White Roses Beneath the Moon

Chapter 4: What the Story Left Out

I met Silas at the Calder Foundation offices, a renovated warehouse on the harbor where the windows looked over cranes and gray water.

He had arranged a chair for me beside his desk. I noticed it only because I'd been prepared to stand. That small courtesy made me wary. I didn't want kindness to become another contract.

Silas handed me a letter. "This came from your father's office last night."

It was addressed to his attorney. My father offered to preserve the engagement if the Calders agreed to "a suitable transition of public representation." The wording was neat enough to hide the meaning.

"Everett is out," I said. "They want me in."

"They want your name in. It's different."

"Will you accept the end of the agreement?"

"I've already told them I will. They're asking for a delay so the foundation's trustees can meet."

"Because the money is tied to the project."

"Yes. The Calders promised a grant for the waterfront restoration. My father approved the first portion before he died. I'm responsible for the rest." Silas rolled closer to the desk. "The Mercers have been presenting the project as a joint effort. If the partnership collapses, the work stops."

"Is the grant really dependent on marriage?"

"No. The money is controlled by a trust. The trustees can consider the project on its merits. The engagement was a performance for my father and Charles Mercer."

"Then why keep performing?"

"I didn't say I wanted to."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. "Your family says I'm unstable. That I've been unpredictable since my injury. They're building a case for why the trustees should accept a replacement engagement."

"Can they do that?"

"They can try. My father's will gave me authority over the grant, but the trust's advisory board must approve its final release. Charles Mercer sits on that board."

I sat forward. "Can he vote?"

"Yes."

"What's the evidence that he's using the project to force an engagement?"

"That letter. The proposed statement. The draft contract."

"Would that be enough?"

"Enough for whom?"

I didn't have an answer.

Silas pushed a stack of papers toward me. I recognized some of them from the novel I remembered, though not their exact contents. In the book, Silas became a villain because he cut funding to the restoration project, leaving hundreds of workers without jobs. The story made it sound like a vindictive act. It never mentioned the contracts, the trustees, or my family's pressure.

"Is this the project?" I asked.

"Yes."

"The novel said you used the workers as leverage."

"I may still stop the project if the numbers don't add up. There's a difference between using people as leverage and refusing to lose money on a bad plan."

I studied the page. The Mercer Foundation had already spent money it didn't have, counting on the grant. The Calders had committed to a smaller initial payment, with later funds contingent on construction milestones.

"They've gone ahead before approval," I said.

"They've spent against a promise."

"Why didn't you tell the trustees?"

"I will. But if I make the problem public without giving the foundation time to respond, they'll use the workers as a shield. They'll say I pulled the money without warning."

"You're giving them time."

"I'm giving the people who built the project a chance to show me the accounts."

That wasn't the ruthless move I remembered. It wasn't gentle, either. Silas was weighing the cost, and the numbers mattered to him.

"Did the accident affect your ability to work?" I asked.

His gaze sharpened. "Why?"

"I'm trying to understand what they're using against you."

"It affected my legs. It didn't erase my judgment."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry for asking. Be careful about assuming I owe you an explanation."

"I will."

He looked down at the papers. "My injury happened during a test drive. The car was owned by the Calder company. The brakes failed. The investigation blamed a maintenance error."

"Do you believe that?"

"I believe the report was incomplete."

"Do you have proof?"

"No." He tapped the letter. "That doesn't mean I want your sympathy."

"I don't think you do."

The phone on his desk buzzed. Silas read the message, then set it down.

"What is it?" I asked.

"My former fiancé is giving an interview tonight. The Mercer office arranged it."

I felt my stomach tighten. "What will he say?"

"Probably that he cared about me but couldn't live with my limitations."

"He'll make himself sound kind."

"And me difficult."

"Can you stop it?"

"I can ask him not to."

"Would he listen?"

Silas's mouth curved without humor. "He didn't listen when we were engaged."

"Then what do you want to do?"

He looked at me. "I want to tell the truth. I want the record to show that I ended the arrangement, not that I was discarded. But if I say that, your family will call me spiteful."

"What if we say it together?"

"Why would you want to?"

"Because they're using me in the story. I don't want them to tell it without me."

"You're not my ally just because you stood beside my chair once."

"I know."

"Good. You'll need to prove it."

He set a pen beside the papers. "Read the grant agreement. If you're going to oppose your family, learn what they're actually doing."

I looked at the pages. A long afternoon waited on the other side of them.

"Are you asking me to work with you?"

"I'm asking you to read."

"That sounds safer."

"It is."

I took the pen.