What I saw instead was calculation.
“Mrs. Harrison.” Tyler Caldwell addressed my grandmother directly, not even glancing at me. “I think we should talk about this privately. There may be some misunderstandings that can be cleared up.”
Eleanor regarded him with the same expression she probably used on particularly dim-witted law students.
“There are no misunderstandings, Mr. Caldwell.”
“But surely the whole Cape Cod situation—I mean, families have disputes. Paperwork gets complicated. If we could just sit down with the lawyers—”
“The paperwork was forged. My daughter committed fraud. Those aren’t disputes. They’re crimes.”
Tyler shifted his weight, and I watched his mask slip. Underneath the polished veneer, I glimpsed something desperate.
“The penthouse, then. Madison mentioned that you might be reconsidering your will, given the circumstances, the wedding, the new family. Perhaps there is a way to—”
“Mr. Caldwell.” Eleanor’s voice cut like surgical steel. “I’m not reconsidering anything. The penthouse belongs to Paige. It will continue to belong to Paige.
And if you’re asking whether I’ll give my remaining assets to a granddaughter who just married a man willing to beg at a ballroom door, the answer is no.”
Tyler’s face reddened. For a moment, I thought he might say something ugly.
Instead, Eleanor smiled. That particular smile that made courtroom attorneys nervous.
“You married the wrong Harrison, young man. And frankly, given what I’ve seen of your character tonight, Madison is welcome to you.”
She turned away from him without another word.
Marcus Webb stepped forward, blocking Tyler’s path.
“I’d advise you to return to your wedding, Mr. Caldwell. Anything you say now could be relevant to ongoing investigations.”
Tyler Caldwell, son of a managing partner at one of Boston’s most prestigious law firms, suddenly looked very young and very scared.
He retreated without another word.
We stepped out into the cold March night. The air smelled like impending rain, and the streetlights cast golden pools on the cobblestones of Copley Square.
“Grandma,” I said, my voice thick. “I’m so sorry about the wedding, about the scene, about all of it.”
She patted my arm.
