Suddenly, his cell phone rang. McNeal didn’t recognize the caller ID. “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Jack McNeal?” drawled a man’s voice.
“Yes.”
“My name is Charles Garrett. I was your wife’s lawyer in DC. I’m the head of estates and planning.”
“It’s not the best time, Charles.”
“I’ll be quick. It’s very important.”
McNeal sighed. “Fine.”
“First, I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mr. McNeal. Caroline was a client of mine for several years. A lovely woman and, as you know, a brilliant journalist. So sad.”
McNeal cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
“We have sent your late wife’s papers. They were kept by us in a safe. She wanted you to have them.”
“Her papers? I don’t know what the legal position is on this. We were separated.”
“You were still married at the time of her death. I am the executor of the will, and I can say that her estate in its entirety is passed over to you, less our modest fee, which will be shown on your statement which you will receive within the next thirty days.”
McNeal sat down. It confirmed what Finks had already told him. “Go on.”
“I spoke to Caroline extensively about her wishes, making sure she knew the implications. And she was very, very clear. You were to receive everything. It’s a lot of money. A lot of assets. I will be in touch about that. But in the meantime, I just wanted you to know that the documents should arrive the day after tomorrow. They’re being couriered securely.”
McNeal sat in contemplation. He thought of his wife meeting with Garrett at his office in DC, talking over her business. He felt an unbearable sadness seep once again into his heart. It was almost too much to bear. Even though they were separated, she had gifted him a fortune. But he didn’t want it. He wanted her. That’s all he wanted. His wife.
“I’m assuming you must have a few questions for me.”
“I’m just trying to wrap my head around this. It’s a lot to take in. When did you last speak to her?”
“Ten days ago.”
“That recently?”
“Correct. Just before she died. She sent in private papers, a copy of the will, and photographs. She said it was important, and just for you.”
“How did she seem?”
“I’m not qualified to give an assessment of her physical or mental condition.”
“I never said you were. I’m just asking, was she compos mentis?”
“I’m her lawyer, not her doctor.”
McNeal felt slightly empty, knowing for certain now he was going to inherit his dead wife’s estate. He had never craved material things.
“It’s usually the men who go first,” Garrett added. “I mean who die first. I expected to go before my wife. But she died three years ago. Quite unexpectedly.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“A word to the wise, Mr. McNeal. Take time to mourn. Take time to remember the good times. Time is indeed a great healer.”
McNeal closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face.
“Day or night, don’t hesitate to contact me if you need any help or guidance on this.”
“Thanks.”
“Try not to worry about the legal side of things. We’ll sort all that out.”
Eleven
The sky was slate gray on the day of Caroline’s funeral. Dark clouds rolled in off Long Island Sound. McNeal stood by the graveside at a cemetery outside Westport. He was flanked by his brother, Peter, and his father, bearing witness to her passing. The wreaths of flowers around the graveside rustled in the wind, the handwritten cards flapping noisily. The minister spoke of not having known Caroline, though he had read her work. And he had spoken with her husband, Jack, who knew her best.
McNeal gazed down at the empty grave.
“She was a tenacious woman, principled and driven,” the minister said. “A woman so deeply loved by her husband, Jack. So deeply loved. Words were her tools, and she deployed them expertly. She was smart. Highly educated and very well-read. But she wore her learning lightly. She will be sorely missed.”
McNeal felt his throat tighten. He bowed his head as the coffin was lowered into the grave.
“She is now at peace, lying in the arms of her heavenly father. May God rest her soul.”
McNeal stared at the highly polished coffin. His father, a man not known for shows of emotion, began to sob again, which cut right through McNeal. He stood solemnly by his wife’s grave. He always tried hard not to show raw emotion. His own father had taught him that as a boy. But now his father was the one who wept at his breaking point.