A small fortune? She looked at the pile of bills on her kitchen counter. She had tuition payments, gas, electricity, food, day care. More money meant she could get a master’s degree in business. It meant she could hire babysitters, go out, date, have a life. Still, she couldn’t spend it. “Jerry, that money was Arthur’s. All but a very little bit of it.”

“You know he was a St. John, right? He paid cash for that place on Beulah. His dad was a big commodities trader. They’ve got a place on Lake Geneva with a garage for ten boats.”

She knew that Arthur’s father had been on the Chicago Board of Trade, but she had no idea Arthur was one of the “trustafarians” she’d met on Lake Geneva. He hadn’t seemed like those guys.

“Maybe Arthur had a premonition that he was going to pass on,” Jerry said. “Maybe this was his way of looking out for you.”

The conversation with Arthur at Giles haunted her in a new and fresh way. She remembered the line she’d uttered: “Money is external.” The rest of Berryman’s poem came back to her, and gave her the chills. “‘Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark / Floor of the harbour … I am everywhere…’”

Arthur was gone, and yet he was everywhere, lurking in the corners of her conscience. Sherri still couldn’t believe this was real. “Jerry, can you send those papers to me? I should give it back to his family.”

“They don’t need it, honey. Listen to me: don’t say a single word about it. All the documents are in your name, and your name only. Nobody else even knows about it. You didn’t do anything underhanded, he did. But he’s gone now, and that’s tough, but you’ve got a kid. And frankly, you owe me some of the money I loaned you last year for the deposit on your apartment when you broke up with what’s his name. Congratulations, Sher. You’re rich. Don’t blow it this time.”