Ride with Me

“However,” the attorney continued, “if my son chooses to change residencies, proceeds from the sale of the house will be turned over to the Hobart Foundation.”

The Hobart Foundation? Charlie blinked. A bolt of pain vise-gripped the back of her neck. The Hobart Foundation? Elizabeth had no right …

“My remaining shares of Hobart Textiles,” Williamson droned, “will be divided equally between my sons Peter and John Hobart. It is my wish that the board of directors elect Peter to fill my vacancy as chairman.”

Peter straightened in his chair. He tucked two fingers beneath his white collar and tugged the starched fabric from his throat.

A numbing sadness filled Charlie’s heart. She studied Peter’s deep brown eyes, glossy from his contact lenses, distant since Elizabeth’s death three days ago, as though when his mother breathed her last breath, Peter had put on a mask, erected a wall, and hung a Do Not Disturb sign on his emotions. Yet Charlie had known him, loved him, and been married to him for too many years not to see through his armor and notice that his eyelids were puffy from his private tears.

Even in his grief, even with the light silver threads that now wove along his temples, Peter still resembled that handsome college boy who had captured her heart: clean shaven and short haired, unfashionably so by the standard of the seventies. Marina, Charlie’s roommate, had not understood what Charlie saw in Peter. “He’s a bit of a nerd, isn’t he?” Charlie suddenly heard her old friend’s voice, saw her old friend’s black eyes flash, her wide mouth smile, not in sarcasm, but rather in honest incomprehension. Unlike Marina, Charlie had been looking for a husband, not simply a guy to sleep with. And unlike Tess, Charlie had never wanted to be independent, alone. Marina and Tess both came from families of considerable wealth, families who didn’t have to worry about their financial futures, about making car payments or being laid off from the mill. They had no idea what it was like not to have that, and what a “nerd” like Peter represented to someone like Charlie.

Now, as Charlie’s gaze fell across her straight-postured, stiff-jawed husband, she knew that, in Peter, she had seen stability, security, and a world she so desperately wanted. Soon, it had evolved into something much more: it had become love. But blinded by the bliss of dreams coming true, Charlie had not foreseen that the world she was so eager to enter could become an inescapable trap. Inescapable until now.

“To my grandson Darrin Hobart,” the attorney’s voice jarred her from her thoughts, “I bequeath my cottage in East Hampton on his twenty-first birthday, along with the contents and a separate trust to perpetuate the cost of care and service people.”

The hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck began to rise. There were no contingencies, no threats of turning the beach house over to the foundation. Charlie glanced over at Darrin in time to see a slow smirk crawl across his fleshy lips.

“To my daughter-in-law Ellen Hobart,” Williamson continued, “I leave my responsibilities at the Hobart Foundation.” Now it was John’s turn to nod. The smallest hint of a smile passed across Ellen’s sweet face. Charlie clenched her fist and tried to take a deep breath—a “deep mental breath” as Tess once called it.

Ellen, Charlie thought, doesn’t deserve the foundation. Charlie knew that the foundation’s “responsibilities” meant little more than being a figurehead, at a six-figure annual income. She had assumed that, as the elder daughter-in-law, she would have been—should have been—given the job. She should have known better.

“To my daughter-in-law Charlene Hobart I leave the responsibility of watching over my son, Peter, of supporting him with the added pressures he will no doubt have in his new position at Hobart Textiles. Should they divorce,” the attorney added as he peered over his glasses, cleared his throat, then looked back at the document, “should they divorce, Charlene will relinquish all claim to either the manor, Hobart Textiles, or any asset—liquid or otherwise—presently, or in the future, connected with my estate.”

The air grew heavy in the room. Charlie stared at the floor. With mechanical instinct, she reached up and pretended to tuck a loose tendril behind her ear, and tried to assimilate what she had just heard: that Elizabeth Hobart—with all her power and all her millions—had left Charlie nothing but ultimatums.

“Two remaining grants to the family,” Williamson droned on, “are to my granddaughter, Patsy Hobart—who cherishes all things bright and sparkly. Patsy will receive my jewelry collection.” He paused, turned over a page, then read on. “To Jennifer,” he said, “I leave one Fabergé egg. She may select her favorite.”

Jennifer. The name burned through Charlie. Elizabeth had referred to Jenny by her first name only, as though she was not entitled to the Hobart name. As though she was not her granddaughter. Charlie looked over at Jenny, who continued to stare out the window. She would, Charlie knew, be pleased with the Fabergé egg. But at fourteen, Jenny certainly knew its value could never compare with Elizabeth’s diamonds and sapphires and pearls, the abundance of jewels that Elizabeth had now left to Patsy, Jenny’s cousin, Ellen’s daughter.

Charlie watched Jenny pull back a corner of the long velvet drape, then straighten the thick corded tassel, as though she were alone in the room, as though she had not heard that her ten-year-old cousin had just inherited a fortune, while she had been left an egg. Charlie wished her daughter would laugh, cry, or scream. She wished she would do something—anything. But Jenny remained stalwart, unaffected, unhurt.

Williamson rambled through a few more insignificant mentions. Charlie tried to fold her hands as Ellen’s were, but found her palms sweaty and cold. Nausea seeped through her. Nausea, and a growing urge to flee to her room, pull the drapes, climb into bed, and never come out. She closed her eyes and tried to feel the comfort of the covers, the safe cocoon of the sheets. And then Charlie realized that the bed she longed most for was not the one she shared with Peter; it was the small, lumpy bed of her childhood home, the home she once, long ago, had so avidly wanted to leave. The home which, for these past years, she’d avoided—an unwanted reminder of her true heritage. A solitary tear crept from the corner of her eye as Charlie wondered how long it had been since she saw her mother’s smile or felt her father’s hug.

The attorney snapped his briefcase closed, startling Charlie. She looked up to see that Peter and John and Ellen were standing; the now enormously wealthy Patsy and Darrin excused themselves and pranced from the library. Charlie said a weak good-bye to Ellen, then watched everyone depart. She remained seated; she could not get up. Her legs felt leaden, immovable.

When Charlie looked over at the window, Jenny, too, was gone.

She remained on the sofa, trying to think, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. I leave the responsibility of watching over my son, Peter.… Should they divorce, Charlene will relinquish all claim.… Elizabeth’s words echoed in Charlie’s mind. Even after all these years of trying, even after all these years of pain, she had not won Elizabeth’s acceptance. She had not even come close.

“They’re gone,” came Peter’s voice from the doorway. “You didn’t come out to say good-bye.”

Charlie sighed. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

Peter walked into the room and sat in the high leather chair across from her. “It would have been courteous.”

Charlie said nothing.

He crossed one long leg over his other knee. “You’re upset about Mother’s will, aren’t you?”

“I think I have a right to be.”

Peter tented his hands, the tips of his fingers touching each other. “Well,” he said slowly, “you shouldn’t be upset about the foundation. You know how close she felt to Ellen.”

“And I was the thorn in her side.”

“Ellen was … well, Ellen was more in tune with Mother.”

“But I am infinitely better qualified to run the foundation.” Charlie’s heart began to race. “I am smarter than Ellen. Your mother knew that. For godssake, Peter, my degree is in economics. Ellen’s is in”—she jumped from the chair and began to pace—“Ellen majored in homemaking or some such nonsense.”