PART 2
I was not helpless. I had run a household, raised a son, managed charity events, kept calendars, balanced family accounts, and sat beside Robert through every difficult business decision he ever made. But I had always been grateful that when documents grew thick and legal words tangled together, he would reach across the kitchen table, squeeze my hand, and say, “I’ll explain it until it makes sense, Evie.”
Now his chair was empty.
And I was sitting alone across from his attorney.
Arthur Whitman was nearly seventy, with silver hair, gentle eyes, and the careful posture of a man accustomed to holding other people’s grief without dropping it. He had been Robert’s friend before he became our attorney. I had seen him at summer barbecues, Christmas dinners, even Matthew’s graduation party, standing near the grill with Robert while both pretended not to be discussing business.
That morning, he did not look like a friend.
He looked like a man about to deliver news he wished someone else could carry.
“Evelyn,” he said quietly, “before we begin, I want you to know Robert came to see me three weeks before he passed.”
My hand tightened around the strap of my purse.
“Three weeks?”
Arthur nodded.
Robert had been tired then, but still Robert. Still folding the newspaper exactly in half before reading it. Still asking whether the roses by the east fence needed pruning. Still smiling when I caught him sneaking butterscotch candies from the jar in the pantry.
He had not told me he visited Arthur.
“He said there were matters he wanted clarified,” Arthur continued, “in case grief made certain people bold.”
The word bold landed softly, but it carried weight.
May you like
I looked toward the window. Outside, Dallas moved through a pale morning haze. Cars passed. People hurried across the sidewalk with coffee cups and briefcases. The world had the nerve to continue as if Robert Brooks had not been lowered into the ground the day before.
