15. Jury and utor
15 JURY AND EXECUTOR
Daphne
We filled the Delphine conference room on the ninth floor of its flagship store. Instead of a board meeting, it was time to listen to my father’s will. We waited until all of us could return to Chicago—well, all but Derrick, who was deployed. The day was here. My mother stared, gaze steely out at the traffic driving by. I suspected she was only here as a requirement. She knew what awaited her.
Dora held my hand, nervous. Derrick was with us via phone conference.
My father’s attorney, Patrick MacDannald, arrived and slowly closed the door. We awaited the news. He pulled seven envelopes from his briefcase.
“Hello, everyone. I will pass these out appropriately, but first, I would like to read the youngest Mr. Delphine’s section as he is not here with us.”
“That would be me, right?” Derrick asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Derrick Carlise-Delphine, David Delphine left you 15 family shares and 280 million dollars in a living trust. He also left you his King Air and Piper Cub.”
“Oh shit, really?”
“Planes? You’re currently getting shot at, and you still want planes?” Lanie rolled her eyes. “Pilots are fucked in the head.”
“You wouldn’t understand, Lanie,” Derrick said. “That’s fucking amazing. Thanks, man.”
That was simple . All of this seemed painless. If we each got 15 shares, that would amount to 90 shares total. I figured Davey would get the extra ten added to his total for 25 family shares. That would work.
“Now, I have placed what you were allotted in these remaining envelopes for the rest of you. Anyone with concerns may ask to see a copy of the will in its entirety. This was the way Mr. Delphine wished for. Now, Mrs. Carlisle-Delphine, here is your envelope. There should be no surprises.”
“Let’s wait to open them until they’re all out,” Dora said sweetly. “Well, minus you, Mum.”
Mum opened the seal on her envelope. I watched her go over it as Patrick passed out the remaining allotments. He handed Davey his, then mine. Last was Dora—all in order now. We popped the seals on ours and began to read.
To my daughter, Daphne Eugenia Carlisle-Delphine Walker, I leave 350 million dollars in a trust and 25 family shares of Delphine Holdings. I also leave you the cabin in Boyne, Michigan.
I sat the document down.
350 million dollars . It was an unimaginable amount—even more significant than the inheritance from my grandfather or my trust fund before it vested. The question now was if I would have to split it with Chandler.
“I’m sorry to ask this, but… does it stay there? Can it go in the divorce?”
“I would encourage you to leave it in the trust for now,” Patrick said. “Your father… was a bright man. He wanted to ensure you were safe. The trust was put together to not vest for two more years. There are two small payments between now and then you could take. If you take all of the money out now, there is a withdrawal penalty.”
I beamed, relief washing over me. Thank you, Daddy . I wasn’t sure how everyone knew Chandler was a snake except me, but I was grateful for my father’s attention to detail.
“Three hundred million dollars,” Dora scoffed, turning to Mum as she sat in the corner by the window. “Mummy, this cannot be real!”
“Can I see the document?” Davey asked.
“Yes,” Patrick agreed, handing over the entire will.
I looked across the table at Lanie. Tears in her eyes, she looked down at the parchment. She, too, was in disbelief.
“I cannot accept this, Mum,” Dora said.
Mum shook her head. “Dora, it is set aside until you are thirty. You will have plenty of time?—”
“God fucking damn it!” Davey stood.
He paced back and forth, hands balled in tight fists. I turned, confused. Davey stopped and pointed. “You! What did you say to him?”
“To who?” I asked.
“Dad! What the fuck did you?—”
“I didn’t say anything to Dad, Davey.”
“You got 300 mill and a quarter of the family shares. Mum, do you have family shares?”
“Your father decided that you all would split the shares.”
“Why do you have more shares? I’m the CEO. I?—”
“I didn’t say anything, David.” My head reeled. What did he mean?
“Mum, tell me Dad was wrong! Tell me I am reading this wrong. Daphne did nothing but marry the wrong man and come home with her tail between her legs when she couldn’t make it work.”
I fought tears. I stood, wanting to run. Dahlia stopped me, wrapping her arms around me for comfort. I sobbed into her shoulder, unable to hide my shame and hurt. Davey’s words wounded me in a way I never saw coming.
“Daphne, stop blubbering and sit down,” Mum sighed, annoyed.
“Maybe don’t, Mum?” Lanie said curtly.
“Well, if she wants to be treated like a child?—”
“I’m not a fucking child!” I growled, tone sharp enough to cut glass. “I am not a fucking child!”
“Davey’s unfortunate remarks?—”
“Mirror yours, I suspect,” I sobbed. “And they are cruel. What more could I do? What more could I say? I married a man you never let me run from. I did exactly what I was supposed to do—I was a child prodigy! I put myself together well, I married a man destined for greatness, and I tried desperately to make a life with him until he fucked someone else. Was I supposed to wait around praying someday I’d get my own happy ending, or… what? Continue to be the focus of all of your abuse?”
No one responded. Davey looked down, realizing that his outburst was wrong.
“Are we done here? Do I have to sign something?” I demanded.
Patrick blinked several times before nodding and pushed a piece of paper towards me.
I found my name and signed—my signature with my maiden name—then grabbed my handbag and disappeared through the back staircase. I wound down several floors before descending into the concierge third-floor crowd. Here, personal shoppers assisted Chicago’s wealthiest patrons. I bobbed and wove through droves of people in a cramped, long outgrown area since we began this service twenty years ago. Seas parted. I was one of the Chosen Few. Everyone knew to spot a Delphine. And given that I now owned about a quarter of the company alone, they should fear me more.
Passing through well-heeled groups of young women, I approached a staircase that would deposit me into where I longed to be. Heels clanging on metal stairs, I descended five more flights into what became the concourse below. I popped out a door next to a ticket machine in the station below, took a left, and ended up on Michigan Avenue in an unremarkable stretch of the block. To my right, a drugstore sold tourist merch. I walked past it, looking at a view of the Delphine storefront’s clocktower—complete with the dolphin motif that could be found everywhere in the shop.
I looked at the postcards in the drugstore window. One read, “Greetings from Chi-town!” Though the greeting was cringe—no one calls it that—it made me oddly nostalgic for the “old” version of the city where I’d grown up. Everything had changed. I walked in the spring air, breathing in the ease of the place. The Mag Mile was still quiet at this late afternoon hour. There was nothing all that remarkable about the crowd. I remained anonymous—just a woman in what should be the prime of her life wearing a Chanel suit. I blended right in with the women leaving Bergman-Meyer, our biggest competitor.
I ducked inside with an idea. I browsed racks on the second floor for a moment. Thinking through what they did well versus what we did poorly, I realized the store was bustling in the retail areas, but the clothing options were sparse. I watched a girl looking at cocktail dresses. She grimaced
“Are there any size twelves in the black?” She asked.
I looked through the rack before me. “Nope. A size ten and an eight.”
“Of course,” she said. “I think it’s a conspiracy. They claim to carry up to a fourteen here but only ever have a size ten and below. They don’t want people like us here.”
I looked her up and down. She was fabulous—tall, statuesque, curvy. Her face was perfectly contoured, and her choice of shoes was amazing. I knew she was right, though. Finding clothes over a size six was a dicey affair for a woman who wanted to look chic. This was ironic, given that the average woman was well over a size six.
“Are there any stores that do carry those sizes faithfully?” I asked.
She thought a moment. “Delphine’s does.”
“Oh,” I tried not to act surprised.
“Yeah. But I never go in there. I probably should. But it’s like a maze, you know? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“They offer personal shoppers,” I said. “I’ve used the service before.”
“Good luck getting a friggin’ appointment,” she snickered. “Look, they have a better selection—they even have a plus-sized section! However, it’s a labyrinthine task.”
So, the shopping experience sucked?
“I just feel it’s a bit old,” the girl shrugged. “Well, screw it. I’ll order it on Net-a-Porter.”
She turned and left, but the wheels turned in my brain with this use case. She’d just showed me what the market lacked. And in doing so, presented a clear case if this was our target shopper. The issue was convincing Davey that our target demographic was this shopper. I knew more than anyone. I was a woman. However, he denied we wanted to align ourselves with “trendy” young women.