Not the sentimental people. The practical ones. The lawyers. The business associates. The club members who understood exactly what shielded from marital claim meant.
I heard a soft laugh from Aunt Helen.
I looked up just long enough to see Grant staring at Blackwood like he’d been physically struck.
“The Martha’s Vineyard beach house, the investment portfolio, the yacht Integrity, and all holdings designated under Schedule A shall remain my daughter’s separate property in perpetuity.”
“Grant,” Becca whispered again, but this time there was fear in it.
He still didn’t answer.
I read the next paragraph because my father had asked me to and because every word felt like a hand on my back, steadying me.
“To my son-in-law, Grant Morrison, I leave the sum of one dollar and one piece of advice: a man who betrays his wife while her father is dying deserves exactly what he has earned on his own.”
The church erupted. Not loudly at first. It started in pockets—sharp intakes of breath, a disbelieving laugh, somebody saying, “Jesus Christ,” too close to the altar for comfort. Then it spread.
Grant surged to his feet. “This is inappropriate.”