Chapter 8: Five Million

"Margaret," Barbara said.

Nobody had called me that in eleven years but her.

"It's Maggie."

"It was Margaret on the marriage license."

She held out the black folder with two fingers.

Nine boatbuilders, a harbormaster and a reporter's cousin stood on the planks and pretended to coil rope.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A fair settlement."

I opened it.

Inside was a cashier's check for five million dollars.

Under it were eight pages in a typeface designed to be hard to read.

I read the top of the first one.

It said I would withdraw every claim to the company and the properties.

It said I would give up any credit for work done during the marriage.

It said I would never speak to the press or the board about Russell Tamblyn.

It said I would drop the mediation.

"Five million," I said.

"A great deal of money for a woman with a drafting stool."

"For my name."

"For your discretion." She smiled with just her mouth.

"Be sensible. You have no claim to the company. My son built it."

"I wrote the first four hundred lines."

"A wife helps. That's not authorship."

I looked at the check.

I thought of eleven years of kitchen tables.

I thought of the winter I'd eaten cereal for dinner so he could afford a second developer.

Then I tore the folder in half.

The cashier's check went with it.

It made a surprisingly small sound.

I dropped the halves on the dock at her feet.

"Pick that up," I said, "or the gulls will."

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