Reborn

1

Jim checked out the paintings on the walls as they were led down a hall to the conference room. They were all country scenes, full of dark, muted greens and inhabited by dogs and horsemen.

"Somehow I don't think we'll be seeing any Peter Max on the walls here," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

Carol gave a warning squeeze to his hand that made him wince.

The Park Avenue offices of Fletcher, Cornwall & Boothby were staid and hushed, reeking of the Establishment with their high ceilings, solid oak paneling, and thick carpets the color of money. It was late afternoon and most of the staff looked as if they were readying to call it a day.

"There's Bill!" he heard Carol say as they entered the conference room.

Sure enough, Bill was already seated at the long mahogany table, his cassock fully buttoned to the throat this time, trim brown hair neatly combed, looking every bit like Father William Ryan, S.J., representing St. Francis Home for Boys at the reading of the will should look.

There was an elderly couple at one end of the table and a group of four lawyer types in quiet conversation at the other. One of the latter—a short, dark, intense fellow Jim gauged to be about thirty—broke away as soon as they entered. He approached with an outstretched hand.

"Mr. Stevens? I'm Joe Ketterle. We spoke on the phone last week."

"Right," Jim said, shaking his hand. "This is my wife, Carol."

"How do you do? Well, you're the last one. We're ready to get down to business. Please take a seat." He pulled two chairs from the table and eased Jim and Carol into them.

They sat next to Bill. Jim looked around the table again. Besides himself and one or two of the attorneys, there was no one in the room young enough to be another of Hanley's offspring.

"I don't see any potential brothers and sisters here," he whispered to Carol.

She nodded. "Looks like you're it."

Excitement expanded within him as an older attorney who introduced himself as Harold Boothby put on a pair of half-glasses and began the reading of the will. There was a lot of legalese, but finally they got down to the good stuff—the bequests. A cool million went to Hanley's longtime associate, Dr. Edward Derr. An attorney who seemed to be apart from the others made notes and said something about the bequest passing via Derr's will to his wife. Jim guessed he represented Mrs. Derr. The elderly couple—Hanley's longtime housekeeper and groundsman—each got a quarter million. The old woman broke into tears. St. Francis Home for Boys got a quarter million as well.

Bill seemed shocked at the amount. "Can we ever use it!" he said in a hoarse voice.

Jim's palms were slick with sweat. There's nobody left but me.

" 'And finally,' " Mr. Boothby intoned, " 'I leave the remainder of my estate, all property and financial assets, to James Jonah Stevens.' "

Jim's throat was suddenly dry. "Wha-what are we talking about when we talk about 'remainder'?"

"We haven't worked out the value of the estate to the penny as yet," Mr. Boothby said, gazing at Jim over the top of his reading glasses, "but we estimate your share to be worth something in the neighborhood of eight million dollars."

Jim felt as if all the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. Beside him he heard Carol give out a short, high-pitched cry, then clap a hand over her mouth. Bill was on his feet, slapping Jim on the shoulder.

"That's some neighborhood!" Bill cried.

The next few minutes were a blur of smiles and handshakes and congratulations. Jim wandered through them in a daze. He should have been jubilant, should have been dancing on the table, but he couldn't help feeling disappointed, cheated. Something was missing.

Eventually he and Carol were alone in the conference room with Joe Ketterle who was talking at breakneck speed.

"… so if you feel the need for any legal advice on how to manage your share of the estate, any advice at all, please don't hesitate to call me."

He pressed his card into Jim's hand. Jim suddenly realized why he had been receiving the red-carpet treatment: He was now a wealthy potential client.

"You're pretty familiar with the Hanley estate?" Jim said, staring down at the card.

"Very."

"Was there any mention at all in his papers about why he left so much of his estate to me?"

"No," Ketterle said with a shake of his head. "No reason given at all. You mean you don't know?"

Jim wanted out of here. He wanted a quiet place where he could huddle with Carol and the two of them could talk this whole thing out. Eight million dollars! Suddenly he was filthy rich and it scared the hell out of him. Life would never be the same and that was what was frightening him. He didn't want the money to change what he and Carol had together.

"Can I have a copy of the will?"

"Of course."

"Thanks. And the house—it's mine?"

"Yes." He handed Jim an envelope. "Here's a set of keys. We'll have to have you back here to sign some papers for legal transfer of ownership, of course, but—"

He took the envelope. "Great. We'll be in touch."

Jim pulled Carol out into the hall. He spotted Bill standing in the atrium by the elevators and was glad to see he hadn't left yet, but he cursed under his breath when he saw who was talking to him.