stables. “Tell that to a fourteen-year-old whose grandmother had just kicked her in the heart.”
Peter pulled his hands from her and marched toward the desk. “Dammit, Charlie! You’re acting like a spoiled brat. After all Mother did for you …” He slapped his palm on the edge of the desk. Charlie felt the sting as though he had slapped her face. He turned toward her again. “Oh, God, Charlie,” he said as he went back and stood, facing her, arms straight at his sides. “I’m sorry. That was a thoughtless remark.”
Charlie kept her arms tight around herself. She looked at her husband but didn’t answer.
“I don’t know why I said it.”
She unfolded her arms and took his hands. “You said it because you believe it is the truth.”
See How They Run Page 36