Chapter 8: Five Thirty

At 5:28 on Saturday morning the forty-second floor smelled of ginger.

Cora stood at the stove in a plain gray robe, stirring a pot she had made ten thousand times.

Alexander sat at the far end of the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a legal pad.

He had promised to say nothing unless she asked.

The elevator chimed at 5:30 exactly.

Brooks came in first, unshaven, in yesterday's shirt.

Marguerite followed, in a camel coat with her pearls on, carrying her bag in front of her with both hands.

They stopped when they saw the kitchen.

"Sit down," Cora said.

"I will not be ordered about by..." Marguerite began.

"Sit down, Marguerite. Your lender wants its answer by nine."

They sat.

Cora ladled the tonic into two white cups and set one in front of each.

The steam rose between them.

"Drink it," she said. "It's what I made him at 5:30 every morning for five years. You've never once tasted it."

Marguerite pushed her cup away.

Brooks looked at his, and he did not touch it either.

"Fine," Cora said. "Then let's talk about what you came for."

Brooks drew a breath.

"Cora, I've made a lot of mistakes. I know that. The credit line isn't the point. The point is that we can fix this quietly."

He took a folded paper from his jacket and slid it across the table.

"A friendly divorce. You keep a generous settlement. In return you sign the Larkspur voting rights over to me, and the board goes back to normal."

Cora read the page once.

It said, in three tidy paragraphs, that Larkspur's shares were to be voted by Brooks Farwell for the rest of his life.

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