No defense.
No claim that she assumed Paige had permission forever.
That made me wonder what Paige had told her.
Sunday morning, Miriam Cole called.
Her voice was still as sharp as I remembered.
“Marian.”
“Miriam.”
“Celeste sent me the packet.”
“And?”
“You were right not to sign anything.”
“That bad?”
“That premature.”
I almost smiled.
Lawyers had a talent for replacing panic with vocabulary.
She continued.
“The restructuring draft itself is not inherently improper.”
“Reducing founder voting control is common.”
“Allocating shares to a strategic consultant can be defensible if supported.”
“Is Paige a strategic consultant?”
“That is what we need to determine.”
“What concerns you?”
“Process.”
I leaned back.
“Explain.”
“No valuation analysis attached.”
“No independent compensation review.”
“No conflict disclosure.”
“No board minutes discussing equity grants.”
“And the draft assumes your signature during a family weekend rather than a scheduled governance meeting.”
My stomach tightened.
“That is not how we do things.”
“I know.”
“Who prepared it?”
“The metadata identifies a corporate document service used by Paige’s consulting firm.”
I went still.
“Not our legal team?”
“No.”
“Who uploaded it to Northstar’s folder?”
“An account tied to Paige’s consulting access.”
There it was.
Not proof Grant knew.
Proof Paige had been moving beyond expense reimbursement into ownership planning.
Miriam continued.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“The draft gives Paige’s company ten percent of voting equity.”
I looked back at the document.
I had focused so heavily on falling from fifty-two to twenty that I had not stopped to calculate where everything went.
“Ten percent.”
“Yes.”
“Grant would receive the rest?”
“Most.”
“But Paige’s consulting firm would become a direct shareholder.”
“Yes.”
“With voting rights.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Would Grant benefit?”
“Certainly.”
“Would that make the plan automatically wrong?”
“No.”
Again.
Important.
Miriam continued.
“If you had knowingly chosen succession with both spouses participating, a structure could be built.”
“That is not what this is.”
“No.”
“This draft appears to assume your consent before securing it.”
The wording sounded familiar.
The spa.
My house.
Family money.
Everyone acting as though my yes was merely a delayed administrative step.
I asked:
“Could Grant have requested it?”
“Possible.”
“Do you have evidence?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we wait.”
“Correct.”
I spent Mother’s Day alone.
That sentence sounds sadder than it was.
I made scrambled eggs.
Walked through the garden.
Opened a box of Russell’s old photographs.
