As I sat at my kitchen table two days after having paid for my son’s wedding, I received a phone call from Tony Russo, the restaurant manager of the Gilded Oak, who instructed me not to put him on speaker phone. This was an indication that something was not right.
Tony has been managing the Gilded Oak for many years. He has dealt with spoiled brides, ignorant corporate executives, guests that were angry with him for booking them the wrong reservation, and wealthy men that felt like they were above everyone else because of their money. Tony is not easily intimidated by anyone. So when I heard the trembling in Tony’s voice, I listened very carefully.
“Mr. Barnes,” Tony said in a very low voice, “please don’t put this on speaker phone. You have to come down alone and do not tell your wife anything.”
While my wife was preparing white lilies at the sink, I was staring at cold coffee. She looked calm, loving and was exactly as everyone believed she to be.
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes,” I said.
Beatrice turned around and asked, “Who was that.”
“Pharmacy,” I lied. “They wanted to know what blood pressure medication I was taking.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed a bit. Yesterday I would not have noticed. This morning I could see where her focus was going.
Once I arrived at the restaurant, Tony led me to the basement security room and showed me the footage from the VIP lounge following the wedding.
The first video showed Beatrice entering the lounge. She looked strong and healthy; not using the frail and weak limp she sometimes exhibits at church. The second video showed my brand new daughter-in-law walk into the same lounge in her wedding dress.
Beatrice poured champagne for herself and my daughter-in-law.
“To the one of the biggest idiots in Atlanta!” said Megan.
Beatrice laughed.
“To Elijah,” Beatrice said, “the goose that lays the golden eggs.”It was in the conversation that I heard how they wanted to sell the lake house I had given to my son and use the proceeds to pay off Megan’s debt and also buy her a condo in Miami. They also mentioned my family trust, which would be worth millions if a grandchild was born biologically.
Megan then rubbed her stomach and laughed.
“Terrence thinks the baby is his, but he’s clueless about the math,” she said.
Beatrice warned Megan not to let me ask for a paternity test.
My heart sank.
Then Megan asked about when I would “retire for good.”