Chapter 14
Not busy. Not confused. Not protecting us. Afraid.
That honesty changed the temperature of the conversation.
“Of what?” I asked. “Of turning Ruth's story into your story before either of you needed it.”
I stared at the unopened boxes surrounding me. Mom continued.
“She left the cottage in a family trust. I became trustee until both of you turned thirty.” “But we're both over thirty,” Mara said. “Yes.” “So why is the trust still active?” “Because there's another condition.”
Of course there was.
“What condition?” “You have to visit the house together before deciding what to do with it.”
I looked at Mara. “That sounds like Aunt Ruth.” “Very much.” “And then?” “You can keep it, sell it, rent it, donate it—whatever you choose.” “Together?” “Yes.” “What if we disagree?” “Then Ruth left instructions for that too.”
Mara looked impressed. “She really planned this.” “She was an accountant.” “That explains everything.”
I asked the question that had been sitting underneath the practical ones. “Does the cottage have anything to do with the money?”
“Yes. Ruth created a maintenance account. That's the statement you found.” “How much is left?” “Enough to maintain the property for several more years.” “And you never touched it?” “No.” “Even when Dad was sick?” “No.” “Even when—” “It wasn't mine.” Mom's voice was firm. “Your father agreed.”
I looked at the note again. For when she is ready to choose her own direction.
“And Dad knew?” “Yes.” “Why did he put the statement with my documents?” “I don't know.”
That answer surprised me. “You didn't?” “No. I gave him copies of the trust papers years ago. I assumed they were still in his filing cabinet.”
Mara sat beside me. “So Dad wanted her to find it.” “Possibly.” “Why her and not me?”
Mom was silent. That question stayed with us.
We drove to Bellweather Lake the following Saturday. Mom came too, although she insisted she was only there to hand over the keys.
The cottage stood at the end of a narrow road bordered by maples. It was smaller than I remembered. Most childhood places are. The siding, once blue, had faded almost gray. Moss covered part of the stone walkway. Two wooden chairs leaned against the porch railing as though they had been waiting patiently for someone to return.
Mara parked. No one moved.
Finally she said, “I remember this.” “Me too.”
Mom smiled from the back seat. “Ruth brought you here twice.” “I thought it was more.” “You talked about it for years afterward.”
May you like
Mara opened her door. “Because there were frogs.” “You were obsessed with frogs.” “I was eight.” “You named one Deborah.” “Deborah was dignified.”
We climbed the porch steps. Mom unlocked the door. The smell inside was dust, cedar, and old fabric. Sunlight entered through narrow curtains. Furniture remained covered with white sheets.
