Chapter 8: Four to Three

On Friday morning I walked into the boardroom with my father's signature in my bag.

He had woken Sunday, weak and cross, and demanded a pen.

The cardiologist and a nurse had watched him sign it.

It was one paragraph, in his shaky handwriting, giving me his seat and his vote.

Seven chairs sat around the long table.

Bryson sat at the far end beside his father.

Marcy had a laptop open at the side, a box of tissues at her elbow, and red eyes.

She had been crying already.

"Diana," Bryson said gently. "We all understand how hard this week has been."

"Thank you."

"No one wants this to be adversarial."

"Then let's make it quick."

I laid the proxy on the table and slid it down to the vice chair.

She was an older woman who had taught high school for thirty years.

Now she sat on four charity boards.

She read it twice.

"It's in his own hand," she said. "And witnessed by his cardiologist."

"His state of mind," Bryson's father said.

"His state of mind was clear enough to be annoyed at everyone," I said.

One of the men laughed before he could stop himself.

Bryson didn't look at him.

"Fine," he said. "We have a motion."

"With Arthur incapacitated and Diana in no state to lead, I propose Marcy Dolan as interim executive director."

Marcy dabbed her eyes.

"I don't want the job," she said. "I only want to help."

"I second," Bryson's father said.

"Before we vote." I stood up.

My heart was racing, and I let it.

"I'd like to read something into the minutes. Marcy, are you getting this?"

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