Chương 5
Stephanie turned toward the door.
“We can deal with paperwork another day.”
“I’m dealing with it today.”
She faced me again.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I asked where the agreement is.”
“No, all of this.”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“The store, the bills, packing your things, dragging Evelyn into our business.”
“You told Evelyn I had an episode.”
“I was scared.”
“You told her I abandoned you.”
“You did.”
“At a supermarket.”
“You knew I couldn’t pay.”
“I knew you had a phone.”
She stared at me.
I lifted the bag.
“I’m staying with Evelyn tonight.”
“Fine.”
She said it too quickly.
Then her expression changed.
“Wait.”
I paused.
“You can’t just leave.”
“You told me to.”
“Mason is coming home from Caleb’s soon.”
“He’s sixteen.”
“He’ll wonder where you are.”
“Tell him.”
“What am I supposed to tell him?”
“The truth would be new.”
Her face tightened.
I regretted the sentence as soon as it left my mouth.
It was too sharp.
Too much like the kind of clean little injury Stephanie liked to deliver when she was cornered.
I rubbed my forehead.
“That was unnecessary.”
She said nothing.
“I’m angry,” I added.
“I can see that.”
“No, I don’t think you can.”
Her phone buzzed.
She checked it.
“Clinton needs help downstairs.”
“Go.”
She remained by the door.
“Are you really leaving?”
“For tonight.”
“And tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked down at the floor.
A loose thread hung from the hem of her blouse.
She picked at it with one fingernail.
“When Dad died, you weren’t okay.”
“I know.”
“You barely ate.”
“I know.”
“You called me one night because you couldn’t remember whether you’d locked the back door.”
“I remember.”
“I was afraid to leave you alone.”
Her voice had gone quiet.
That was the first thing she had said all day that did not sound like an argument.
“I believed you,” I said.
“I meant it then.”
I studied her face.
“I believe that too.”
Her eyes filled, but she blinked hard and looked toward the window.
For one dangerous second, the old reflex returned.
Comfort her.
Tell her it was fine.
Stay for dinner.
Make things easier.
Then I remembered the missing agreement.
“What changed?” I asked.
She looked back at me.
“What?”
“You wanted me here because you were worried about me.”
“I still worry about you.”
“When did worrying about me become depending on my pension?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not.”
I lifted my purse.
“That’s why I’m going to find out what is fair.”
She went pale.
Not angry.
Pale.
I had seen that look once before, when Mason was five and she lost him for three minutes in a department store.
Fear stripped something away from her face.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to call the attorney who handled the refinance.”
“Why?”
“To ask for copies of everything I signed.”
“Mom, that was four years ago.”
“He’ll have records.”
“Probably not.”
“Then I’ll find out.”
She stepped between me and the doorway.
It was not threatening.
Not quite.
But she had never physically blocked my path before.
“Stephanie.”
“I just don’t understand why you need to involve a lawyer.”
“Move.”
“I’m trying to save you from making this bigger than it is.”
“Move.”
She did.
I walked past her.
Downstairs, Clinton had changed into a blue button-down shirt and was arranging bottles on the kitchen island.
The groceries had arrived somehow.
All three carts’ worth.
I looked at the steaks, wine, cheeses, shrimp, desserts, and flowers spread across the counters.
“Who paid?”
He glanced at Stephanie behind me.
“My card.”
“Good.”
His mouth tightened.
I carried my bag toward the front door.
Then I noticed an envelope beneath a stack of mail on the console table.
The return address was from the same law office listed on my old refinancing documents.
My name was printed beneath Stephanie and Clinton’s.
The envelope had already been opened.
I stopped.
Behind me, Stephanie said nothing.
I picked it up.
Inside was a notice dated six days earlier.
The first line referenced an upcoming balloon payment connected to a private family occupancy agreement.
The amount due was $47,600.
I read the number twice.
Then I turned around.
Clinton had gone completely still.
Stephanie closed her eyes.
And for the first time that day, neither of them tried to tell me I was confused.
I folded the notice once along its existing crease and slipped it back into the envelope.
“What is this?”
Clinton set down the bottle he was holding.
“It looks worse than it is.”
Stephanie flinched.
I looked at her.
“That sentence usually means it is exactly as bad as it looks.”
“Mom.”
“No.”
My voice came out quieter than I expected.
“No more telling me not to worry before I know what I’m looking at.”
Clinton moved around the island.
“The agreement was part of the refinance structure.”
“What agreement?”
He glanced at Stephanie.
She stared at the floor.
I held up the envelope.
“The one neither of you remembered five minutes ago.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Stephanie’s voice was thin.
“You said there wasn’t one.”
“I said I didn’t remember.”
“After saying there wasn’t one.”
Clinton exhaled through his nose.
“Can we not do the courtroom thing?”
“I’m asking what I signed.”
“You signed an occupancy agreement tied to your contribution.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the money you put into the house wasn’t technically a gift.”
I waited.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“The attorney structured it so you had a protected interest while you lived here.”
“Protected how?”
“You had the right to occupy part of the house.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“The sewing room?”
“That wasn’t how it was written.”
“Then how was it written?”
He did not answer.
Stephanie finally looked up.
“The downstairs suite.”
There had never been a suite.
There had been plans.
May you like
I had seen drawings at the kitchen table four years earlier.
A bedroom.
