Chapter 3 - The Board at the Table
When I returned to the private dining room, the main course had arrived. Six large, white porcelain plates sat before the partners, each one holding a tiny, perfect square of venison loin flanked by three glazed chestnuts and a thin smear of blackberry reduction.
Daniel had his mouth full, his fork pointing at Mr. Vance as he spoke through a lump of meat.
"The secondary offering is where the real scale comes in," he was saying, his voice loud enough to vibrate against the glass wall behind him. "Once the state fund clears the compliance check, we’re looking at a twelve-point expansion in the tri-county area. The technology is proprietary. We’ve got the patent protection secured through the legacy holdings."
Vivian nodded, her fingers smoothing the linen of her napkin with small, repetitive strokes. "My family has always believed in the development of the region, Mr. Vance. Daniel’s grandfather was the one who cleared the timber line for the first hospital road. It’s a matter of heritage for us."
I sat down on the new chair the waiter had brought while I was gone. The wood felt cold against my thighs. I didn't reach for my fork.
"Ah, Claire," Vivian said, not looking up from her plate. "You've cleaned yourself up. Good. Now, Daniel was just explaining the patent integration. Try not to interrupt. This is the critical phase for the autumn funding."
"The patent isn't yours, Daniel," I said.
The words weren't loud. They had that low, flat clarity my father used when he was reading a balance sheet to a grand jury.
Daniel stopped chewing. His fork stayed three inches above his plate, a small drop of the blackberry sauce falling onto the white damask like a spot of ink.
"What did you say?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked across the table.
"The patent," I repeated, my hands resting flat on the cloth on either side of my water glass. "The medical sensor technology you’ve been selling to the pension fund since January. It was registered to the university in 1994 by Dr. Elizabeth Harrison. My aunt."
The six partners didn't move. Mr. Vance slowly laid his fork down, his eyes moving from my face to Daniel’s, then back again. The silence in the room became very thin, very dry, like the air inside an old book box.
"Claire," Vivian said, her voice dropping two octaves into that hard, grandmotherly rasp she usually saved for the kitchen staff. "You’ve had too much to drink. The wine has obviously affected your balance. Daniel, take her keys and call the car service."
"She doesn't have a car service, Vivian," I said, looking directly into her quartz-toed shoes beneath the table. "And she hasn't touched the Pinot Noir. Daniel, tell Mr. Vance about the Delaware accounts. Tell him how much of the state’s pre-development grant is currently sitting in the Charleston townhouse registry."
Daniel’s face went from the superficial red of the scotch to a pale, mottled grey that looked like wet river silt. He stood up, his chair scraping back against the marble floor with a sound that made the compliance officer flinch.
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"That's enough of this crap," Daniel barked, his hand reaching out to grab my wrist. "We’re going home. Right now. You’re having another one of your episodes, Claire. I told the board last month you were seeing someone about the anxiety."
His fingers closed around my arm, thick and heavy, but before he could pull, the glass door of the private room slid back into the wall.
