She used a paper towel to blot her face and walked quietly back to her desk, unnoticed by anyone. She went into her Gmail and found the latest trust statement from the asset manager. She hadn’t opened an email, never mind looked at a statement, in years. She wasn’t sure she had a password, but she went ahead and tried the password she used for everything, from Neiman Marcus to Amazon: SerenaWilliams40-0. It worked. The page was confusing, there wasn’t just one account with a total. It was broken up into different sections, maybe two dozen separate blocks. She pulled a piece of scrap paper from her notebook and added the totals, sure she was missing something, but she just needed a rough idea. She added it together. It looked like she had about thirty-seven million dollars. And so she decided: She would rid herself of the entire inheritance. She would give all her money away just like Curtis, and it would be like ripping off a Band-Aid. She would change. She would change all at once and leave no room to ever go back.
* * *
She made an appointment with Bill Wallis, the investment manager. She knew Bill, he’d been a friend of the family since she was a small child. She’d seen him at Darley’s and Cord’s weddings, she remembered once joining him and his wife for lunch at a seaside restaurant in Ogunquit, Maine, when they were all there on vacation. He was soft-spoken and wore small round glasses; he gave the impression of someone who played bridge or studied architecture in his free time.
The morning of her appointment she dressed carefully, tucking a silk blouse into trousers as though she were a professional adult and not someone who routinely ate peanut butter out of the jar for dinner. She took the subway to Grand Central Station and walked up Park Avenue to the offices of Brotherton Asset Management, nestled in a tower so reflective it was nearly invisible against the sky. A secretary welcomed her and offered her a bottled water, which Georgiana politely refused—single-use plastic—and led her to Bill’s office, leaving her in a leather guest chair facing the window.
The office was massive, the size of the Pineapple Street dining room. Bill had a large mahogany desk, a tawny leather sofa, a tall orchid on a pedestal, and a coffee table showcasing a series of white ceramic vases. The walls were glass, and from where she sat Georgiana could see the arches of Grand Central and the stone pillars of the Park Avenue Viaduct. Georgiana’s underarms prickled with sweat, and then Bill came in and she stood, letting him kiss her hello on both cheeks. He smiled warmly. “Georgiana! I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you in the office in several years now.”
It was true, Georgiana hadn’t come in since her grandfather passed and the family gathered to sign paperwork for his trust. “Thanks for making time today, Bill,” Georgiana said stiffly. “I’d like to close the account.”
“What do you mean?” Bill smiled uncertainly.
Georgiana hadn’t rehearsed this part, but she pressed on. “I understand that much of my trust is currently tied up in investments. I’d like to sell off my stakes in everything, as soon as it’s feasible, and then I want to take all the money and give it away to a charity.”
“Have you spoken to your family about this?” Bill asked, concern creasing his brow.
“No, I don’t want to. This is entirely my decision.”
“Well, it’s not your decision, and it’s quite a bit more complicated than that, I am afraid. While you’re the beneficiary of the trust, you are not the trustee. There are two trustees, and you would need to compel both of them to make any significant moves with your investments.”
“My father told me that the fund was mine,” Georgiana stammered. “He told me he didn’t oversee it.”
“He doesn’t. He’s not a trustee.”
“Well, who is?” Georgiana felt blood rushing to her neck and cheeks.
“I am one, and your mother is the other.”
“My mother?”
“Yes, when your grandparents set up your account it was with the provision that both your mother and an investment manager from Brotherton would help manage the trust for you.”
“To stop me from doing something like this?”
“Well, there are lots of reasons that people assign trustees. It’s really there to protect the beneficiary.”
“Like if I were to develop a massive drug addiction or gambling problem.”
“Well, sure.” Bill nodded his head sympathetically.
“I don’t have a drug addiction or a gambling problem. I just need access to the money my grandparents left me.” Georgiana was horrified to realize she was starting to cry. She wiped her eyes and yet more tears spilled down her cheeks. She was so frustrated.
“I think you need to talk to your mother.”
“But I can’t!” Georgiana said, and her voice cracked.
“Georgiana,” Bill said softly. “Tell me what’s going on. I can help you.”
Georgiana told him she had fallen in love with a man who was married, that he died in Pakistan, that he had been trying to help people, and now the only way she knew how to make it better was to get rid of the money. Georgiana spoke in a rush, and when she finished she took a tissue from Bill and wiped her face, which was covered in tears, and her nose, which was running.
“I’m sorry,” Georgiana whispered, exhausted.
“Don’t be,” the kind man replied. “I think what you want to do is incredible and I have some ideas.”
* * *
Georgiana’s senior year of high school, her mother had surgery for her tennis elbow and couldn’t play for eight months. That marked the lowest point in their mother-daughter relationship, including the time Georgiana got bangs at fifteen and her mother made her wear a hat in her presence until they grew out. Without tennis they were like two strangers who both happened to have the exact same ears.
Georgiana accepted Tilda’s invitation to play at the Casino and decided ahead of time that she would let her mother win, partially to make up for the Mad Hatter’s party and partially in preparation for the trustee conversation, but once they got on the court Georgiana couldn’t help herself and beat her with a nasty drop shot that would have made Andy Roddick break a racket. Tilda took it entirely graciously and even applauded before changing her shoes and leading Georgiana back to Orange Street.
Happily, Chip was out at a business dinner so Georgiana could talk to her mother alone. They ordered supper over the phone—Tilda didn’t trust online ordering and insisted on talking to her favorite bartender, Michael, to place the order. It made Georgiana cringe to watch her mother demand a different level of service from everyone else, but at least she was a good tipper. They had agreed that they were having hamburgers, but they bastardized them in two wildly different directions, Tilda ordering a burger, rare, with no bun, and substituting a salad, Georgiana ordering a meatless burger with avocado and cheese and a side of ranch for the fries. Tilda poured them each a glass of white wine and they curled up in the living room to wait for the food.
“So, Mom,” Georgiana started.
“Yes, dear,” Tilda replied a bit too eagerly.
“Have you ever done something you were really ashamed of?” Tilda nodded in concentration, so Georgiana continued. “Have you ever paused and wondered ‘Am I actually a good person? Or am I moving through this world making things a little worse instead of better?’？” Tilda continued to bob her head. “Have you ever felt like you just couldn’t keep going down the same path, and that you needed to stop and really evaluate what it meant to be a part of this planet? What it meant to be a good human?”