Chapter 23: Contingent

Alasdair cooked soup.

He didn't say why, and I didn't ask.

He stood at the stove in his narrow kitchen with his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

The whole house smelled of onions and thyme.

"Franklin said it was the best thing I ever made," he said. "He said it the night he couldn't eat any."

I sat at the little table with my feet on the rung of the other chair.

"It smells like the best thing you ever made."

"It's the only thing I make."

We ate across from each other at the scarred wooden table.

He was very quiet, and he kept turning his spoon.

"Say it," I said, when the bowls were empty.

"I'm nervous."

"I can see that. You've been stirring a cold spoon since the soup ran out."

He laughed, and then he stopped.

He reached under his chair and brought out a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds.

He laid it on the table between us.

"Read this first," he said. "Before I say anything. All of it."

I unfolded the page.

It was typed on one side, with a signature line at the bottom and a blank next to it for a date.

I, Alasdair Seidel, waive any interest, present, future or contingent, in the shares of VanBuren Holdings held by Genevieve Wrenfield.

It said the same about any income from them.

I read it slowly, down to the last word.

When I looked up, my eyes had blurred.

"Contingent," I said.

"It's the word that cost us the most."

He turned his hand over on the table, palm up.

"I wanted it to come from me first. I wanted you to have a page with my name on it that you could read and put in a drawer."

"You wrote this yourself."

"My lawyer helped. I told her to make it plain."

"It's very plain."

"Good." He swallowed. "Then here's the rest."

He didn't look away.

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