Chapter 4 - Catherine Knew the Penhaligon Name
Maya's grandmother collapsed in July.
Maya was working when the hospital called.
She dropped a tray.
Arthur heard it.
“What happened?”
“Grandma.”
That was all she managed.
Arthur's driver had the car ready in three minutes.
Maya climbed in.
Arthur followed.
She looked at him.
“You don't have to come.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He paused.
“Because you shouldn't go alone.”
Maya looked away before he could see her cry.
Catherine survived.
Heart failure exacerbation.
Medication adjustment.
Several days inpatient.
Arthur waited outside the room.
Then Catherine asked:
“Is the billionaire still lurking?”
Maya laughed.
Arthur heard.
He entered.
Catherine looked him over.
“So you're Penhaligon.”
Arthur smiled politely.
“Arthur.”
“Arthur Penhaligon.”
“Yes.”
Catherine's expression changed.
“Thomas Penhaligon's son?”
Arthur froze.
“Yes.”
Maya looked between them.
“Grandma?”
Catherine stared at Arthur.
“I knew your father.”
Arthur's smile disappeared.
“How?”
“I worked for him.”
“When?”
“Thirty-nine years ago.”
Arthur sat.
Catherine had been a young nurse then.
Arthur's father, Thomas Penhaligon, had secretly funded a free clinic in Clearwater.
Arthur knew nothing about it.
“Why secretly?”
“Because your grandfather hated charity.”
Arthur almost laughed.
That sounded right.
Catherine continued.
“Thomas paid for my nursing education.”
Arthur looked at Maya.
Maya looked at Catherine.
“You never told me.”
“You never asked who paid.”
“Grandma!”
Catherine shrugged.
Then she looked at Arthur.
“Your father told me something once.”
“What?”
“He said the Penhaligon men were excellent at building walls and terrible at recognizing doors.”
Arthur went silent.
Catherine smiled.
“Looks hereditary.”
Maya covered her face.
Arthur laughed.
Actually laughed.
Catherine's eyes widened.
“Oh. He can do it.”
Maya whispered:
“Occasionally.”
That afternoon changed something.
Arthur began visiting Catherine.
At first because of his father.
Then because Catherine insulted him efficiently.
She told stories.
Thomas wasn't a saint.
He was controlling.
Difficult.
Proud.
But he had changed late in life.
Arthur listened.
One evening Catherine said:
“You think grief proves love.”
Arthur frowned.
“What?”
“You keep your house miserable because part of you thinks becoming happy would insult your dead wife.”
Arthur looked away.
“That's not—”
“It is.”
“You don't know me.”
“I've been old for years. Same thing.”
He almost smiled.
Catherine continued.
“Your wife is dead.”
Arthur's face hardened.
“Maya would kill you for saying that.”
“Probably.”
Catherine leaned forward.
“But you're alive.”
Arthur didn't answer.
May you like
“That's not betrayal.”
Those words followed him home.
