Chapter 7 - The Counter-Offensive
The formal response from Marcus Thorne arrived at the Holt residence in New Rochelle on Wednesday morning via certified courier.
Eleanor had signed for the heavy manila envelope with a hand that shook so violently she could barely form the E in her signature. She carried it into the kitchen like a woman carrying an unexploded mortar shell, setting it on the yellow Formica table where Arthur was drinking a cup of instant Sanka.
Across the top of the linen stationery, embossed in heavy black ink, were the letters: THORNE, STERLING & VANCE, LLP // ATTYS AT LAW // NEW YORK – LONDON – ZURICH.
The letter was three pages long.
It did not mention family. It did not mention weddings. It did not mention the forty-two years Eleanor and Arthur had spent on this earth.
It was an operational dissection:
1. Notice is hereby provided that any claims of 'promissory estoppel' asserted by Dalia Holt regarding educational or residential subsidies are entirely without merit under New York law, there being no written bilateral contract, no consideration provided, and no reasonable detrimental reliance demonstrated.
2. Be advised that all communications initiated by Dalia Holt, Eleanor Holt, or any agent acting on their behalf toward Vera Holt or her employer, Vance Advisory Group, have been cataloged and reviewed by this office. The correspondence received from an individual identifying themselves as 'R. Mendoza' on August 12 contains actionable demands that meet the statutory definition of Extortion in the Second Degree under NY Penal Law § 155.05(2)(e).
3. A formal inquiry has been submitted to the Grievance Committee for the Ninth Judicial District regarding the unauthorized practice of law by the aforementioned individual.
4. DEMAND IS HEREBY MADE that all direct contact with Vera Holt cease immediately. Any future communication must be directed exclusively to this firm. Failure to comply will result in an immediate application for a Civil Order of Protection in the Westchester County Family Court, supported by the attached sworn affidavits and security footage from August 9.
Attached to the letter were four high-resolution, eight-by-ten glossy photographs.
The first showed Dalia Holt at the moment of impact, her arm cocked back like a pitcher’s, the crystal glass flying through the air toward the dessert table.
The second showed her two hands buried six inches deep into the white frosting of the wedding cake, her face contorted into an expression of unvarnished, manic fury.
The third showed the shattered picture frame on the floor, the glass speckled with champagne and strawberry filling.
And the fourth showed Eleanor Holt, her arms wrapped around Dalia, her face turned toward the camera with an expression of cold, defensive defiance, while forty-four wedding guests watched from the periphery with looks of horror.
Arthur looked at the photographs for five minutes without speaking.
He didn't touch his Sanka. He didn't look at Eleanor, who was sitting across from him, her face the color of cold tallow, her mouth working silently like a fish behind glass.
“Look at her,” Arthur said finally, his voice barely louder than the hum of the old refrigerator.
“Arthur...” Eleanor’s voice was a ragged whisper.
“Look at her face, Ellie,” Arthur said. He tapped the second photograph with the blunt tip of his finger. “That’s our daughter. We raised that. We spent twenty-two years telling her she was special. Telling her that the world was too hard for her. Telling her that her sister would always be there to pick up the pieces.”
He pushed the photograph across the table until it rested against Eleanor’s cold knuckles.
“Look at what she did to Vera,” Arthur said, tears finally welling in his red, rheumy eyes, tracking down the deep furrows of his cheeks. “Vera didn't do this to us, Ellie. We did this to Vera. We’ve been doing it to her since she was ten years old.”
“She’s my baby!” Eleanor wailed, her hands flying to her face, her shoulders shaking in sudden, violent convulsions. “She’s my baby, Arthur! What is she supposed to do now? She has no degree! She has no apartment! She’s sleeping in the basement on an old cot!”
“She’s going to do what Vera did,” Arthur said, standing up from the table. His knees cracked with a loud, dry pop. “She’s going to get up at six in the morning. She’s going to put on some clean clothes. And she’s going to go find a job.”
He walked to the wall phone by the refrigerator, lifted the receiver, and dialed a number from memory.
“Arthur? Who are you calling?” Eleanor asked, looking up through her fingers.
Arthur didn't answer her. He waited through three rings.
“Frank?” Arthur said into the receiver. “It’s Art Holt... Yeah, I know. It’s been a while... Listen, Frank, I know you’re running the warehouse on Dock Street now... You still need people on the packing line for the morning shift?... No, not for me. For my daughter... Yeah. Dalia... Tomorrow morning. Six-thirty. She’ll be there.”
He hung up the phone.
May you like
He looked at Eleanor, his face set into lines that hadn't been there since he was a sergeant in the National Guard forty years ago.
“Tell her to set her alarm,” Arthur said. “Because if she isn't in my truck at six-fifteen, I’m taking her bags and putting them on the curb. And this time, there won't be a tarp over them.”
