Vivienne laughed, that brittle society laugh. “Read whatever you want, dear. It won’t change the math.” “You’re right,” I said. “It won’t.” I opened the folder. “This is a letter from Pembroke & Hale, dated yesterday. It confirms that the controlling interest in Astor-Vance Holdings — the parent company of your husband’s bank, your Hamptons house, and the trust that pays your monthly allowance — was transferred last Friday.” The clatter of silverware stopped. Vivienne’s husband, Charles, set down his mimosa very slowly. “Transferred,” she repeated. “To whom?” “To me.” I turned the page. “My grandfather was Howard Vance. You may remember the name. He sold your father the original seed capital in 1978 in exchange for a forty-one percent silent stake. When he died last spring, that stake passed to his only living grandchild. I spent eight months with the lawyers before I told James, because I wanted to be sure.” James reached for my hand under the table. He’d known for three weeks. He’d begged me to wait. Vivienne’s face went the color of the tablecloth. “That — that can’t be legal.” “It’s been audited twice,” I said. “The bookshop isn’t my income, Vivienne. It’s my hobby. I kept it because I liked who I was inside it. I also liked who James was when he thought I had nothing.” Charles finally spoke. “Vivienne. Sit down.” “As the majority holder,” I continued, “I’ll be voting at Monday’s board meeting. The first motion is a quarterly review of all family disbursements — including the discretionary allowance currently funding this brunch.” A cousin from Boston actually laughed into her napkin. Vivienne lowered herself into her chair like the cushion might bite. I closed the folder. “You can keep the house in Oyster Bay. Consider it a wedding gift. From the spinster.” James stood, lifted his glass, and said, “To Eleanor.” Ninety voices answered. Vivienne’s was not among them. The bookshop opened as usual Monday morning. I worked the register myself.
