“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Dr. Grove as they walked across the hall. “I want you to know, Lynn, how much I appreciate all you’re doing for Arthur. When you come back to Jackson Memorial, I’m going to recommend to the medical director that you’re given a promotion and a rise in salary to go with it.”
“Only if you think I’m worth it,” said Lynn coyly.
“You’re more than worth it,” Grove said. “But you do realize,” he added, lowering his voice when he spotted the maid coming out of the kitchen, “that if Arthur left you anything in his will, however small, you would lose your job?”
“I would lose so much more than that,” said Lynn, squeezing his hand.
Grove smiled as the maid opened the door for him. “Good-bye, honey,” he whispered.
“Good-bye, Dr. Grove,” Lynn said, for the last time.
She ran back up the stairs and into the bedroom to find Arthur, cigar in one hand and an empty glass in the other, watching The Johnny Carson Show. Once she’d poured him a second whiskey, Lynn sat down by his side. Arthur had almost fallen asleep when Carson bade goodnight to his thirty million viewers with the familiar words, “See you all at the same time tomorrow.” Lynn turned off the TV, deftly removed the half-smoked cigar from Arthur’s fingers, and placed it in an ashtray on the side table, then switched off the light by his bed.
“I’m still awake,” said Arthur.
“I know you are,” said Lynn. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead before slipping an arm under the sheet. She didn’t comment when a stray hand moved slowly up the inside of her leg. She stopped when she heard the familiar sigh, that moments later was followed by steady breathing. She removed her hand from under the sheet and strolled into the bathroom, wondering how many more times she would have to . . .
Sadly, the children arrived home just a few hours after Arthur passed away peacefully in his sleep.
Mr. Haskins removed the half-moon spectacles from the end of his nose, put down the will and looked across his desk at his two clients.
“So all I get,” said Chester Sommerfield, not attempting to hide his anger, “is a silver-handled cane, while Joni ends up with just a picture of Dad taken when he was a freshman at Princeton?”
“While all his other worldly goods,” confirmed Mr. Haskins, “are bequeathed to a Miss Lynn Beattie.”
“And what the hell has she done to deserve that?” demanded Joni.
“To quote the will,” said Haskins, looking back down at it, “she has acted as ‘my devoted nurse and close companion.’”
“Are there no loopholes for us to exploit?” asked Chester.
“That’s most unlikely,” said Haskins, “because, with the exception of one paragraph, I drew up the will myself.”
“But that one paragraph changes the whole outcome of the will,” said Joni. “Surely we should take this woman to court. Any jury will see that she is nothing more than a fraudster who tricked my father into signing a new will only days after you had amended the old one for him.”
“You may well be right,” said Haskins, “but, given the circumstances, I couldn’t advise you to contest the validity of the will.”
“But your firm’s investigators have come up with irrefutable evidence that Ms. Beattie was nothing more than a common prostitute,” said Chester, “and her nursing qualifications were almost certainly exaggerated. Once the court learns the truth, surely our claim will be upheld.”
“In normal circumstances I would agree with you, Chester, but these are not normal circumstances. As I have said, I could not advise you to take her on.”
“But why not?” came back Joni. “At the very least we could show that my father wasn’t in his right mind when he signed the will.”
“I’m afraid we’d be laughed out of court,” said Haskins, “when the other side points out that the will was witnessed by a highly respected doctor who was at your father’s bedside right up until the day he died.”
“I’d still be willing to risk it,” said Chester. “Just look at it from her perspective. She’s a penniless whore who has recently been dismissed from her job without a reference, and she sure won’t want her past activities aired in court and then reported on the early evening news followed by the front page of every morning paper.”
“You may well be right,” said Haskins. “But it’s still my duty as a lawyer to inform my clients when I believe their case cannot be won.”
“But you can’t be worried about taking on Kullick in court,” said Chester. “After all, you didn’t even think he was good enough to be a partner in your firm.”
Haskins raised an eyebrow. “That may well be the case, but it wouldn’t be Mr. Kullick I would be up against.” He replaced his half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and once again picked up the will, then turned over several pages before identifying the relevant clause. He looked solemnly at his clients before he began to read.
“ ‘I also bequeath ten million dollars to my alma mater, Princeton University; five million dollars to the Veterans Association of America; five million dollars to the Conference of Presidents, to assist their work in Israel; five million dollars to the Republican Party, which I have supported all my life; and finally five million dollars to the National Rifle Association, the aims of which I approve, and which I have always supported.’”
The old lawyer looked up. “I should point out to you both that none of these bequests was in your father’s original will,” he said, before adding, “and although I am in no doubt that we could beat Mr. Kullick if he was our only opponent, I can assure you that we would have little chance of defeating five of the largest and most prestigious law firms in the land. Between them they would have bled you dry long before the case came to court. I fear I can only recommend that you settle for a cane with a silver handle and a photograph of your father at Princeton.”
“While she walks away with a cool seventy million dollars,” said Joni.