Laragia’s passed.”
The Sisters was a charitable trust “for the benefit of others”, as her godfather expressed it.
“You haven’t made any new investments?”
“No,” he said. “I’m maintaining the existing accountants, lawyers and clients, the institutions and personal clients as dictated by your godfather.”
“And when do I assume control of the estate?”
“You already have that control. We’re in a, let’s say, ceremonial state right now.”
“Are you married, Mr. Wilcox?”
He didn’t hesitate answering.
“Divorced. Three years. I have two children, both girls, ages twelve and eighteen, Minot and Clarisse. Their mother is a doctor, and she fell in love with another doctor. They’re local and we remain on good terms. I make a comfortable living, do not pay alimony, and do not attend church on a regular basis. I’ve been a practicing lawyer my entire life. I inherited my father’s practice while establishing my own. I’ve lived in Foursquare my entire adult life. I date, but not often. I’m forty-nine years old, weigh two hundred pounds, and wear a size twelve shoe. I keep my personal relationships separate from my business relationships. I can provide my doctor’s number if you’d like. You?”
“Single. Twenty-five. No children. I barely graduated from Middlebury three years ago and that schooling was strictly the result of my godmother’s influence and my parent’s insistence I didn’t take the same career path as they did. That was quite an introduction.”
“I didn’t even mention the gas mileage of my Silverado. Why did you ask if I was married?”
“I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about me or our relationship.”
“And what is our relationship?”
“I’d like to retain you as The Sisters lawyer and guide me through this. I wanted to establish up front that we won’t become involved. I won’t allow it.”
Wilcox said, “Why would you assume I want to?”
“All men do.”
“Do what?”
“Want to become involved.”
“You’re talking about sex? Or something more?”
“Sex is always right there, don’t you think? And ‘more’ is always there, especially for the possessive, controlling types.” She motioned to the dossier and papers of the estate. “Then there’s this preview of coming attractions.”
The lawyer nodded.
“You should hire another lawyer.”
Samantha Moretti smiled.
“You can call me Sam.”
“Sam,” Thomas Wilcox said. “I advise you to hire another lawyer.”
(2) On Enigth Olny
She looked like she’d stepped out of a Neiman-Marcus catalog: black calve-high boots with a low heel, dark blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a thigh-high black coat. Her wardrobe was decidedly out of sync with Foursquare, New York. She stood on the sidewalk outside the offices of Wilcox & Associates, and looking around saw the town library, a hotel, her hotel, that had seen better days, and the slush and snow of a late winter storm. The sun was warming her, the earth, and the air so she wore the coat loosely. She knew Wilcox was at his office window watching her. She had decided to stay in Foursquare until the business of her godparent’s estate was settled. She was planning on a month.
A red Ford pickup with massive tires rolled by her. The driver, a man with slick hair and a neat beard, tapped the horn. He appeared to be about thirty-five years old. His left hand was on the wheel and his right arm was strung across the passenger seat headrest.
She walked to the hotel. She was looking forward to moving out of it and into the Laragia home on Deerfield. She was not surprised when the man in the red Ford pickup began his second sweep, making a U-turn at the stop sign at the end of the block. Her parents had trained her to manage visual detail, to sort the wheat from the chaff. The man in the red Ford was chaff.
She stuck to her side of the road,
The Sisters was a charitable trust “for the benefit of others”, as her godfather expressed it.
“You haven’t made any new investments?”
“No,” he said. “I’m maintaining the existing accountants, lawyers and clients, the institutions and personal clients as dictated by your godfather.”
“And when do I assume control of the estate?”
“You already have that control. We’re in a, let’s say, ceremonial state right now.”
“Are you married, Mr. Wilcox?”
He didn’t hesitate answering.
“Divorced. Three years. I have two children, both girls, ages twelve and eighteen, Minot and Clarisse. Their mother is a doctor, and she fell in love with another doctor. They’re local and we remain on good terms. I make a comfortable living, do not pay alimony, and do not attend church on a regular basis. I’ve been a practicing lawyer my entire life. I inherited my father’s practice while establishing my own. I’ve lived in Foursquare my entire adult life. I date, but not often. I’m forty-nine years old, weigh two hundred pounds, and wear a size twelve shoe. I keep my personal relationships separate from my business relationships. I can provide my doctor’s number if you’d like. You?”
“Single. Twenty-five. No children. I barely graduated from Middlebury three years ago and that schooling was strictly the result of my godmother’s influence and my parent’s insistence I didn’t take the same career path as they did. That was quite an introduction.”
“I didn’t even mention the gas mileage of my Silverado. Why did you ask if I was married?”
“I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about me or our relationship.”
“And what is our relationship?”
“I’d like to retain you as The Sisters lawyer and guide me through this. I wanted to establish up front that we won’t become involved. I won’t allow it.”
Wilcox said, “Why would you assume I want to?”
“All men do.”
“Do what?”
“Want to become involved.”
“You’re talking about sex? Or something more?”
“Sex is always right there, don’t you think? And ‘more’ is always there, especially for the possessive, controlling types.” She motioned to the dossier and papers of the estate. “Then there’s this preview of coming attractions.”
The lawyer nodded.
“You should hire another lawyer.”
Samantha Moretti smiled.
“You can call me Sam.”
“Sam,” Thomas Wilcox said. “I advise you to hire another lawyer.”
(2) On Enigth Olny
She looked like she’d stepped out of a Neiman-Marcus catalog: black calve-high boots with a low heel, dark blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a thigh-high black coat. Her wardrobe was decidedly out of sync with Foursquare, New York. She stood on the sidewalk outside the offices of Wilcox & Associates, and looking around saw the town library, a hotel, her hotel, that had seen better days, and the slush and snow of a late winter storm. The sun was warming her, the earth, and the air so she wore the coat loosely. She knew Wilcox was at his office window watching her. She had decided to stay in Foursquare until the business of her godparent’s estate was settled. She was planning on a month.
A red Ford pickup with massive tires rolled by her. The driver, a man with slick hair and a neat beard, tapped the horn. He appeared to be about thirty-five years old. His left hand was on the wheel and his right arm was strung across the passenger seat headrest.
She walked to the hotel. She was looking forward to moving out of it and into the Laragia home on Deerfield. She was not surprised when the man in the red Ford pickup began his second sweep, making a U-turn at the stop sign at the end of the block. Her parents had trained her to manage visual detail, to sort the wheat from the chaff. The man in the red Ford was chaff.
She stuck to her side of the road,
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