Page 172 of Summer After Summer

“It’s a tiny fraction of the purchase price. I asked around …”

“Who did you ask?” I say.

She raises her chin. “Well, Ann, of course, but I did ask the neighbors who bought down the road a few years ago, and they said the closing costs were outrageous. It wasn’t polite to ask them what they meant specifically.”

“It’s one percent of the sale price, Olivia,” Ann says. “And all signed and sealed by your father. It’s our standard agreement in sales such as these where we also act essentially as the broker. A true broker’s fee would be much higher.”

“I thought that too,” I say, “but I looked into it today, and usually with high-value homes, the parties don’t do a percentage, but a fixed amount.”

“I don’t get your point.”

“It’s not the one percent that’s the real problem.”

“What then?”

“Clause twenty. It’s all a bit vague, but as I read it, you’ve also given yourself a finder’s fee of five percent.”

“One point two-five million?” Fred says, flipping through his own copy. “That can’t be right.”

“Am I right? Ann? Barry?”

Barry coughs into his fist. “Well, now … I do leave these types of details to Ann, but yes, we do also charge a finder’s fee in some high-wealth transactions. I’m sure it’s in the agreement your father signed.”

“William?”

He’s sitting at the other end of the table, with that middle-distance look he always gets with financial matters. “Yes, dear?”

“Did Barry or Ann explain to you that they’d be getting six percent of the proceeds of the sale?”

“I don’t recall discussing numbers.”

“Did you read the documents before you signed them?”

“No,” Charlotte says, “he didn’t.”

“But we’ve known Barry for years,” William says. “I’m sure everything is aboveboard.”

“I’m sure they were counting on that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlotte asks.

“That William was an easy mark. Everyone in the Hamptons knows that.” I reach across the table to him. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s all right, my dear. It’s true that I don’t enjoy the details of financial transactions. But there’s still enough money for everyone, isn’t there?”

“Yes, only … Give me a minute.” I flip through the document again, past more pages of warranties and representations, and then, on page twenty-six, I get to the nitty-gritty: the division of the remainder, minus fees, and commissions, between William’s children. Only, it isn’t just to us, not Charlotte and Sophie and me, but to Wes and me. Charlotte and Sophie each get five million, but mine is divided in two.

“Fred, why did you insist on putting together the charity documents yourself instead of letting Ann do it?”

Fred meets my gaze. The document in front of him is open to the same page I’m looking at. “It just seemed like … a lot of responsibility was being put into her hands.”

“You didn’t trust her?” I press. “Why?”

“It wasn’t based on anything concrete.”

“But?”

Fred clears his throat and doesn’t take his eyes off me. “But I heard some things in New York … rumors, only. I didn’t like how quickly she seemed to have ingratiated herself into the family. When she and Charlotte started dating, she should’ve handed the file off to someone else. It’s a conflict of interest.”

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