Chapter 8: What Richard Hartley Did Next
Patricia had been right that Richard would fight.
What she had not predicted — what none of us had predicted — was that he would fight by going wider rather than deeper.
The first sign came from Daniel.
He called me on a Wednesday morning, his voice tight.
"Someone's been talking to people," he said.
"Colleagues of mine.
Two of them have mentioned that they've heard I have a — a difficult family situation.
That my mother is pursuing a vendetta against my wife's family."
"Who told them?"
"I don't know.
But it started this week."
The second sign came from Carol.
She called that same evening.
"Richard Hartley had lunch with Geoffrey Marsh today," she said.
Geoffrey Marsh was on the board of the local heritage trust — a body that, among other things, managed records and relationships around historic land in the county.
"I don't know what was said.
But Geoffrey called me afterward, which is how I know about the lunch.
He wanted to know if there was a dispute over the Bennett land sale."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him to speak to Patricia Osei." A pause.
"Margaret, I think Richard is trying to build a narrative before the formal process moves forward.
He wants the story established before the facts are examined."
"He wants people to hear his version first."
"Yes."
I called Patricia the next morning.
She listened without interrupting.
"He's doing what I expected him to do," she said.
"He's attempting to manage the social environment around the legal one.
It's a pressure tactic.
He wants you to feel isolated and exposed before the formal proceedings begin, in the hope that you'll withdraw."
"I'm not going to withdraw."
"I know.
But I want you to be prepared for the next step, which is likely to be a direct approach to Daniel.
He'll try to use the marriage as leverage."
She was right.
Richard called Daniel the following Saturday.
Daniel told me about it that evening, sitting at my kitchen table for the second time in a month, though this time he had brought Tiffany with him.
"He told me that if I don't convince you to drop the complaint, he'll cut Tiffany off entirely," Daniel said.
"No contact, no financial support, nothing.
He said she'd made her choice by not backing him, and now she'd have to live with it."
Tiffany was sitting beside him.
Her face was composed in the careful way of someone who had already cried about this and was not going to do it again in front of an audience.
"He means it," she said quietly.
"He's done it before.
He cut off my brother for two years when Marcus married someone he didn't approve of."
"I'm sorry," I said to her.
She shook her head.
"Don't be.
He made his choice.
So did I."
Daniel put his hand over hers on the table.
"Mom," he said.
"We're not asking you to drop anything.
I want to be clear about that.
We're just — we wanted you to know what he said.
So you weren't blindsided."
I looked at the two of them sitting together at Thomas's kitchen table.
My son, who had made serious mistakes and was trying, imperfectly, to face them.
His wife, who had done the same.
"He miscalculated," I said.
"What do you mean?" Daniel asked.
"He thought threatening Tiffany would make you pressure me.
He thought your marriage was still a lever he could use." I looked at them both.
"He didn't account for the possibility that the two of you would be sitting here together."
Tiffany looked down at the table.
Something in her shoulders released, very slightly.
"Patricia wants to move forward with the formal submission next week," I said.
"She believes we have enough.
The emails, the voicemail, the land sale records, the wedding expenditure documentation.
She's also spoken to the county records office about the timeline of the sale."
"What about Geoffrey Marsh?" Carol had told Daniel about the lunch.
"Patricia has written to him.
She made it clear that any informal communication from Richard Hartley regarding the Bennett land sale should be directed to her office." I paused.
"Richard is running out of room."
Daniel nodded slowly.
"And after?
When it's done — whatever the outcome is — what happens with us?
With you and me?"
It was the question I had been waiting for him to ask.
Not the legal question.
The real one.
"You come to Sunday dinner," I said.
"Both of you.
And we start there."
His eyes went red at the edges again.
He pressed his lips together and nodded.
Outside, the afternoon light was moving across Thomas's roses.
They needed cutting back.
May you like
I had been putting it off for two years.
I thought that perhaps this weekend, I would finally do it.
