Chapter 6
The investigation lasted nine months.
Claire’s father lost his notary commission almost immediately.
Later came charges connected to forged documents, fraudulent filings and the attempted financing scheme.
Claire claimed Ryan had verbally approved everything.
Investigators found no proof supporting that claim.
Their marriage ended before the case did.
The fraudulent deed was voided.
214 Hawthorne Lane returned to exactly where it had always belonged.
Me.
Ryan moved into a modest two-bedroom rental.
I considered giving him a brochure for senior living.
I resisted.
He sold the luxury SUV.
Then one of the company vans.
Then several expensive watches.
For the first time, my son learned that appearing wealthy and actually being financially secure were very different things.
I didn’t destroy Bennett Premier Events.
Everyone expected me to.
Even Ryan.
Instead, I temporarily removed him as managing member.
I promoted Javier Morales, Ryan’s longtime operations director.
Javier knew the company from the inside.
He knew the employees.
He knew the vendors.
He knew exactly how many events the business could handle without borrowing money merely to appear bigger.
Within six months, expenses fell twenty-one percent.
Revenue barely changed.
That told us everything.
Ryan had built the company around prestige.
Javier rebuilt it around profit.
Eventually, Ryan returned three days a week.
Not as CEO.
As an account manager.
The first time I saw my son carrying folding chairs after an event, I almost cried.
He noticed me watching.
For a second, embarrassment crossed his face.
Then he smiled.
“Apparently these things don’t move themselves.”
“No,” I said.
“They never did.”
Our relationship did not repair itself overnight.
Real forgiveness rarely works that way.
It was slow.
Awkward.
Sometimes almost boring.
It showed up in little things.
Ryan calling before visiting.
Ryan asking instead of telling.
Ryan paying rent when he briefly stayed with me again and refusing to accept the checks back.
Ryan apologizing to Megan.
Ryan spending two hours sitting beside Thomas’s grave.
Almost a year after that terrible dinner, he came over carrying groceries.
I raised an eyebrow.
“I bought them,” he said.
“Oh?”
“And I’m not going to tell anyone.”
I laughed harder than I had in months.
Then his expression became serious.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I thought paying bills made me important.”
I waited.
“After Dad died, I think I needed to believe I had become the man of the family.”
“You already were a man in this family.”
“I didn’t feel like one.”
He looked toward the window.
“So I turned helping you into proof that you needed me.”
I didn’t interrupt.
He needed to hear himself say it.
Finally, he looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
This time, I believed him.
Then, two weeks later, my attorney Malcolm Reeves called.
“Eleanor, we found something.”
By that point, those words frightened me.
“What now?”
“A letter.”
“From whom?”
May you like
“Thomas.”
I stopped breathing.
