Martin, Esquire—really, that’s the way he’s introduced himself to others for my entire life, full name and “Esquire.” The only thing I could do that would lower myself further in his estimation after I told him about the upcoming divorce was to make a fellow attorney late for his golf game.
Exhaling a shaky breath, I turn on the gold-plated faucet as if I’m just a hand wash away from being ready to come out. Then I take another thirty seconds to prep for saying goodbye to Aunt Maggie, because that’s what this really is.
After the reading of the will, everything will be put back in its place, and any discussion of my great-aunt will be shushed with the admonishment not to make things uncomfortable for others. That isn’t just the Martin golden rule; it’s the one rule that can’t be broken—at least not by me.
Especially never by me, which is why my pending divorce and return home is such a shameful thing. I’m making things uncomfortable.
Unable to put it off any longer, I open the bathroom door and walk out. Dad is standing across the hall in a black suit, not a strand of his iron-gray hair out of place and with the permanently disappointed downturn to his lips on full display. Maybe it would have been different if I had a brother or sister, but as the lone child, I’m the sole person responsible for Dad’s many expectations and Mom’s many requirements.
“About time, Mallory,” he says, then turns and walks into Thad’s office.
A right turn and three steps will get me out onto the street and away from here. I can already feel the sunshine on my face and the summer breeze in my hair. Donello’s Ice Cream is barely a walk away—my aunt’s favorite place because they always gave her extra cherries on her rocky road double scoop.
Aunt Maggie would have made that right turn.
Me? I go left and follow my dad into Thad’s office.
Yeah, I’m disappointed in myself, too.
Chapter Two
“That can’t be right.” The words come out of my mouth like a squeak as I look from my mom to my dad, trying to force Thad’s words to make sense.
Sure, individually, I know the meaning of each word Thad just said, but when he put them together in one sentence, it was like when I tried to recall enough of my high school Spanish to understand telenovelas without subtitles. There was drama—but with a toothbrush at a library.
Mom sits still, her face as shocked blank as mine probably is. Mind spinning, I pick up the teacup and saucer resting on the side table between our chairs and hand it to her. She looks down at it, confused for a second, and then gives me a small, grateful smile before taking a fortifying sip from the delicate flower-covered china.
Dad remains silent for once, but there’s an all-too-familiar pinched look around his mouth.
Thad clears his throat and pulls my attention back to him.
“I assure you, Margaret left you the house in Huckleberry Hills,” Thad says again, handing over an envelope with my name written on the outside. “The property is valued at just over $850,000 with a remaining mortgage of $413,000. Of course, there are currently a substantial number of violations against the homeowners’ association bylaws, and you’ll need to pay the inheritance tax on the property within six months, which totals roughly $127,500. But the house is most assuredly yours, Mallory.”
Again, words making sense on their own but just a jumble of gobbledygook when strung together. I take the envelope, and the sight of Aunt Maggie’s handwriting, with its flowing curlicue flourishes, makes my chest tighten.
“There’s nothing stopping her from selling it?” Dad asks, the sucked-on-a-lemon expression lessening with each word.
Thad shakes his head. “Not at all. In fact, it’s a great way to satisfy the inheritance-tax burden.”
“Well then, that settles that.” Dad stands up and turns to look straight at me. “You can sell it and, even after paying the taxes, you’ll have plenty left to get yourself back on track. Great, Thad, we appreciate your time.”
I clasp the envelope tighter in my hands, wrinkling the perfect, smooth pink surface before realizing what I’m doing and loosening my grip. But I don’t move. I stay right there in my seat as the flicker of something that feels a lot like defiance warms my belly.
Maybe it’s the power of Aunt Maggie’s words in my hand, but for one of the very few times in my life, I don’t