Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
Arthur, our family attorney, was polishing his spectacles with the grey silk cloth he always kept in his breast pocket. He did not look up immediately, but his large, quiet hands moved with a rhythm that made the small office feel even more crowded than usual. On the corner of his desk, next to a yellow legal pad, sat a paper cup of lukewarm chamomile tea that had gone entirely cold.
“I ran the public records request through the county clerk first thing this morning,” Arthur said, his resonant baritone filling the wood-paneled room. “They did not want to hand it over, Margaret. I had to remind them of the state disclosure laws twice before they copied the file.”
He laid the spectacles on the desk and slid a thick manila folder toward me.
“What is it?” I asked, sitting in the leather chair opposite him.
“The donor agreement for the new library wing,” Arthur said. “The school board signed it six months ago. The money was delivered in three separate installments.”
I reached for the folder, my fingers touching the cold paper. The first page was covered in standard legal phrasing, but on the third page, a paragraph was circled in thick blue ink.
