Chapter 8
For three days, I left the trust documents on my desk without touching them.
Every morning I walked past them on the way to the kitchen.
Every evening I saw them again.
Successor Trustee: Claire Harcourt.
Victor had signed beneath my name twelve years earlier.
I kept wondering what he had been thinking.
Had he trusted me?
Or had he simply known I would do what he couldn't?
There was a difference.
At first, I resented him for placing one more responsibility in my hands.
For most of our marriage, Victor had been the dreamer.
I had been the person who remembered insurance deadlines.
Tax payments.
Tuition dates.
Prescription refills.
His mother's appointments.
Ethan's permission slips.
When Victor said, “Everything will work out,” what he usually meant was that somewhere nearby, I would make sure it did.
Now even death had left me another task.
Take care of both boys.
I nearly declined.
Mara told me I could.
“The trust allows you to resign,” she said.
“A professional trustee can be appointed.”
“Would that be simpler?”
“Yes.”
“Better?”
“That's not a legal question.”
I gave her a look.
“I hate when attorneys say that.”
“We say it because people keep asking us nonlegal questions.”
“So give me your nonlegal answer.”
Mara removed her glasses.
“You have spent thirteen years making decisions based partly on Victor's failures.”
I said nothing.
“Whatever you do now,” she continued, “make sure it is a decision about your future rather than another reaction to his past.”
That night I went to the lake house alone.
Technically, it was the first time I had ever gone there knowing it belonged to me.
For years Victor had called it his favorite investment.
I had believed him.
The irony no longer made me angry.
Mostly, it made me tired.
The house stood above a long strip of quiet water.
September leaves were beginning to turn.
Inside, the rooms smelled faintly of cedar.
Victor had chosen most of the furniture.
A large brown sofa.
Two leather chairs.
An unnecessarily complicated coffee machine.
I walked onto the back porch and sat beneath the old maple tree.
My father had apparently bought the land as part of an investment partnership when I was in college.
He died before telling me much about the trust.
My mother handled the estate.
Then she became ill.
The land disappeared into the background of paperwork until Victor found it years later and decided to build.
Another thing we should have discussed.
Another conversation replaced by assumptions.
I looked across the lake.
There was a time when I believed healing would arrive as a feeling.
Some morning I would wake without resentment.
Some sentence would explain Victor.
Some apology would repair everything.
Now I understood healing was probably much less dramatic.
It was choosing what to carry forward.
And what to put down.
My phone rang.
Ethan.
“You at the lake?”
“Yes.”
“Grandma wants to know if you're coming to dinner tomorrow.”
“Your grandmother invited me?”
“Apparently grief has made her adventurous.”
I smiled.
Eleanor and I had spoken only twice since the funeral.
Both conversations were polite.
Neither had addressed what she said in the ICU.
He's Victor's blood.
As though Ethan weren't.
“I'll think about it.”
“That's a no.”
“That's a genuine I'll think about it.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You always tell me avoiding things doesn't make them disappear.”
I closed my eyes.
“You've gotten far too comfortable using my own sentences against me.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Fine.
I'll go.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
“Also, Noah texted me.”
I sat straighter.
“How did Noah get your number?”
“I gave it to him after the funeral.”
I hadn't known that.
“What did he want?”
“He asked if I had any pictures of Dad when he was younger.”
“And?”
“I sent him some.”
There was a quiet pride in Ethan's voice.
Not because he had done something heroic.
Because he had done something kind and knew kindness had cost him something.
“How do you feel about that?”
“It's weird.”
“That's allowed.”
“I don't know what we're supposed to be.”
“You don't have to decide.”
“He's my brother.”
“Yes.”
“But I barely know him.”
“Both things can be true.”
Ethan was quiet.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to manage the trust?”
“I haven't decided.”
“Do you want my opinion?”
“Always.”
“I think Dad picked you because he knew you'd be fair.”
My throat tightened.
“He didn't always treat me fairly.”
“No.”
Ethan didn't rush to defend him.
That mattered.
“But maybe that's why he knew you would.”
After we ended the call, I remained on the porch until sunset.
The next evening, I went to Eleanor's house.
She opened the door herself.
For a woman who had once believed dinner required three side dishes and cloth napkins, she had prepared soup and grilled cheese.
Grief changes priorities.
Ethan was already there.
Halfway through dinner, Eleanor set down her spoon.
“Claire.”
I looked at her.
“I owe you an apology.”
Ethan suddenly became very interested in his soup.
Eleanor folded her hands.
“What I said at the hospital about Noah being Victor's blood…” I waited.
“It was thoughtless.”
“Yes.”
She accepted the answer.
“I was frightened.”
“So was everyone.”
“That doesn't excuse it.”
“No.”
She looked at Ethan.
“You are my grandson.”
Ethan gave her a crooked smile.
“I was hoping.”
Her eyes filled.
“I don't want you ever believing I valued you less.”
“I don't.”
“Good.”
Then she looked at me.
“I knew about Melissa.”
I already suspected that.
“How long?”
“About eight years.”
Ethan stopped eating.
Eleanor continued quickly.
“Victor came to me after Noah started school.
He said he had made a terrible mess.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To end the relationship and tell you.”
I stared at her.
“He said he couldn't.”
“And then?”
“I allowed myself to believe it wasn't my place.”
Her voice broke slightly.
May you like
“I was wrong.”
For the first time, I saw Eleanor not simply as Victor's mother or my difficult mother-in-law but as an older woman forced to examine her own silence.
