She pulled out the coin he had given her in the hospital.
It was not the same, but it was similar. He said it was junk. That the general said, a small smile touching his lips. Is a division challenge coin. It’s not junk. Soldiers carry them. They’re a symbol. They prove you were part of the unit. You show that coin in a room of old soldiers. And you are family. He gave you his.
He pointed to the one in the box. That one was Elias’s. Now you have both. Emma held one in each hand. They felt important. Finally, she picked up the leatherbound book, a journal. She opened the cover. The first page was written in beautiful old-fashioned cursive. September 4th, 1944. Still raining. I hope we move out soon.
I have a feeling this is it. Emma closed it quickly. It felt too private, like reading someone’s mail. This is Mary started this is all just so much. It is the general said and Hank knew it would be which is why he appointed me to help you to to guard you. Guard us from what? Mary asked.
The question was answered by a sharp angry buzz from the intercom on the general’s desk. Sinclair stood up, his face hardening. He pressed the button. Yes, Diane. General Sinclair, I am so sorry. His secretary’s voice crackled. Mr. Porter Jr. is here and Miss Brenda and their attorney. They They’re not listening. They’re coming in.
It’s all right, Diane, the general said, his voice dropping an octave back into the sound of command. He let go of the button and looked at Mary. From them. The grand wooden doors of the office burst open. A man in his late 60s with a soft pink face and a very expensive looking but poorly fitted suit stroed in. He looked like Hank, but all the hard edges had been sanded off, leaving just a pout.
This was Henry Hank Porter Jr. Behind him was a woman in her 30s. She was tall, thin, and wore a black dress that looked like it cost more than Mary’s car. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it seemed to hurt. Her eyes, unlike her father’s, were sharp and cold. This was Brenda Porter, the granddaughter. And behind them, holding a briefcase, was a man who looked like a hawk.
He wore a pinstriped suit and a permanent sneer. Sinclair Junior puffed, his face red. What is the meaning of this? We were at the club. We had to hear from a service that my father had passed. You didn’t even call us. Brenda’s cold eyes swept the room. She ignored her father’s complaint. She saw Mary in her blue maid’s uniform and Emma, a small girl on the floor next to an open foot locker.
Her eyes narrowed. “General,” Brenda said, her voice like ice. “Why is the help here?” “And why are they touching my grandfather’s things?” Mary stood up, her hands twisting in the fabric of her uniform. She automatically tried to move behind the general to become invisible. The general did not move.
He seemed to grow larger. “Mr. Porter, Miss Porter, Mr. Graves,” he said, nodding to the lawyer. “Your father and grandfather’s passing was this morning. My first duty was to execute his final directives.” “His directive?” Brenda snapped. “His directive was to call his family. His only family.” On the contrary, the general said, his voice flat.
His explicit directive was to ensure you were not the first to be called. He did not want you at the hospital. Junior looked like he’d been slapped. He was scenile. He must have been. I’m his son. His son. That is a matter of opinion, the general said. It’s a matter of fact. The hawk-faced lawyer, Graves, spoke up.
He stepped forward. General Sinclair, we have just been informed of the will’s primary provisions. This is a farce. A man in a charity hospital disinheriting his own blood. It screams mental incompetence. It reeks of undue influence. He stared with open contempt at Mary. We are here to inform you that we are contesting.
We will be freezing all assets, pending a full mental evaluation of the deceased, and we will be deposing everyone involved. The threat was clear. It was aimeddirectly at Mary. I didn’t, Mary began, her voice a small squeak. I just My daughter. Your daughter, Brenda said, stepping forward. Her eyes were full of venom. Yes, let’s talk about her.
How very convenient. My grandfather, a billionaire, suddenly befriends a maid’s child. How much did you pay her to cry at his bedside? How many cookies did you force-feed that old man? I didn’t, Emma cried out. She was on her feet now. The metal was still in her hand. He was my friend. He hated the jello.
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