THE WOMAN WHO OWNED THE RESTAURANT — THE ENDING

“Mrs. Whitmore. The records you asked for. And your attorney is in the building. She is in the office. She said to tell you she came as fast as traffic would allow.”

Catherine Lark had been my attorney for thirty-one years. She had drawn up Thomas’s will and handled the restaurant’s incorporation. If there was one person in Boston I trusted completely, it was Catherine.

“Adam,” I said, “wait here. Do not leave this room.”

I took the folder and walked down the narrow hallway to the office. Catherine was already there, her coat still on, her briefcase open. She stood to hug me.

“Margaret. Happy Mother’s Day.”

I almost laughed. “It has been quite a day.”

She listened without interrupting while I told her everything. When I finished, she folded her hands.

“Do you want my legal opinion or my personal one?” she asked.

“Both.”

“Legally, your son has committed forgery and attempted fraud. The forgery alone is a felony in Massachusetts, punishable by up to ten years. If the records show a pattern of unauthorized charges, that is larceny. You have every right to refer this to the district attorney tonight.”

“And personally?”

“Personally, he is your son, and you will live with whatever you decide for the rest of your life. So let us be very careful.”

I opened the folder and looked at the account history for membership 000147.

The first unauthorized charge was dated June 14th, three years ago. Dinner for four. Four hundred and twelve dollars. They were all there in neat rows. Business lunches. Anniversary dinners. A birthday dinner for Celeste, with a cake from the pastry kitchen and a magnum of champagne. Never enough, individually, to trigger the account’s review threshold. Always just under the line.

The total, over thirty-four months, was forty-one thousand, six hundred and eighteen dollars. On top of the thirty-eight thousand he had tried to take tonight.

I sat very still until the numbers blurred.

“Forty-one thousand dollars,” I said. “He has been stealing from me for almost three years, and I never noticed. What does that say about me?”

“It says you trusted your son,” Catherine said. “That is not a character flaw.”

“What do you want to happen here?” she asked. “Not what you think should happen. What do you want?”

Part of me wanted him to feel what I had felt, standing alone in my kitchen three weeks ago while Vanessa laughed at me on the telephone. But the larger part of me wanted something else.

“I want him to be my son again,” I said quietly. “The one I raised. Not this person.”

Catherine nodded. “Then let us talk about what that would require.”

When we finished, I had a plan. It was not a kind plan. But it was a fair one.

I asked Roberto to bring Adam to the office. He came in looking like a man walking to his own execution. Vanessa tried to follow, but I held up one hand.

“This part is between my son and me,” I said. “You can wait in the dining room. At your own table. At your own expense.”

Adam sat across from Catherine’s desk. She placed a yellow legal pad in front of him and a pen.

“Adam,” she said, in the calm voice she used with clients in serious trouble, “your mother has asked me to explain your situation. What you did tonight was forgery. In Massachusetts, forgery of a financial document is a felony punishable by up to ten years in prison. The pattern of unauthorized charges constitutes larceny, and at these amounts, that is also a felony. The restaurant has preserved the forged document. The records are complete. If your mother refers this to the district attorney, you will very likely be charged, and you will very likely be convicted.”

Adam’s hands were shaking. “Mom. Mom, please.”

“Your mother has not decided what to do yet,” Catherine said. “That will depend on what you do in the next hour. She is going to ask you some questions. I advise you to answer completely and truthfully, because this is the last time anyone will ask you nicely.”

I leaned forward. “Who else knew about the membership number?”

Adam swallowed. “Vanessa. Her parents, I think.”

“Who suggested forging the authorization form?”

Silence. Then, barely audible: “Vanessa. She said the restaurant would never process a charge that big without paperwork. She said nobody would look closely.”

“And the story about me being forgetful?”

“Vanessa too. She said if anyone asked, we could say you were confused. That you had agreed and forgotten.”

I felt something cold settle in my chest. “Your wife planned to tell people that your sixty-eight-year-old mother was losing her mind, so you could steal thirty-eight thousand dollars from her.”