Chapter 8: The Lunch

Harlan Rutledge ate lunch at the Allegheny Hills Club every Thursday at one.

Everyone knew it, and so did I, because for five years I had been told to bring a dessert and then to leave before the coffee.

At five to one I walked through the dining room in my good grey dress, with my hair down and my phone in my hand.

The hostess knew my face from the news feed.

She hesitated.

"I'm a member through my husband," I said. "He's still my husband."

She let me by.

The long table by the windows held nine people.

Harlan sat at the head with his cane on the tablecloth.

Four board wives in pastel jackets sat along one side, and three men from the firm on the other.

Kyle sat at Harlan's right hand in a blue suit, and Preston beside him.

Kyle saw me first.

He stood up so fast his chair scraped.

"Willa," he said, very gently. "You shouldn't be here. You're not well."

"I'm very well." I stopped at the foot of the table. "Hello, everyone. I'm Willa Garrick, Kyle's wife. I think you've heard I'm unstable."

Nobody spoke.

A waiter froze with a bread basket.

"This is a private lunch," Harlan said.

"I know. I'll be quick."

I put my phone on the white tablecloth in front of the oldest of the wives, a woman with a diamond brooch.

"I want you to hear something," I said, "so you'll know why the company statement said spring."

Preston started to rise.

"Will, let's not do this here."

"Sit down, Preston."

He didn't.

I pressed play anyway.

Kyle's voice came out of the phone, clear and calm and a little tired.

Dad has a condition in his will. The controlling shares go to the first son who gives him a grandchild. I turn thirty-five in seven months.

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