Chapter 9 - Margaret’s Solitude
Three hours south, in a modest assisted living community in Kokomo, Indiana, Margaret Whitfield sat by a small window overlooking a gravel parking lot.
The room smelled of institutional disinfectant and lavender potpourri.
On the dresser sat a single silver-plated picture frame—the only heirloom she had managed to hide from the liquidation trustees. It showed Daniel’s father standing in front of the Chicago headquarters thirty years ago, proud, wealthy, and untouchable.
A knock sounded at the door, and a young nurse with bright pink scrubs walked in carrying a plastic tray with a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a paper cup of water.
""Lunchtime, Margaret,"" the nurse said cheerfully.
Margaret scowled, adjusting her thrift-store cardigan. ""That is Mrs. Whitfield to you, young lady. I will thank you to address me with the respect appropriate for someone of my family’s standing.""
The nurse merely sighed, used to the bitter woman’s daily delusions. ""Sure thing, Mrs. Whitfield. Don't let your soup get cold.""
Margaret picked up the plastic spoon with trembling fingers, her eyes burning with impotent rage. Just yesterday, she had tried to call Daniel’s second cousin in Boston, begging for an advance on a supposed family trust fund that had ceased to exist eight months prior. The cousin's wife had answered, coldly informing Margaret that her number was being blocked and that she should be grateful Eleanor hadn't pursued criminal conspiracy charges against her for abetting Daniel’s corporate theft.
Even her high-society friends from the Lake Forest Garden Club had deleted her from their address books. When your fortune vanishes in Chicago, your social circle evaporates like steam over the lake.
She looked at the newspaper folded beside her tray.
On the society page, there was a high-resolution photograph taken at the annual Art Institute of Chicago Gala.
There was Eleanor, looking breathtaking in an ivory evening gown—not unlike the one ruined at the Hawthorne Conservatory, but modern, bold, and accented with a magnificent diamond necklace. Standing beside her, his arm resting protectively around her waist with quiet pride, was Marcus Bell.
The headline read: Power Couple Eleanor Cross and Marcus Bell Pledge $10 Million to Chicago Educational Foundations.
May you like
Margaret crushed the newspaper in her fist, her breath coming in ragged, bitter gasps.
She had tried to crush Eleanor. She had treated her like an inconvenient outsider, an employee in her son's gilded kingdom. And now, the empire she had worshipped was gone, her son was a broken laborer in an anonymous town, and Eleanor stood on the highest summit in the city, untouchable, beloved, and free.
