—
Later, I overheard Margaret in the hallway hissing about “Mom’s memory” and “that paperwork you promised.” Garrett answered in a low, controlled voice, but I could not make out his words. I went upstairs and acted as though I had heard nothing.
Several times that month, I noticed Garrett speaking on the phone in his study with the door partly closed. He was talking to someone named Whitfield. Papers covered his desk, along with a leather folder he quickly put away whenever I entered.
“Just tidying up some old paperwork,” he told me. “Nothing for you to fret about.”
“I’m not fretting. I’m nosy.”
He laughed and pulled me onto his lap as though we were 20 years old again.
“Eleanor, they’re things I put in place a long time ago. I’m only making sure every line is airtight. You’ll always be safe, no matter what those two think of me.”
I did not ask him to explain.
I should have.
But the months drifted by in a soft warmth, winter easing into an uncertain spring, and I allowed myself to believe the storm beyond our bedroom would never cross the threshold.
—
It happened on a Tuesday.
Garrett poured his coffee and reached for the newspaper. Then one hand pressed against his chest. He stared at me in surprise, as if he had suddenly remembered something important.
And then he was gone.
A heart attack.
At the cemetery, the wind sliced through the black dress I wore.
Margaret stood on the opposite side of the open grave, dry-eyed, looking at me as though I were a mark on clean linen.
—
We had been home for less than 10 minutes when my DIL entered the front room holding several stapled pages.
“Get out,” she said, waving the papers at me. “The house has been in our family trust since before you ever walked through that door. Daddy signed it. Your name isn’t on a single line. You’ve embarrassed our mother’s memory long enough!”
