The drive to the Hamptons took two hours.
Beatrix sat in the back of the town car alone.
Carlyle had taken his sports car. Presumably with Gene.
Beatrix wore a high-necked black dress she had bought three years ago for a funeral.
It felt appropriate.
The Spears Estate loomed in the twilight-a massive, sprawling mansion that looked more like a museum than a home.
She walked up the stone steps.
The butler, Mr. Henderson, opened the door.
"Mrs. Spears," he greeted warmly. "It is good to see you."
"Hello, Henderson."
She walked into the parlor.
Victoria Spears, the matriarch, sat in her wheelchair by the fire.
She was ninety years old and sharper than a razor blade.
Next to her was Eleanor, Carlyle's mother, arranging white lilies in a crystal vase.
"Beatrix!" Eleanor dropped the scissors and rushed over.
She hugged Beatrix tight.
"Look at you, you're too thin. Is Carlyle not feeding you?"
"I'm fine, Eleanor," Beatrix managed a smile.
"Where is my grandson?" Victoria barked, thumping her cane on the floor.
"He's parking," Beatrix lied.
Ten minutes later, Carlyle walked in.
Alone.
He looked agitated. His tie was loosened.
"Sorry I'm late," he muttered, kissing his mother's cheek.
He nodded at his grandmother.
He didn't look at Beatrix.
"Sit," Victoria commanded. "Dinner is served."
They moved to the dining room.
The table was set for twenty, but only four places were laid.
Victoria sat at the head.
She pointed with her cane.
"Beatrix, sit there. Carlyle, next to your wife."
Carlyle hesitated.
"Grandmother, I prefer-"
"Sit!"
Carlyle sat.
He was so close Beatrix could smell him-the sandalwood, the smoke, and underneath, the faint, cloying scent of Gene's perfume.
Dinner was tense.
The only sounds were the clinking of silver against china.
"So," Victoria said, slicing her steak. "When are we going to see a great-grandchild?"
Beatrix choked on her water.
Carlyle stopped chewing.
"Grandmother," he said warningly.
"Don't 'Grandmother' me. I'm ninety. I don't have time for your career building."
"We are getting a divorce," Carlyle said.
He dropped the bomb casually, like he was asking for the pepper.
Silence descended.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Eleanor dropped her fork. It clattered loudly onto her plate.
Victoria's face turned purple.
She grabbed her chest.
"Divorce?" she wheezed. "With that... that showgirl? That Golden girl?"
"Gene is not a showgirl," Carlyle snapped. "She's a family friend."
"She's a gold digger with a fake heart condition!" Victoria shouted. "If you divorce Beatrix, I will write you out of the will. You will lose your 10% share of the holding company."
Carlyle's eyes widened. "You can't do that."
"Watch me."
Victoria turned to Beatrix.
"And you. Why aren't you fighting for him?"
"I..." Beatrix started.
"He needs a strong hand," Victoria said. "Eleanor, tell him."
Eleanor looked at her son. "Carlyle, be a gentleman. Serve your wife some fish."
"She hates fish," Carlyle muttered.
"I love fish," Beatrix said quickly.
She hated fish. It made her gag.
But she needed these women on her side. She needed the accounts unfrozen.
Carlyle looked at her, eyebrows raised.
He picked up the serving fork and dumped a massive piece of halibut onto her plate.
"Enjoy," he whispered.
Beatrix cut a piece and put it in her mouth.
She fought the urge to retch, her throat closing up. She took a large sip of water, forcing the small, oily piece down with a painful swallow.
"See?" Eleanor clapped her hands. "They are perfect."
"Beatrix," Victoria commanded. "Ask your husband for the salt. Call him Darling."
Beatrix froze.
Carlyle smirked. He crossed his arms, leaning back.
He was enjoying this. He wanted to see her squirm.
Beatrix thought of the declined transaction.
She thought of her mother lying in that hospital bed.
She turned to him.
She softened her eyes. She leaned in close, her shoulder brushing his arm.
"Darling," she purred, her voice husky. "Would you please pass the salt?"
The smirk vanished from Carlyle's face.
His pupils dilated.
The air between them crackled.
He stared at her mouth.
His hand reached for the salt shaker.
It trembled.
He knocked the shaker over. Salt spilled across the mahogany table.
Carlyle stared at the white granules, his breathing shallow.
He looked at Beatrix.
He looked terrified.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"I've lost my appetite," he said roughly.
He turned and stormed out of the room, through the French doors, into the garden.
Beatrix sat there, her heart pounding.
Eleanor reached into her purse.
She pulled out a checkbook.
She scribbled something and slid it across the table to Beatrix.
"For your mother," Eleanor whispered. "I know Carlyle cut you off. He's a child sometimes."
Beatrix looked at the check.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Tears pricked her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered.
She grabbed the check.
Then she stood up.
"Excuse me."
She ran toward the French doors.
