Chapter 4 - The Dinner of Wolves
By Wednesday evening, the atmosphere in the Keating household had shifted from volcanic rage to a sickening, suffocating sweetness.
Lydia had spent the afternoon cooking. The scent of roasted rosemary chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and freshly baked apple tart filled the colonial home, masking the stale tension that lingered in the corners.
When Marlowe came down the stairs at six-thirty, dressed in jeans and an oversized black sweater, she found the dining table set with the good Wedgwood china.
Talia sat on the left, looking angelic in a pale pink cardigan, sipping ice water. Brennan sat next to her, checking his phone. Garrick stood at the sideboard, decanting a bottle of Cabernet.
"Marlowe," Lydia called out, stepping from the kitchen with a warm ceramic serving dish, smiling as though the screams of Monday afternoon had been an auditory hallucination. "Sit down, sweetheart. Dinner is ready."
Marlowe took her seat at the far end of the mahogany table, directly opposite her father. She didn't touch her napkin. She kept her hands folded neatly in her lap.
"We wanted to talk to you," Garrick began, taking his seat at the head of the table, pouring wine for himself and Lydia. He set the bottle down with a measured, deliberate click. "As a family."
"I figured," Marlowe said.
Garrick cleared his throat. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the white linen, projecting his most reasonable, patriarchal warmth.
"We all said things on Monday that were... heated. Unfortunate. Your mother and I were stressed about the academic pressures, and you were feeling defensive about your hard work. We understand that, Marlowe. You worked hard for your grades. We are proud of you."
Talia nodded vigorously, reaching out across the table to touch Marlowe’s wrist. "I really am proud of you, Mar. You’re so smart. I wish I had your brain."
Marlowe pulled her wrist back, resting it against her lap. Talia’s hand hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before retreating with an injured tremor.
Brennan scowled. "Was that necessary?"
"Let it go, Brennan," Garrick commanded gently, holding up a palm. "Let’s keep the temperature down."
He turned back to Marlowe, his eyes crinkling with paternal concern.
"Here’s the reality, Marlowe. Briarcrest is behind us now. In four weeks, you graduate. We received word today that Talia has been accepted to the Bennington Creative Arts Program."
Marlowe raised an eyebrow. "Provisional acceptance. Contingent on full tuition."
Lydia’s smile tightened slightly at the edges. "It is an incredible opportunity for her, Marlowe. They have one of the best therapeutic creative writing departments in the Northeast. It would change her life."
"That’s wonderful," Marlowe said evenly. "How are you paying for it?"
A heavy silence dropped over the table.
Lydia looked at Garrick. Garrick looked down at his wine glass, swirling the dark red liquid before looking back up at Marlowe.
"That’s what we wanted to discuss," Garrick said smoothly. "As you know, the market has been volatile this past year. My firm took a restructuring hit in the first quarter, and your grandfather’s secondary accounts haven't yielded the returns we anticipated."
Lies, Marlowe thought, her mind reciting the trust balances Arthur Pendelton had confirmed that afternoon. The trust gained eight percent last year.
"And?" Marlowe prompted.
"And," Garrick continued, "MIT has offered you a comprehensive financial aid package based on your academic merit, hasn't it?"
"MIT does not offer merit-based aid," Marlowe stated with clinical precision. "They offer need-based aid. And because our family assets are assessed through your tax returns and grandfather's trust, MIT expects our family contribution to be sixty-four thousand dollars a year."
Garrick waved his hand dismissively. "There are external grants. Private scholarships. Student loans."
"Student loans?" Marlowe let the words hang in the air. "You want me to take out two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in private student loans so that Talia can go to an eighty-thousand-dollar-a-year arts school?"
"It’s not just for Talia, Marlowe!" Lydia interjected, her voice rising in pitch, the polite veneer beginning to flake away. "It’s about balance! Talia cannot take out loans! Her credit history, her emotional stability—she cannot bear that kind of pressure! You can! You’re resilient! You will be making six figures within two years of graduation in computer engineering!"
"So my competence is a debt," Marlowe said softly. "And her fragility is an asset."
"Family shares the load, Marlowe!" Brennan said, leaning across the table, his knuckles whitening against the tablecloth. "Do you have any idea how selfish you sound right now? You’re sitting on hundreds of thousands of dollars in Grandpa’s educational trust that you don't even need! You could sign the release form tomorrow, split the allocation fifty-fifty, and both of you could go to college without anyone struggling!"
"Grandpa Richard didn't leave that money to the family, Brennan," Marlowe said, turning her icy gaze onto her brother. "He left it to me. Because he knew that if he left it to Mom and Dad, they would spend every dime trying to buy Talia’s happiness while expecting me to eat the scraps."
"How dare you!" Lydia gasped, slamming her fork onto her plate. "How dare you speak about your grandfather’s memory that way!"
"I spoke with Arthur Pendelton today, Mom," Marlowe dropped the bomb with absolute, terrifying calm.
Garrick froze. His wine glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
"You did what?" Garrick’s voice dropped into a gravelly register.
"I called Arthur Pendelton. The sole surviving trustee of the Richard Keating Generational Trust." Marlowe reached into her sweater pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of legal paper, and smoothed it flat beside her dinner plate. "I asked him for an accounting of the Wescott Sub-Trust."
Talia shrank into her chair, her eyes darting between Lydia and Garrick like a cornered animal.
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"You had no right to do that," Garrick hissed, his face darkening with a fury that bordered on venomous.
"I am seventeen years old, Dad. Under Massachusetts General Law Chapter 203E, Section 813, a qualified beneficiary has an absolute right to demand a complete financial accounting of the trust corpus upon request." Marlowe looked directly at her mother. "Do you want to tell Brennan where the two hundred thousand dollars Grandpa left for Talia went? Or should I read Arthur’s forensic summary?"
