Precious Gifts (5 page)

“I can't believe he's gone,” Juliette said for what seemed like the hundredth time, and Joy admitted she couldn't either. Véronique was thinking the same thing, but was distracted by the details of the funeral she was organizing as a final tribute to the father of her children, and man she had loved so passionately long ago. The flowers were going to be spectacular, and she had selected music he loved. This was her final gift to him, and she wanted it to be as dignified and elegant as he would have wanted. Just as he had lived, Paul Parker was going out in style.

The four women sat in her kitchen for two hours, talking and drinking tea. Timmie actually dared to suggest at the end that Juliette was mourning the father he hadn't been as much as the one he was.

“That's a terrible thing to say,” Juliette said immediately in his defense. “He was a wonderful father.” Timmie clenched her teeth and didn't speak, and Véronique distracted them with more of the details, which were a mercy for her. She didn't want the girls arguing now, of all times, although she knew that what Timmie had said was true. Juliette had had illusions about her father all her life, and although she said they spoke almost every day, no one pointed out that she had called him. Then finally Timmie and Joy went downtown to Timmie's apartment, and Juliette went back to Brooklyn, to be alone.

They were all going to the rosary together the following night, and the funeral the day after. Notice of it would be printed in the
Times
the next morning, and Véronique had arranged for two cars to pick the girls up, and for the funeral the next day as well. She wanted to make it all as easy for them as she could. She knew what it was like to lose a father, and no one had made it easier for her. She felt as though it was the least she could do for them. It was typical of her, to think of everything she could to make their lives easier, although they didn't notice it and were used to their mother doing for everyone, in her quiet methodical way. She had done it all their lives.

Véronique sat lost in thought after they left the apartment, dreading the formalities of the next two days. She couldn't help thinking that once again, he had left her to comfort their children, take care of everything, and pay all the bills. It had been an assumption he had always made, even when he was alive. In death, it was no different. But she suddenly missed being able to call him. There were no friends she wanted to share this with, and most of them wouldn't have understood. Their relationship was too unusual among divorced people, particularly as he'd never been much of a father or husband, but he was her friend, and had been for more than half of her adult life. It was a lot to lose, and he had the elegance, panache, and style of another time.

The rosary the next day was simple and formal. Long lines of people she didn't know came to sign the leather book she had set out. There were pretty young women, younger than his daughters, who didn't introduce themselves, well-dressed couples, and a number of men close to his age, who had been his acquaintances or friends. A few of them shook Véronique's hand and extended their condolences, and several of them eyed Timmie, Juliette, and Joy, all of whom had worn simple black dresses, and looked serious as they stood with their mother. And afterward they all went home exhausted, and feeling drained.

The next day was more of the same, though on a larger scale. And much to Véronique's surprise, the mourners nearly filled the church. The smell of the fragrant white flowers was heavy in the air. There were huge urns of them throughout the church, and a blanket of tiny white orchids over the dark mahogany coffin they had chosen, and she had managed to find two of his friends to act as pallbearers with Bertie and Arnold, the other four were provided by Frank Campbell's, and the casket was moved on wheels.

Bertie hadn't come to the rosary the night before, but he showed up at the church before the service to meet Véronique and the girls. They were startled that he had a young woman with him. She was wearing a short black skirt, a low-cut black silk blouse, stiletto heels, and too much makeup, and seemed bored. She never said a word to them, and Bertie didn't introduce her. They had no idea if she was his girlfriend, or just a woman he had brought along. He didn't bother to explain, and no one asked.

He appeared faintly annoyed to be there, although he had worn an appropriate black suit, white shirt, and black Hermès tie, with expensive well-shined shoes, and he was as handsome as his father. He had the look, but not the heart. Paul had been self-centered and narcissistic, but there had been a warm side to him as well. The stare Bertie gave his stepmother and sisters was calculating and ice cold. Véronique invited him to sit in the front pew with them—he was Paul's son, after all. After the casket was in place, he slid onto the front bench with the young woman, and whispered to her as they waited for the funeral to start.

They all agreed afterward that it was a beautiful service, worthy of their father. People shook their hands outside the church, and the family disappeared to Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, where the priest said a few brief words, and they left the casket at Véronique's family plot. She didn't know where else to bury him, hadn't wanted to buy a single lonely grave, and she thought the girls would like him with the rest of the family. Véronique's parents were buried there as well.

Bertie had a separate car to take him and the young woman back to the city, and they had figured out by then that her name was Debbie. They joined everyone at Véronique's apartment, where the caterer had set out a full buffet in the dining room, there were white flowers everywhere, and more than a hundred people were eating, talking, and waiting for them. The only person Véronique recognized in the crowd was Arnold, whose face lit up when he saw her, and he approached Véronique and the girls.

“It looks like a wedding,” Timmie said under her breath with obvious disapproval to Joy, who nodded. It did. Their mother had done a beautiful job, honoring him, which came as no surprise. “Did she do this for him, herself, or us?” Timmie asked out loud.

“Probably all three,” Joy answered, as Arnold embraced their mother. It had been obvious to everyone for years that he had a major soft spot for her, and would have loved to pursue it with her, but Véronique wasn't open to the idea, and although she was kind to him, she had always made that clear. He was somewhere in his sixties, a very successful lawyer, an attractive man, and had been divorced for many years. Véronique had no interest in him other than as an attorney and Paul's closest friend. Whatever his aspirations, it went no further than that for her.

“You did a beautiful job,” Arnold complimented her, and Véronique smiled and thanked him, as Juliette helped herself at the buffet, still looking ravaged by the funeral service. The “Ave Maria” had nearly destroyed her, and she still seemed shaken, as she filled her plate. Joy and Timmie stood talking quietly. None of them knew anyone in the room, among Paul's friends. They looked like what they were, café society and jet set, people who had known him in a superficial way but had come anyway and were enjoying the party atmosphere at his ex-wife's home.

“Your mother must have spent a fortune on this,” Bertie commented unpleasantly to Timmie, as she gave him an ugly look.

“Apparently she thought Dad was worth it,” she said sternly. Joy stood there wondering if fireworks were going to erupt, just as Arnold walked up to them. All three sisters were together with Bertie, while Véronique said something to one of the waiters, who was pouring white wine and champagne for the guests.

“I'd like to make a suggestion, since you're all here,” Arnold said blandly. “There's no longer a formal reading of the will. But since Joy's in town, why don't we get together tomorrow in my office and go over it? That way we can discuss it, and I can answer any questions you might have.” It seemed like a sensible idea, and he didn't make it sound ominous. None of them expected their father to have left a fortune, and the only property they were aware of was the château in France, unless he'd mortgaged it to the hilt, which no one knew. He had never been very responsible about money.

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Bertie said, interested, and the girls nodded and seemed surprised. None of them had even thought about the will.

“Do you all have time?” Arnold asked, as Véronique joined them.

“For what?” she asked.

“I thought we could all go over the will together tomorrow and get it out of the way,” Arnold said calmly. “I think it would be nice if you came, too,” he said to Véronique. She looked surprised. She didn't expect Paul to leave her anything, since everything he had he had gotten from her, and she assumed he would leave it to the girls, and something to Bertie, but surely nothing to her.

“How do you feel about my being there?” she asked the girls, and they all said they would prefer it, and Bertie said he didn't care. It was easy to see that all he was interested in was what had been left to him.

“Does nine o'clock tomorrow morning work for all of you?” Arnold asked the assembled group of heirs and their mother, and everyone nodded and agreed.

“See you then.” He smiled and left shortly afterward. Bertie exited right after Arnold, and Timmie told him not to bring Debbie to the meeting the next day.

“Obviously,” he said, with a look of disdain. Timmie always managed to enrage him. She did it on purpose. She couldn't stand him, and it was entirely mutual. Debbie said nothing to Véronique or the girls when they walked away, she only spoke to Bertie.

The rest of the guests were gone two hours later, after finishing off the buffet and an astonishing amount of champagne. Timmie made a comment that they had shown up for the free food and champagne more than for their father, and Véronique gave her a look of disapproval. And by the time the girls departed, everyone was exhausted.

When the apartment was cleared of people, Véronique felt as though she had been run over by a bus. She was sorry she had agreed to go to the meeting in Arnold's office the next day. She had no reason to be there, and it seemed unnecessary to her. She was so emotionally drained that all she wanted to do was sleep in the morning, but she had agreed to go, and she didn't want to cancel and upset the girls. She took off her clothes, lay down on her bed, and fell asleep without even turning off the light. She was relieved to know she had done her job well, and that Paul had been laid to rest just as he would have wished, with all the pomp and circumstance he would have felt he deserved.

V
éronique went to Arnold's office the next morning, for the last chapter of the ordeal. Yesterday's funeral had been hard enough. Once they heard the details of his will, they would be able to go on with their lives. Timmie and Joy were ready to do so. Juliette was planning on closing her sandwich shop for August, until Labor Day. And on her way to his office, Véronique was thinking about when she should go back to France. She had until the end of the month in the rental house in St. Tropez, but she wasn't in the mood to go back now. Paris was dead in the summer, so she didn't want to be there, and New York was too hot. She hadn't made up her mind. She hadn't bothered to make plans for August, and wasn't sure what to do next. She got to Arnold's office before she came to any conclusions and discovered she was the first to arrive. Traffic had been lighter than she thought.

“You did a beautiful job yesterday, no surprise,” Arnold said warmly after he kissed her on both cheeks French style, and then hugged her, a little too close. He was always friendlier than she liked. They talked about the girls for a few minutes, and then everyone arrived almost at once. Bertie was wearing another good-looking suit, a pale blue shirt, and a businesslike dark blue tie. He looked like a prosperous banker, not the hustler that he was.

Arnold led them into a conference room, where a secretary offered them coffee or tea, and all of them declined. They wanted to get the meeting over with, and the business side of their father's death behind them. Joy had already booked a flight to L.A. that afternoon, and said she had an audition the next day for a small part on a soap, and the restaurant where she worked five nights a week needed her back. It was a busy place, and the tips were great and paid her rent, so she didn't want them to get mad or fill her spot.

Arnold began the meeting with a serious expression. “Your father and I discussed his will extensively in the last year, while he was still well enough to do so, and I want to preface what I explain to you by saying that the provisions he made are somewhat unorthodox, which was his intention. We had very different views of how these things should be handled, but I'll admit his were more creative than mine. And he was heavily influenced by knowing that you all stand to inherit a great deal from your mother one day, and that your future is secure because of her, which your father felt allowed him some leeway to view things differently. He wanted to address your immediate needs, not your long-term ones, which are covered.” Arnold was aware, as Paul had been, that Véronique's philosophy was that the girls should make a living and support themselves, no matter what they would inherit later. She wanted to be the safety net under them for special cases and emergencies, not the source of money they lived on. She expected them to earn that, and they did, with energy in all three cases. Paul hadn't agreed with her and thought she should be more generous, but she adamantly didn't want to ruin them and encourage them to live like spoiled rich girls, or like their father, spending too much of someone else's money, which he had done with her. She thought it was a bad example to set their daughters, and not the role model she wanted for them. And Arnold was impressed at the lessons she was trying to teach them, even if Paul didn't like it. She had made them self-sufficient in spite of what she had and what they would inherit from her one day. And they were definitely neither lazy nor spoiled, whether she approved of their career choices or not.

“So his will,” he went on, “reflects that philosophy, of wanting to make a difference for you now, since your long-term future is covered by your mother. And to that end, he has left you disparate amounts, which is unorthodox as well, but reflects, he believed, what each of you might need in the context of what you're doing presently with your lives. It does not reflect, as he expressed in his will himself, any disparity in his love for each of you.” He looked around at each of them then, and Véronique noticed that Bertie had a hopeful, somewhat impatient look. He didn't care about his father's reasoning—he just wanted to know what he would get. “Your father wanted you each to have what would benefit you most, and he was very specific about it,” he explained, and the three girls nodded. Arnold then picked up Paul's last will and testament and read directly from it. He had copies to hand to each of them, but he hadn't distributed them yet. He preferred to explain it first.

“ ‘To my daughter Timmie, whom I love and admire greatly, I leave the following amount.' ” Arnold stated it, and Timmie's eyes opened in surprise. It seemed like a very large bequest to her, and to the others. “ ‘And my wish is that she purchase a house with it, in a neighborhood that seems reasonable to her, in order to open a facility of her own, to assist the kind of indigent people she works with, and start a foundation of her own, in the way she can do the most good, with the freedom she needs to do so exactly as she wants. I have every confidence that she will do a wonderful job of it, on her own. And through her, I am able to help people I have never assisted in my lifetime. I hope that this bequest will somewhat improve her poor opinion of me as a very selfish man. I have indeed been one, but my wish is to help her, and through her these needy people, now.' ” Timmie's eyes were swimming with tears as she listened. She had never expected this from her father, and her sisters and mother were smiling with approval through tears as well.

“I don't know what to say,” she said in a whisper, deeply moved by his bequest.

“Your father and I did some research, and the amount he bequeathed you seems as though it would adequately cover the purchase of a house as he described, and what you'd need to get a project like this off the ground.” And then to qualify it to the others, “Yours is the largest bequest he made.” Everyone nodded, and the girls didn't seem upset, although Bertie looked tense. It sounded like too much money to him, and he doubted that his father had four times that amount to leave to all of them, not even close.

“ ‘And to Juliette, my beloved daughter,' ” Arnold went on, “ ‘I want to leave her the gift of time, so that she can hire people to work at her bakery, a manager so that she can get away, travel, and live more extensively than she has for several years. I am leaving her enough to pay for some staff, to make improvements to the sandwich shop, and enlarge it if she wishes. But my darling Juliette, I want you to go out and live. You're a wonderful woman, and you need to see more of the world than you do now.' ” He had left her a handsome amount, though much less than what he'd left Timmie, and she sobbed in gratitude. Juliette had never needed or wanted a lot of money, and his bequest seemed more than generous to her. She smiled through her tears as she looked at her sisters and squeezed Timmie's hand, sitting next to her. She had no jealousy for what he had left her older sister—she wouldn't have known what to do with that amount. And if Timmie opened a homeless shelter of some kind, even on a small scale, she would need far more money than Juliette needed to improve and staff her bakery so she could get away from time to time. He had calculated well and tailored his bequests to meet their needs, just as Arnold had said. And he had clearly put careful thought into it.

“ ‘And to my very beautiful youngest daughter, Joy,' ” Arnold continued, “ ‘although I know her mother does not approve of her acting career, I believe she has real talent and I would like to be the angel who helps her to fulfill her dream. My bequest to her is to hire a decent manager, hopefully the best in L.A., to help get her career off the ground, and attract a better agent. I am giving her enough to take acting lessons from the best teacher in L.A., and enough to live on for two years, so she can stop working as a waitress and concentrate fully on furthering her acting career, so she can have the success she deserves.' ” He and Arnold had figured out an amount that would allow her to pursue some avenues that hadn't been open to her before because she didn't have the money, and stop working as a waitress because Véronique would not fund a career she didn't approve of. Joy sat beaming as she listened, looked apologetically at her mother, and was relieved to see that she was smiling, too. They all were. And she knew that what he'd left her was more than enough to give her a big push professionally. It was exactly what she needed and sounded perfect to her.

By then Bertie was squirming in his seat and looking impatient. He was tired of hearing about the girls and their dreams. All he wanted was to hear about him.

“ ‘In addition,' ” Arnold said, as Bertie looked relieved, they were finally getting to the part of the will that concerned him, “ ‘I am bequeathing my château near St. Paul de Vence, in four equal shares, one each to my three daughters Timmie, Juliette, and Joy, and' ”—Arnold seemed to hesitate before he went on as they listened—“ ‘the fourth equal share to my daughter Sophie Agnès Marnier, daughter of Elisabeth Marnier, with whom I had a tender union for several years. I realize that Sophie's existence, and that of her mother, will come as a shock to my children, and to Véronique, and for that I apologize. Sophie's existence and her mother's in no way diminish my love for my three older daughters, nor for Véronique, while I was married to her. It is something that happened a long time ago, and I wish to acknowledge my youngest daughter now at my death, and do for her what I didn't do during my lifetime. I wish her to own an equal share of the château with her sisters, with each getting one quarter of it, and I bequeath the remaining funds in my estate to Sophie, after my bequests to the three older girls. It will be a far smaller share than what they receive, but it will help her and her mother, and it will be useful to Sophie and take some of the burden from her mother, which is the least I can do for them now.' ”

There was dead silence in the room after Arnold spoke. No one moved, no one said a word, no one even breathed. Not even Véronique, who looked as if she had turned to stone in her chair. Joy looked the most shocked. She had always thought she was his baby and favored child until two minutes ago, and now she realized he had another younger daughter, and she hadn't been his baby at all. Everyone was stunned.

“How old is she?” Véronique finally asked in a choked voice, and he knew how painful the answer would be to her.

“Sophie is twenty-three years old, three years younger than Joy.” They both knew what that meant. Paul had still been very much married to Véronique when he'd been involved with the girl's mother. Sophie had been born three years before the divorce, when all was supposedly well with them, and Véronique hadn't yet known about his affairs. She had learned of them after they separated, and it had been a shock as their marriage unraveled, but Elisabeth Marnier was not a name she recognized. He had managed to keep that a secret till now. And clearly it had been serious, since they had a child. Véronique knew it shouldn't have surprised her of Paul, after what she'd learned, but it did, and he had kept it hidden from her for all these years.

The girls were speechless as Arnold went on. And Bertie's face was bright red. He had listened carefully and could do the math. The four girls had become owners of the château, with no share for him, and whatever funds remained in the estate were going to his father's illegitimate daughter Sophie, which left nothing for Bertie.

“ ‘And to my son Bertrand,' ” Arnold continued, “ ‘for whom I have funded a dozen business ventures, all of which failed for lack of good judgment, good practices, and solid business plans—and whose stepmother helped him far more generously than I when he was younger, with just as little success for fifteen years—I feel you have had far more advantages than your sisters, and more money than I am leaving them, after never giving them a penny until now. In my estimation, you've already had far more than your fair share of my estate, and your stepmother's help, and I am afraid that anything I would leave you would be wasted like the rest. I know this is a hard lesson for you, son, and I love you, but you now have to do the work yourself, earn your living fairly and honestly, and learn what Véronique and I have tried to teach you with no success. You need to build your career and your fortune on your own, without help, without shortcuts, to achieve the results you want. It's the only way it will ever have any meaning for you. I hope that you will work hard and act wisely in the future, exercising good judgment. I gave you all the help I could when I was alive. Now you have my strong hope that you will do well on your own. And although this may appear to be a harsh decision to you, rest assured, I love you, son.' ” As Arnold finished reading, Bertie exploded from his seat with a look of rage, glancing at the girls and Véronique in fury.

“You bitches! All of you! You bilked him out of everything, kissing his ass when you visited him, and whining to him, and bad-mouthing me! And you!” he said, turning to Véronique viciously. “You with your holier-than-thou ways about making it on your own, and making everyone crawl to you for money, and pretending that you're poor—you did this, you talked him into screwing me over, just so the girls would get it all.” They all knew that none of what he said was true. They had never complained to their father or expected anything from him. And Véronique had never pretended to be poor or expected her children to crawl for money. She had wanted them to have honest jobs and work for a living. And as Paul said in his will, she had been far more generous and tolerant of Bertie than she ever had been with the girls. She had wanted to make up to him for the mother he didn't have. She had always felt sorry for him because of it and made excuses for him that he didn't appreciate or deserve. But Bertie was blind with fury over what he didn't get in his father's will.

“Is that it for me?” he said, turning to Arnold, who nodded.

“Yes, Bertie, it is. I'm sorry. He thought he was helping you.” And Arnold had agreed, which he didn't say now. Bertie was a wastrel of the worst kind, and it would have been pointless to give him anything. The girls would put Paul's money to better use, constructively. Bertie would waste it on schemes and throw it away, which Paul understood. He was realistic about his son.