They had been alone in his hospital room after midnight. Chicago glowed beyond the window in a grid of amber lights. Richard’s once-powerful frame had been reduced by illness until his wrists looked strange to her, too fragile for the man who had built an empire by gripping life with both hands. The tubes had only recently been removed from his throat, and every word cost him effort.
“He’s not ready for it, Ellie,” Richard had said.
Eleanor had known who he meant.
Thomas.
She had looked toward the door, as if the son who had not visited in eleven days might appear out of guilt or miracle. “He’s forty-two years old,” she said, more from habit than conviction. “He’ll step up when the time comes.”
Richard’s laugh had turned into a cough so violent that Eleanor had reached for the call button, but he stopped her with a lifted hand. When he recovered, he pointed toward the leather folder Walter Harrington had left on the bedside table.
Walter had been Richard’s attorney for thirty years and his friend for almost as long. The folder contained updated estate documents, board succession notes, trust language, and the one provision Eleanor had not wanted to discuss.
“That’s why I’ve made provisions,” Richard said.
“Richard.”
“The final choice will be yours.”
“No.”
“Yes.” His eyes, sunken but still unmistakably his, held hers. “You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”
She had wanted to argue. She had wanted to tell him Thomas would grieve properly, that death might awaken in him what life had failed to teach, that a son could be vain and careless and still, when it mattered most, show up. She wanted to believe the boy who had once slept curled against Richard on their old living room sofa still existed beneath the expensive suits and brittle arrogance.
But Richard had seen further than she had.
He always had.
At the cemetery, the casket began to descend.
Charlotte made a sound like something tearing.
Eleanor reached across the empty space where Thomas should have been and took her granddaughter’s hand.