Chapter 5 - BEATRIZ LEARNED WHY THE ALDCOTTS KEPT CALLING
Beatriz did not cry when Diane told her.
That almost made it worse.
They sat in Reyes Catering’s commissary after the lunch prep crew left.
Stainless-steel counters.
Industrial ovens.
A whiteboard filled with December bookings.
Three were Aldcott-related.
Beatriz stared at them.
“You mean all these years…”
“No.”
Diane leaned forward.
“Do not do that to yourself.”
“Do what?”
“Turn your work into charity because Grant influenced the first introductions.”
Beatriz laughed.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
“Because I ate your food.”
Beatriz looked away.
Diane continued.
“You staffed events. Hired people. Bought vans. Built systems. Kept clients that had no relationship to us.”
“Your name opened doors.”
“Probably.”
“Not probably.”
Her voice broke for the first time.
“Definitely.”
Diane stopped.
Beatriz looked around the kitchen.
“I thought I built this.”
“You did.”
“With help I didn’t know existed.”
“Yes.”
“That matters.”
“Yes.”
Diane did not tell her it should not.
The insult was not that Grant gave her opportunity.
Opportunity was part of business.
The insult was hiding why.
Beatriz wiped her face.
“Mateo would hate this.”
“Grant?”
“No.”
She looked toward the office.
“Me feeling ashamed of work I actually did.”
That sounded like Mateo.
Diane remembered him now.
Fast-talking.
Always carrying two calculators because he never trusted batteries.
He used to tell Grant, “A favor is only a favor if you tell the person what it costs.”
Apparently none of them had listened.
Imogen came in from school at four.
She saw Diane.
Stopped.
“Am I getting fired from a job I’m not technically supposed to have?”
Beatriz almost smiled.
“No.”
“Then what?”
Diane looked at Beatriz.
Her mother nodded.
Tell her.
So Diane did.
Not every legal detail.
Enough.
Her father invested money in Harbor Foundry.
He received a participation side letter.
The claim may still exist.
Grant never clearly disclosed it after Mateo’s death.
Evan found the document.
The pressure on Reyes Catering was tied to getting a release before Imogen became an adult.
Imogen listened without interruption.
When Diane finished, she asked her mother one question.
“Did you know Dad put in two hundred fifty thousand?”
“No.”
“You thought fifty.”
“Yes.”
“Where did the other two hundred come from?”
“His parents.”
“Abuela sold the apartment in San Juan?”
Beatriz closed her eyes.
“I think so.”
Imogen stood.
“She told me they sold it because Grandpa was sick.”
“I know.”
“They sold their home.”
“Not their home. An investment property.”
“That’s not better.”
“No.”
Imogen walked toward the sink.
The same posture as the gala.
Hands on the edge.
Looking down.
Only now she was not crying.
She was angry.
“Did Dad leave anything?”
Beatriz went still.
Diane saw it.
Imogen turned.
“Mom.”
“Not money.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
Imogen stared.
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“He wrote it when you were two.”
“Why?”
“He had surgery.”
Mateo had died the following year after complications from a heart condition no one at Aldcott knew had become serious.
“You told me Dad died suddenly.”
“He did.”
“You said nobody knew.”
“We didn’t know how bad it was.”
“Except he wrote a letter.”
Beatriz’s eyes filled.
“He was scared.”
“Where is it?”
“At home.”
“You never gave it to me?”
“I was saving it for when you were older.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“Yes.”
“Apparently old enough for people to negotiate around my birthday but not old enough to read my father’s letter?”
“Imogen.”
“No.”
The word cracked across the kitchen.
Diane quietly stood.
“I’ll go.”
Imogen looked at her.
“No.”
Diane stopped.
“If this is about why your family has been making decisions about mine, you stay.”
Beatriz took a long breath.
She drove home.
Returned thirty minutes later.
The envelope was worn at the corners.
IMOGEN.
Mateo’s handwriting.
Imogen sat at a prep table.
Opened it.
The letter was five pages.
She read silently.
Then stopped on page four.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Beatriz leaned closer.
Imogen read aloud.
“Grant will remember what he promised because Diane was there, and Diane has always been better at remembering people than Grant is at remembering what people cost.”
Diane’s throat tightened.
Imogen continued.
“If there is ever a fight about Harbor, ask Diane what she signed.”
Diane whispered, “I don’t remember.”
Imogen looked up.
“My dad thought you would.”
The sentence hurt.
Then she turned the page.
Taped to the back was a photocopy Diane had never seen.
A one-page witness memorandum.
Harbor Foundry Participation Agreement.
Mateo Reyes.
Seven percent of net project appreciation above a defined threshold, including qualifying later redevelopment proceeds.
At the bottom:
Witnessed:
DIANE ALDCOTT.
Her signature was there.
And beside it, in Mateo’s handwriting:
Original retained by Grant.
Copy retained by Mateo.
If lost, Diane witnessed execution.
Diane stared.
May you like
The red binder mattered.
But it was no longer the only evidence.
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