closed the door again, praying that no one important would come in that day. She couldn't bear the sympathetic looks, the kind words. It just made it worse, and then there was a knock on the door again. It was Christine, nervous and flustered.
“He says he'll wait. What should I do now?”
Zoya sighed. She couldn't imagine who he was. Perhaps the husband of a customer, someone who was afraid she'd discuss a mistress with a wife. She got visits like that sometimes, and she always reassured them with polite restraint. But she hadn't dealt with anyone since Simon's death. She walked back to the door and opened it to her assistant again, looking gaunt in her black dress and black stockings. And her eyes told a tale of grief beyond measure. “All right. Show him in.” She had nothing else to do anyway. She couldn't keep her mind on anything anymore. Not here, or at home, she was no good to anyone now. And she stood quietly, as Christine ushered in a tall, distinguished man in a dark blue suit, with white hair and blue eyes. He was struck by how beautiful she was, and how grim she looked, all dressed in black, with eyes that seemed to look right through him.
“Mrs. Hirsch?” It was unusual for people to call her that here, and she nodded unhappily, wondering who he was, but not really caring.
“Yes?”
“My name is Paul Kelly. Our firm is handling your husband's … er … ah … estate.” She looked grief-stricken as she shook his hand, and invited him to sit down on one of the chairs near her desk. “We've been very anxious to get in touch with you.” He looked at her with gentle reproach, and she noticed that he had interesting eyes. He had an Irish face and she correctly guessed that he had once had jet-black hair, now turned snowy white. “You haven't been answering our calls.” But seeing her, he now understood why. The woman was devastated by grief, and he felt deeply sorry for her.
“I know.” She looked away. And then with a sigh, she looked at him. “To tell you the truth, I didn't want to hear from you. It made it all much too real. It's …” Her voice dimmed to a whisper as she looked away again,“… it's been very difficult for me.”
There was a long silence as he nodded, watching her. It was obvious how stricken she was, and yet beyond the pain, he sensed enormous strength, strength she herself had forgotten. “I understand. But we need to know your wishes on some of these matters. We were going to suggest a formal reading of the will, but perhaps under the circumstances at the present time …” His voice drifted off, as slowly her eyes met his again. “Perhaps all you need to know right now is that he left almost everything he had in trust for you, and his son. His parents and his two uncles have been left large bequests, as have your two children, Mrs. Hirsch.” And then, sounding official, he went on, “Very generous bequests, I might add, of a million dollars each, in trust, of course. They can't touch any of the principal until they're twenty-one, and there are some other conditions in the trust, but very reasonable ones, I'm quite sure. Our trust department helped him with all that,” but he stopped as he saw Zoya staring at him. “Is something wrong?” He was suddenly sorry he had come. She was really not up to listening to what he was saying.
“A million dollars each?” It was far more than she'd ever dreamed, and they were her children, not his. She was stunned. But it was so typical of Simon. Her love for him cut through her like a knife again.
“Yes, that's correct. In addition, he wanted to offer your son a position in his firm, when he's old enough, of course. It's a large company to run, with the factory, and all six textile mills, particularly now, with the war contracts that came in after he left …” He droned on as Zoya tried to absorb it. How like Simon to provide for all of them, and even plan on taking Nicholas into business with him. How like Simon … if only he had lived to be with them, instead of leaving them a fortune.
“What contracts?” Her mind was slowly coming to life again, there was so much to think about,