Chapter 13 - THE INHERITANCE MELINE DIDN’T WANT
Meline refused to believe it.
“There’s another Meline Rhodes.”
Sloan shook his head.
“Date of birth matches.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Your conservatory student identification number is listed.”
She stared.
“That is deeply creepy.”
Garrison almost smiled.
“Lydia was thorough.”
“Why would she give me eighty-four million dollars?”
“Not give.”
Sloan corrected.
“Name as successor trustee.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It is responsibility, not personal ownership.”
“Good.”
Meline exhaled.
Then realized.
“How much responsibility?”
“A foundation portfolio currently valued at approximately eighty-four million.”
She sat down.
“No.”
Garrison leaned against the piano.
“You say that often.”
“It’s useful.”
The original clause had been written two years before Lydia died.
Long before the financial conspiracy fully surfaced.
Why Meline?
The answer came from Norah.
On a good afternoon.
Meline showed her Lydia’s photograph.
Norah smiled.
“Pretty.”
“Mom, why did Lydia name me in a foundation?”
Norah’s eyes sharpened.
“Because you said no.”
Meline frowned.
“To what?”
“Money.”
Garrison looked at Meline.
Norah continued.
“Scholarship.”
Memory returned.
Meline had won a Vance Foundation scholarship during conservatory.
She refused part of it after learning another student had lost funding.
At the time she never knew Lydia personally.
Norah had.
Lydia learned what Meline did.
“She said you were stubborn,” Norah whispered.
Garrison laughed.
Meline glared.
Norah continued.
“Good stubborn.”
Then memory drifted.
But they understood.
Lydia had wanted an independent trustee outside the Vance family.
Someone young.
Unconnected to business.
Someone she believed would not treat money as entitlement.
It seemed irresponsible.
Until Sloan produced more documents.
Meline was not sole trustee.
The succession created a three-person board.
Meline.
Bennett.
A representative from the Chicago Community Trust.
Meline’s role mattered.
But she would not control everything alone.
Lydia had planned carefully.
“What does the foundation do?” Meline asked.
Sloan looked uncomfortable.
“Historically?”
“That is a terrifying answer.”
Garrison smiled.
Sloan continued.
“Medical grants. Education. Memory research. Arts programs.”
Meline froze.
“Memory research?”
Norah.
Lydia had funded Norah’s work through the foundation.
Meline looked at Garrison.
“This is why they knew each other.”
“Yes.”
The legitimate foundation had once supported music and memory research.
Robert’s illegal network later contaminated related medical subsidiaries.
Lydia tried to separate the two.
Now Meline held a chance to restore the original mission.
Still, she hesitated.
“I’m a maid.”
Garrison’s expression hardened.
“No.”
She looked at him.
“You worked as a maid.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
His voice became quiet.
“It’s work. Not identity.”
Meline stared.
He continued.
“And there would be nothing wrong if it were.”
That mattered.
The mansion had taught her how invisible certain jobs became.
Now the most powerful man in the house said the quiet part correctly.
She nodded.
“I don’t know how to run a foundation.”
“Neither did Lydia when she started.”
“You knew her.”
“Yes.”
“Biased.”
“Very.”
Bennett entered.
“I vote she accepts.”
Meline looked at him.
“You get a vote?”
“Yes.”
“That seems unfair.”
“I am literally trustee number two.”
Of course.
Meline accepted provisionally.
Subject to training.
Independent counsel.
No interference from Garrison.
He hated that clause.
She loved it.
Meanwhile, Garrison’s health continued improving.
Dr. Foster determined some medications had been medically unnecessary for years.
Reduction was slow.
Careful.
He attended therapy voluntarily.
Not because a court demanded it.
Not because Emmett wanted documentation.
Because he wanted a life not organized around avoiding midnight.
One night, Meline found him in the kitchen at 1:07 a.m.
The exact hour the storm had opened the music-room door weeks earlier.
“What are you doing?”
“Coffee.”
“At one in the morning?”
“Decaf.”
She stared.
“That may be the most disturbing thing I’ve learned about you.”
He smiled.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Noise?”
“A little.”
“Want music?”
He thought.
“No.”
That surprised her.
“I want to sit with it.”
She nodded.
Progress did not mean needing the same coping tool forever.
She sat across from him anyway.
They talked until three.
About Lydia.
Norah.
Garrison’s father.
Meline’s father.
Music.
Fear.
Nothing.
Then Garrison said:
“I’m falling in love with you.”
Meline stopped breathing.
No dramatic lead-in.
No candlelight.
Coffee.
Kitchen.
One in the morning.
She stared.
“That is a terrible way to tell someone.”
“I considered a speech.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’m not asking you for anything.”
That mattered.
Meline swallowed.
“You loved Lydia.”
“Yes.”
“You still do.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Meline looked down.
“Doesn’t that make this complicated?”
“Everything is complicated.”
“That is not helpful.”
He leaned back.
“I don’t want you to replace her.”
“Good.”
“I don’t want to stop loving her.”
“Good.”
“I also don’t want guilt to decide whether I’m allowed to care about someone alive.”
Meline’s eyes filled.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“Dr. Foster.”
She laughed.
Then became quiet.
“I care about you too.”
His face changed.
“But.”
“Of course.”
“My mother is sick. I may go back to school. I suddenly have a foundation. My life is moving in twelve directions.”
“I know.”
“I cannot become another thing inside your house.”
“You won’t.”
“You cannot decide where I live.”
“I won’t.”
“What I work on.”
“No.”
“Who I speak to.”
“No.”
“Whether I travel.”
He looked pained.
“I would like consultation on dangerous travel.”
“Garrison.”
“Fine.”
She smiled.
“I’m not saying no.”
His eyes lifted.
“I’m saying slow.”
He nodded.
“Slow.”
They did not kiss.
That mattered too.
The next morning, Meline auditioned for the conservatory re-entry program.
Her hands shook.
She almost left.
Then she remembered Garrison.
Knees on the music-room floor.
Broken by a melody.
Not because music was magical.
Because memory had found a path through fear.
Meline sat.
Played Bach.
Then Norah’s Harbor Piece.
Then her own ending.
When she finished, the panel remained silent.
The chairwoman removed her glasses.
“Ms. Rhodes.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you leave four years ago?”
“My mother got sick.”
“Why return now?”
Meline thought.
“Because she still is.”
The woman waited.
“And I realized waiting for everything to become easy means never returning.”
The chairwoman smiled.
Meline was accepted.
She called Garrison.
He answered:
“How did it go?”
“I got in.”
Silence.
Then a crash.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Garrison.”
“I knocked over a chair.”
“Why?”
“Celebration.”
She laughed.
“Do not buy the conservatory.”
“I am not buying anything.”
“Good.”
“Hypothetically, a scholarship fund—”
She hung up.
He called back.
She ignored it.
For ten minutes.
Then answered.
“I’m joking,” he said.
“Are you?”
“Mostly.”
Their future was beginning.
Then Sloan called.
The criminal trial date for Emmett had been moved forward.
Eleanor would testify.
Caroline would testify.
Hale would testify.
But Emmett’s attorney planned a new defense.
Mental incapacity.
He intended to argue Emmett himself had been manipulated by Julian Cross and Eleanor.
Garrison stared at the filing.
For three years, Emmett had used mental health as a weapon against him.
Now he planned to hide behind it.
Meline saw anger rising.
“Don’t confuse diagnosis with excuse.”
Garrison looked at her.
“You think he could be ill?”
“I think courts should decide facts.”
“And if he is?”
“Then treatment and accountability can exist together.”
Garrison exhaled.
“I hate when you’re reasonable.”
“I know.”
The trial would force him to hear Lydia’s final moments publicly.
Garrison looked at the papers.
Then said:
“I’m ready.”
May you like
Meline reached for his hand.
This time, she did not wait for him to ask.
