Chapter 5: Lunch at Majorelle
Eleanor had chosen a corner table, which meant she had arrived early enough to request one.
It also meant she could see the entire room and no one could approach from behind.
My mother did not have lunch.
She conducted operations over food.
We settled Willa's carrier into the chair beside Sloan.
The waiter appeared, took our orders with practiced invisibility, and disappeared.
Eleanor waited until he was gone.
"She looks like your grandfather," Eleanor said, looking at Willa.
"The eyes."
"Her name is Willa," I said.
"I know her name." Eleanor unfolded her napkin.
"I've known about her for three weeks.
I have people at NYU Langone, Vincent.
I've known since the follow-up appointment."
Sloan went very still.
"Three weeks," I said.
"Yes." Eleanor set the napkin in her lap.
"I was waiting to see what you would do.
Whether you would handle this like an adult or whether I would need to become involved."
"And now?" I asked.
"Now I'm involved." She looked at Sloan directly for the first time.
"The settlement needs to be restructured."
Sloan's voice was careful.
"Excuse me?"
"The current agreement gives you the Park Slope property and a cash settlement.
That was negotiated before Willa existed.
It doesn't reflect the actual situation." Eleanor picked up her water glass.
"A child changes the financial architecture considerably."
"The child," Sloan said, "has a name."
Eleanor looked at her.
"I know she does.
I used the word deliberately.
I'm talking about legal and financial structure, not about the baby herself." She set the glass down.
"Willa will need ongoing medical care.
Specialist fees, monitoring equipment, potential procedures.
The current settlement doesn't account for any of that."
"I'm aware of what my daughter needs," Sloan said.
"Then you'll understand why the settlement needs to be revisited."
"What I understand," Sloan said, "is that this conversation is happening in a restaurant rather than through our attorneys, which tells me you want something that a formal negotiation wouldn't give you."
Eleanor's expression didn't change.
But her hands settled on the table, and I had known my mother long enough to know that was a tell.
"I want access," Eleanor said.
The table went quiet.
"She's my granddaughter," Eleanor continued.
"Whatever has happened between you and Vincent, that doesn't change.
I want a formal arrangement.
Scheduled visits.
Something that doesn't depend on whether the two of you are speaking."
Sloan looked at me.
I could see her working through it — the offer underneath the offer, the thing my mother wanted that she hadn't said yet.
"And in exchange?" Sloan asked.
Eleanor reached into her bag and set an envelope on the table.
"The settlement, restructured.
Medical trust for Willa, fully funded, independent of anything between you and Vincent.
Park Slope remains yours.
And a monthly support figure that reflects what raising a child with a cardiac condition actually costs."
Sloan didn't touch the envelope.
"You had this prepared before we sat down."
"I had it prepared three weeks ago," Eleanor said.
"I told you.
I was waiting."
"For what?"
Eleanor looked at me, then back at Sloan.
"For him to come home."
The waiter returned with our food.
No one touched it.
Sloan picked up the envelope, opened it, and read.
Her face gave nothing away.
When she finished, she set it face-down on the table.
"I want my attorney to review this," she said.
"Of course."
"And I want it understood that any access arrangement is at my discretion.
Not a court order.
Not a formal schedule.
My discretion." Sloan looked at Eleanor steadily.
"Willa has a heart condition.
Her environment needs to be calm and consistent.
That means I decide when visits happen and how long they last.
If that changes, the arrangement ends."
Eleanor held her gaze for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
"Agreed."
Sloan picked up her fork.
"Then I'll have my attorney call yours by the end of the week."
Eleanor looked at me.
I couldn't read her expression, which was unusual.
My mother was typically legible to me in ways other people weren't.
"She's good," Eleanor said quietly, as if Sloan weren't sitting three feet away.
"I know," I said.
Sloan didn't look up from her plate.
But something in her shoulders changed, just slightly, like a wire that had been pulled too tight finally releasing one degree of tension.
Under the table, Willa slept through all of it.
That night, after Sloan had put Willa down and gone to bed, I sat in the kitchen with Eleanor's envelope open in front of me.
The numbers were generous.
More than generous.
My mother had structured it so that Sloan would never need to ask me for anything — not for Willa's care, not for her own stability, not for anything.
I understood then what Eleanor had actually been doing for three weeks.
She hadn't been waiting to see if I would come home.
She had been building Sloan a way out that didn't require me at all — just in case I didn't.
My phone lit up.
A text from a number I didn't recognize: *We need to talk about Sloan.
May you like
There are things about her you don't know.
Call me.*
