Chapter 9 - BEATRICE CAME TO MY OFFICE WITH NO JEWELRY
Four years after my birthday, Beatrice Harrington requested a meeting.
I almost refused.
Then curiosity won.
She arrived at my office wearing a simple navy coat.
No diamonds.
No chauffeur waiting downstairs.
Donald and Beatrice had divorced two years earlier.
Harrington Development survived under independent management but was smaller.
Donald retained an ownership interest.
No executive control.
Beatrice’s lifestyle changed substantially during the financial settlements and civil cases.
She sat across from me.
For once, she did not look like the queen of anything.
“I owe you an apology.”
“Yes.”
She almost smiled.
“You Carusos make people work for words.”
“We had strong teachers.”
That hurt her.
I did not retract it.
Then she said:
“I hated you.”
“I know.”
“Do you know why?”
“I assumed classism.”
“That was part of it.”
Honest.
Then:
“You frightened me.”
I stared.
“Me?”
“You never needed Zachary the way I needed Donald.”
That surprised me.
Beatrice looked down.
“I spent forty years becoming indispensable to a powerful husband.”
“You had a career.”
“His career.”
“His friends.”
“His money.”
“His name.”
Then you married Zachary and kept something separate.”
“Your brothers.”
“Your work.”
“Your opinions.”
“You could leave.”
Her eyes filled.
“And I hated you for having the courage I told myself was disrespect.”
I said nothing.
Then:
“That doesn't excuse what you did.”
“No.”
“I laughed.”
“Yes.”
“I encouraged him to break you down.”
“Yes.”
“I asked security to erase evidence.”
“Yes.”
Tears ran down her face.
“I’m sorry.”
I believed she meant it.
Again—
belief does not create obligation.
“I accept that you are sorry.”
She looked up hopefully.
“But we are not going to have a relationship.”
Her face fell.
Then she nodded.
“I understand.”
She stood.
At the door, she turned.
“Genevieve?”
“Yes?”
“Your brothers never hurt us.”
I almost laughed.
“No.”
“They didn’t.”
She looked puzzled.
“I spent months waiting.”
“For what?”
“For retaliation.”
“Cars.”
“Men.”
“Threats.”
I smiled.
“Zachary believed his own stories.”
“What stories?”
“That my brothers’ power came from violence.”
Beatrice stared.
I continued:
“Their power came from contracts.”
“Evidence.”
“Licenses.”
“Law.”
“Banking relationships.”
“Knowing when to walk away.”
Then:
“And most importantly, they knew when something belonged to me instead of them.”
Beatrice lowered her eyes.
“That would have been useful in our family.”
May you like
“Yes.”
It would have.
