Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

A few days later, at dinner, Sophie announced that Ransom Gardener, the lawyer, would be stopping by at nine.

Grace said, “The hippie, too?”

Sophie and Malcolm laughed and Sophie said, “Good old Mike? No, not tonight.”

Good; Leiber never noticed Grace, anyway. Recently, he’d been arriving with a BlackBerry and rarely taking his eyes off the screen.

Mr. Gardener, on the other hand, always took the time to greet Grace and smile at her. Grace wondered if Mike Leiber was his ward, someone with a disability that the attorney took care of. Someone whose biological parents were unfit. Or uncaring, they just felt like ditching a weirdo.

Did lawyers do that? Grace supposed they did anything that paid well.

Gardener arrived right on time, wearing a black three-piece suit and a thick gold silk tie and carrying two large briefcases. More like suitcases, really.

“Evening, Grace.”

“Hi, Mr. Gardener.”

He hefted the cases. “This is what we lawyers do, make simple things complicated.”

Sophie led everyone to the big table in the dining room, where she’d set out store-bought cookies and bottled water. Malcolm appeared, as if on cue, and everyone sat.

Ransom Gardener was the first to speak, pulling a sheaf of papers from one of the cases. “Congratulations, Grace. I’ve got the paperwork for your adoption. You’re a minor but someone of your age and brains needs to know what they’re involved in. So, please.”

He slid the papers to Grace. She said, “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I’d read it if I were you,” said Malcolm. “For all you know, you’re signing away your books and your clothing to Hare Krishna.”

Ransom Gardener chuckled. Sophie smiled and Grace did as well. Everyone on edge, eager to fake levity.

Grace took the papers. Small print, big words; this was going to be a drag.

Sophie said, “Yes, dear, it’s a chore, but learning to be meticulous with documents is a useful skill.”

“Punishment for success,” said Malcolm. “Unless you’re an attorney.”

“Now, now,” said Ransom Gardener. “Unfortunately, you’re right, Mal.”

“Now and always, Ran.” Malcolm ate a cookie, then another, brushed crumbs from his sweater vest.

Grace read. The documents were even worse than she’d expected, repetitive, verbose, dull, devoid of humanity. All of it boiling down, by the final page, to the fact that Malcolm Albert Bluestone and Sophia Rebecca Muller (heretofore to be referred to as “the Applicants”) wanted to adopt Grace Blades (heretofore to be referred to as “Said Minor”).

Stating the obvious while murdering the English language. Grace knew she’d never be a lawyer.

She finished and said, “Clear as a bell. Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Gardener.”

Gardener gave a start. “Well, that’s a first. Someone appreciating me.”

Malcolm said, “Feeling emotionally needy, are we, Ran?”

Gardener chuckled again and lightly cuffed Malcolm’s shoulder. Their interplay suggested a personal relationship. Gardener had white hair and sunken cheeks, as if his teeth had receded, and Grace had always thought of him as an old man. But seeing him next to Malcolm made her realize they were around the same age, could be longtime friends.

Or perhaps not, and she’d just witnessed banter between two gregarious men. She’d never seen them socialize, only the meetings that she assumed were about business, the privileges and obligations of wealthy people.

Then again, Malcolm and Sophie never socialized with anyone. Ever.

Something else that made living with them ideal.

Gardener said, “Well, you’re very welcome, young lady. And as I said, you’re a minor, which unfortunately gives you little by way of rights. But I have drafted a brief document that I’d like you to sign, if you agree. It’s not binding but I felt you deserved it because of your high intelligence.”

A single page slid across the table.

The same obtuse legalese. This one said Grace knew what was going on and consented to being Malcolm and Sophie’s adopted daughter.

She signed it, using her best penmanship. Thinking: This is the most important document of my life, make it elegant. Memorable, the way John Hancock had.

My declaration of wonderful dependence.

Nothing really changed, no pressure to start calling them Mom and Dad, no further mention of the new legal status. On the one hand, Grace liked that. On the other, it was a bit of a letdown.

What had she expected? Glass slippers and a pumpkin coach?

On weekdays, breakfast was generally a do-your-own-thing affair. Everyone rising at different times, Malcolm not much of a breakfast eater, period. Sophie tried to sit down with Grace as she nibbled cereal and bolted down orange juice squeezed from trees out in the garden, before Grace walked to Merganfield, but often her schedule on campus made that impossible.

Several mornings after signing the adoption documents, Grace came down and found a formal breakfast set up. Starched linen draped over the table, soft-boiled in porcelain egg cups, neatly arrayed chunks of French cheeses on the good china, triangles of whole wheat toast lined precisely in a silver rack.

Coffee and tea, no room for error.

Malcolm and Sophie were already seated. Another production? Oh, boy. Grace knew the thought was brutally ungrateful but sometimes all she wanted was to be left with her thoughts and fantasies.

This morning, it was more a matter of fatigue; she hadn’t slept much, alternating between flights of glee and pangs of anxiety. Wondering obsessively: What did her new status really mean? Would they at some point want to be called Mom and Dad, were they just waiting for the right psychological moment?

Mom and Dad.

Mother and Father.

Mater and Pater.

Your Lordships... was she now officially a Bullocks Wilshire and Saks Fifth Avenue princess? Had she ever been anything else since arriving on June Street?

Would some prince appear now that she qualified socially?

Would he remain a prince or turn into a frog when she kissed him... worse, a toad.

A lizard.

A serpent.

What did all this mean ?

The most terrifying question of all: Is this a dream?

No, it couldn’t be. Because she was wide awake, lying on her back in a big, luxuriant bed in a big, luxuriant room, a place they said was hers but was it really?

Was she anything more than an honored guest?

Did it matter?

Now, at the breakfast table, Grace rubbed her eyes and sat down, watching soft-boiled egg shimmy as her hand bumped the cup.

Sophie said, “Tough night?”

As if she understood.

Maybe she did. Maybe Malcolm did, too. He was a psychologist, trained to read emotions, though, to tell the truth, sometimes he seemed oblivious to the world around him; Sophie was the perceptive one. The one who shopped with her. Started off selecting her clothing, then gradually eased out of the process, allowing Grace to make her own decisions.

Sophie made her medical and dental and hairdresser appointments. Sophie had found her the dentist, the pediatrician. Now a gynecologist, a pretty young woman named Beth Levine, who examined Grace gently and offered her the option of birth-control pills.

It was Sophie she smiled at now. “I’m okay. This looks yummy.”

She ate a bit of egg, a nibble of toast, drank most of a cup of coffee, then stopped and smiled at both of them. Letting them know she was patient with whatever they had in mind.

But hopefully, not another bunch of emotion, please no more of that. Yes, her fortune had turned golden, but at some point it was like overeating: You paid with heartburn and sleepless nights.