“How many things?”
Megan interrupted.
“Why are you making this sound criminal?”
A man near the piano suddenly became fascinated with his shoes.
I recognized him.
Megan’s brother Colin.
Next to him stood her father, Richard Sloan, the older man who had congratulated Robert “on the house.”
Richard had been a real-estate developer for nearly thirty years.
He knew the difference between ownership and expectation.
That detail lodged in my mind.
I looked at him.
“Richard.”
He stiffened.
“What exactly were you congratulating Robert for?”
Megan stepped between us.
“Don’t drag my father into this.”
Richard lifted one hand.
“It’s all right.”
He smiled at me.
It was the bland professional smile of a man accustomed to unhappy homeowners across conference tables.
“Margaret, as I understood it, Robert would eventually be taking responsibility for the property.”
“Taking responsibility.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what he told you?”
Richard looked at Robert.
My son said nothing.
I turned back to Richard.
“Did he tell you I was dying?”
Someone inhaled sharply.
Richard’s smile vanished.
“Of course not.”
“Did he tell you I had sold him the house?”
“No.”
“Transferred it?”
“No.”
“Given him power of attorney?”
That one changed his face.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
So did Megan.
“Dad,” she said quickly.
I looked from one to the other.
“What?”
Richard shook his head.
“I think this is a family matter.”
“No.”
My voice was quieter than Megan’s had been when she ordered me from my own home.
But everyone heard it.
“You made it a public matter when you accepted champagne inside my house to celebrate something that never happened.”
That ended the party.
Not dramatically.
People did not flee.
They began leaving in embarrassed clusters.
Glasses appeared on tables.
Coats were collected.
Children were summoned.
A woman I barely knew touched my forearm and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know whether she meant for attending or for believing the story she’d been told.
Probably both.
Within fifteen minutes, only family remained.
Robert.
Megan.
Their daughter Lily, seventeen.
Their son Caleb, fourteen.
Richard.
Megan’s brother.
And me.
Lily stood near the staircase, pale and silent.
She had barely spoken since I arrived.
Her eyes kept moving between her parents.
Then my phone chimed.
A message from David.
CHECK COUNTY RECORDING NOTICE. CHECK MAIL. CALL ME FROM PRIVATE ROOM.
I read it twice.
Robert took one step toward me.
“What did he send?”
I locked the screen.
“Nothing for you.”
Megan laughed.
“You’re behaving like we’re strangers.”
I looked at her.
“Today, you behaved like I was one.”
That landed.
For once, she had no answer.
I headed for the stairs.
Robert moved in front of me.
“Mom.”
“Move.”
“I just want us to talk.”
“We’ve had forty minutes.”
“Without everybody watching.”
“Everybody was watching because your wife invited them.”
Megan’s face hardened.
“It was one gathering.”
“In my house.”
“We thought you’d be back tomorrow.”
I looked at her.
“I keep hearing that as if it helps you.”
Then I went upstairs.
My bedroom door was open.
That frightened me more than if it had been locked.
Megan’s clothes occupied half my closet.
Shoes lined the wall.
A jewelry case sat on my dresser beside Henry’s old wooden valet box.
Two suitcases were beneath the window.
Robert’s shirts hung behind my dresses.
On my bedside table sat a framed photograph of Robert, Megan, Lily and Caleb.
My lamp had been moved.
Henry’s reading glasses were gone.
I stood completely still.
Behind me, Robert whispered:
“Mom.”
I turned.
“Where are your father’s glasses?”
“What?”
“His reading glasses.”
He looked around.
“I don’t know.”
