Chapter 7
"She's there," Paul whispered.
He pointed a shaking finger across the wide expanse of Concourse B.
Seventy yards away, standing near the frosted glass doors of the private airline lounge, Margaret stood waiting by the moving walkway. She was wearing her cream blazer, one hand resting lightly on the telescoping handle of her small black carry-on. She was looking directly across the terminal at them.
She was not hiding. She was not hurrying. She was simply observing them, with the detached, patient gaze of a schoolteacher watching children realize the playground gate was locked.
"Margaret!" Vanessa yelled, completely abandoning any shred of dignity.
She shoved through the line of waiting passengers, knocking aside a businessman's briefcase without apologizing, her canvas tote swinging wildly as she ran in her white slacks across the polished terrazzo. Paul followed three steps behind, dragging his roller bag, his face pale and sweating.
"Margaret! Stop!"
Margaret did not move. She waited until Vanessa came to a skidding halt five feet away, chest heaving, her manicured fingers clawing at the strap of her bag.
"What did you do?" Vanessa gasped out, her eyes bulging with rage. "What did you do to our tickets? What did you do to the hotel?"
Margaret looked at her. Her expression remained as calm and smooth as deep lake water.
"I didn't do anything to your tickets, Vanessa," Margaret said, her voice dropping with measured clarity. "I cancelled *my* tickets. I cancelled *my* hotel suites. I cancelled *my* boat."
"You bought them for us!" Vanessa shrieked. A security officer fifty feet away turned his head toward the commotion. "You gave them to us for Christmas! That was a family gift!"
"A gift requires an acceptance of the giver," Margaret said. She looked past Vanessa’s shoulder, meeting her son's eyes. Paul had stopped two paces back, his hands hanging limp at his sides, incapable of meeting her stare for more than a fraction of a second. "At Gate B12, you informed me that I was too old for Hawaii. You informed me that my seat belonged to someone else. You told me to head home."
"It was just a seat, Ma!" Paul pleaded, his voice cracking into the pathetic whine of an adolescent caught stealing from the pantry. "Rose had bad legs! Vanessa was just trying to take care of her mother! Why do you have to be so vindictive? Why do you have to ruin everything for Emma and Toby over an airline seat?"
"Do not use my grandchildren as a human shield for your cowardice, Paul," Margaret said. Her voice did not rise, but the steel inside it was so dense, so absolute, that Paul flinched as if struck across the face. "You stood ten feet away and looked at a departure board while your wife treated me like a stray dog she could kick off the porch. You didn't speak. You didn't object. You took the fruits of your father’s labor and handed them to a stranger because you were too weak to tell your wife no."
"Margaret, call them back right now," Vanessa demanded, stepping closer, thrusting her phone into Margaret's face. "The plane is still at the gate! Call the bank and un-cancel the reservation! We have four bags in the basement of this airport! We can't stay in Chicago! We promised the kids Maui!"
"Then I suggest you take out your personal credit card, Vanessa," Margaret said softly. "The ticket counter is on the upper level. Last-minute walk-up fares in economy are roughly twelve hundred dollars per person to Denver. The Grand Wailea currently charges eighteen hundred dollars a night for standard garden-view rooms. If you hurry, you might be able to book something before the night runs out."
"You know we don't have twenty thousand dollars in cash!" Vanessa screamed. "We have the mortgage! We have the country club dues! Paul’s quarterly draw doesn't clear until January!"
"I know," Margaret said.
She glanced at her plain gold watch. It was 4:03 PM.
"Paul," Margaret said.
Paul looked up, his eyes rimmed with red. "What, Ma?"
"Arthur Vance is waiting for me in his office on LaSalle Street."
The color drained from Paul's face until he was the grey of terminal concrete. He had known Arthur Vance since he was six years old; he knew exactly what Arthur Vance did when Margaret summoned him with a physical file.
"Ma... no," Paul whispered. "Ma, don't do that. Don't do that to me. I'm your son."
"You are Harold’s son," Margaret said. "And Harold gave you every opportunity to become a man of character. You chose comfort instead."
She turned the handle of her carry-on, wheeled it neatly toward the exit revolving doors, and did not pause.
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