Chapter 4: What Gerald Knew
I called Gerald that same evening.
He was Richard's younger brother.
Retired now, living forty minutes away in the same house he'd bought in his thirties.
He had stood at the back of the chapel that afternoon and left without speaking to me.
I had assumed grief.
Now I wasn't sure.
The phone rang four times.
"Joan." His voice was careful.
Flat in a way Gerald's voice never was.
"I read the letter," I said.
Silence.
"Richard told me to ask you about 1997."
More silence.
Then: "Where are you?"
"Home."
"Is Daniel with you?"
"He's in the kitchen."
"Joan, I—" He stopped.
Started again.
"I think we should talk in person."
"Gerald.
Tell me now."
A long breath came through the line.
"There was a woman," he said.
"Her name was Patricia.
She worked with Richard at the firm.
It started in the spring of that year and it went on for about four months."
The kitchen sounds behind me — Daniel filling a kettle, a cabinet closing — suddenly felt very far away.
"He ended it," Gerald said quickly.
"He ended it himself, before you ever found out.
He came to me when it was over.
He was a mess, Joan.
He said he'd made the worst mistake of his life and he didn't know how to tell you."
"So he didn't."
"No."
"And you didn't either."
The silence that followed was its own kind of answer.
"He was my brother," Gerald said.
"He begged me not to.
He said he was going to tell you himself, when the time was right.
And then the time was never right, and the years went by, and—"
"Thirty-one years, Gerald."
"I know."
"You sat at my dinner table for thirty-one years."
"Joan—"
"You were at our anniversary party.
You gave a speech." My voice was steady.
I didn't know how.
"You said Richard was the most honest man you'd ever known."
Nothing came from the other end of the line.
Daniel appeared in the doorway.
He read my face and went still.
"Did she know?" I asked.
"Patricia.
Did she know he was married?"
"Yes," Gerald said.
"She knew."
"Is she still—"
"She moved away.
Long before you'd have ever crossed paths.
I don't even know where she is now."
I looked at Daniel.
He hadn't moved.
His hand was on the doorframe.
"Richard left me that letter," I said.
"He told me to ask you.
Why would he do that if he didn't want me to know?"
"Because he was dying," Gerald said.
"And I think he couldn't stand the idea of leaving you without the truth.
Even if he was too afraid to say it himself."
"So he made it my problem to find."
Gerald didn't answer that.
"I need you to not call me for a while," I said.
"Joan, please—"
"I'm not angry at you right now.
I'm too tired to be angry at you.
But I need you to give me some time."
I ended the call.
Daniel crossed the room and sat down across from me at the kitchen table.
He didn't say anything.
He just sat there, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him.
"Did you know?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"I swear to you, Mom.
I had no idea."
I believed him.
I don't know why I was so certain, but I was.
I set the phone on the table between us.
"Your father," I said slowly, "asked me not to ask questions for eleven months.
He kept two secrets from me — yours and his own — and he died and left me a letter pointing me toward one of them." I paused.
"I don't know whether to be grateful or furious."
"Maybe both," Daniel said.
I looked at him.
For the first time since he'd walked into that chapel, I really looked at him — the pink dress, the careful makeup, the earrings I hadn't noticed before.
Small gold hoops.
"How long have you had those?" I asked.
He touched one self-consciously.
"About a year."
"They suit you."
His face did something complicated.
His eyes went bright.
"Mom—"
"I'm not finished being shocked," I said.
"About your father.
About all of it.
But I need you to know that nothing in that letter changes how I feel about you."
He nodded.
His chin was unsteady.
"There's something else you should know," he said after a moment.
May you like
"Something I found out two weeks ago, while Dad was still alive." He looked at the phone on the table.
"It's about the will."
