Chapter 7 - The Morning After
At eight o'clock the following morning, the sun rose bright and cold over the Chicago skyline, reflecting off the glass towers along the river.
In Lake Forest, inside a twenty-room stone mansion overlooking the lake, the morning was far from peaceful.
The front doors of the mansion were shut tight, but inside the master study, the sound of raised voices had been echoing for three hours.
Vivian Cross stood near the fireplace, wearing a dark gray silk robe, her face red, her eyes swollen from a night of crying and screaming. Across the room sat Nathan, still wearing his white dress shirt from the night before, his tie undone, sitting behind a heavy mahogany desk covered in corporate documents.
"You ruined us!" Vivian shrieked, throwing a morning edition of the Chicago Sun-Times onto his desk. "Look at page four! 'Drama at the Hawthorne Room'! Someone at the Patterson table talked to a reporter! They're calling me a monster on social media, Nathan! My charity board positions are gone! Eleanor Patterson cancelled our lunch for next week!"
Nathan didn't pick up the newspaper. He sat staring out the tall bay window at the gray waters of Lake Michigan.
"Let them talk," Nathan said quietly, his voice hollow and exhausted.
"Let them talk?!" Vivian screamed, stepping toward the desk. "Our entire life is built on our reputation! My father gave you your first break! My family made you who you are!"
Nathan turned his head slowly. For twenty years, he had deferred to her, absorbed her demands, and maintained the polished image her family required.
Now, he looked at her with eyes that were dead and cold.
"Your father," Nathan said, dropping each word like lead, "was a loan shark in a three-piece suit. And you are a hollow, cruel woman who spent twenty years wearing another woman's memory around your neck to feel important."
Vivian stopped. Her breath hitched in her throat. "Nathan..."
"I am filing for divorce, Vivian," Nathan said calmly.
Vivian froze, her eyes widening in absolute horror. "What?!"
"I have already called my corporate attorneys," Nathan continued, pointing to the thick stack of papers on his desk. "I am stepping down as CEO of Cross Development. I am transferring sixty percent of my personal liquid assets into a private charitable trust for working-class families in the South Side."
"You can't do that!" Vivian screamed, her voice cracking into a high, ugly shriek. "Half of that money is mine!"
"You will get the Lake Forest house and your trust fund," Nathan said, standing up from his desk. "That is what you married me for, Vivian. Take it. Enjoy it alone."
He picked up his dark coat from the chair, turned his back on her hysterical shouting, and walked out of the study, locking the heavy oak door behind him.
At ten o'clock that same morning, Claire and her mother stepped inside Miller & Sons Antique Dealers on Wabash Avenue in downtown Chicago.
The shop smelled of old mahogany, silver polish, and leather-bound books. Behind the glass counter stood Mr. Miller, a silver-bearded man in his sixties wearing a jeweler's loupe over his right eye.
Margaret pulled the gold locket from her coat pocket and set it down on the velvet tray.
Mr. Miller picked up the gold piece, examining the delicate scrollwork along the edge, the small brass catch, and the quality of the gold.
"18k yellow gold," Mr. Miller murmured, adjusting his loupe. "Late Victorian style, circa 1890. Excellent craftsmanship. The chain is broken, but the locket itself is in remarkable condition."
He looked up at Margaret. "Are you looking to sell this, ma'am?"
"Yes," Margaret said firmly. "I want to sell it today."
Mr. Miller calculated for a moment on a small notepad. "Given the gold weight and the antique provenance, I can offer you two thousand four hundred dollars in certified bank check right now."
Claire looked at her mother.
Two thousand four hundred dollars.
It was enough to pay Ethan's entire semester tuition, buy his engineering textbooks, pay off her mother's remaining physical therapy balance, and replace Claire's scuffed work shoes three times over.
Margaret smiled, her hand resting warmly on Claire's shoulder.
"We accept," Margaret said.
Ten minutes later, Claire and Margaret walked out of the antique shop holding a certified cashier's check made out to Margaret Morgan.
The cold November sun shone down on Wabash Avenue, warming their faces as they walked toward the bank.
"Mom," Claire said, holding her mother's arm as they crossed the street. "What are you going to do with the extra money after Ethan's tuition is paid?"
May you like
Margaret looked up at the sky, taking a deep, clean breath of the city air.
"I am going to take a week off work, Claire," Margaret said with a soft laugh. "And then I am going to buy a new oak dining chair to match the table your father built for us."
