Chapter 4 - Sunday Dinner Without Lies
Patricia folded her napkin into a smaller square.
“Eric needed help with the business.”
Harold stared at her.
“What business?”
“The consulting business,” Vanessa said quickly. “You know about that.”
“I know he had clients.”
“We still do,” Eric said.
Claire had heard about his consulting business for years. It was always about to expand, always waiting on a payment, always one introduction away from success.
“How much help?” Harold asked.
Patricia didn’t answer.
Vanessa did.
“We were going to put it back.”
Harold’s face changed.
It was a quiet change, almost imperceptible, but Claire saw the exact moment uncertainty became understanding.
“You used the rent.”
“Temporarily.”
“And the deposit?”
Eric spoke before Vanessa could.
“That was an investment.”
“In what?”
“Our future.”
Harold pushed back his chair.
“You told me the landlord demanded it.”
Patricia reached for his arm.
“We were trying to protect you.”
He pulled away.
“From knowing what happened to my own money?”
Claire kept her hands beneath the table because they were trembling.
Vanessa looked at her.
“You seem awfully calm.”
“I’m listening.”
“You always liked watching me struggle.”
Claire almost answered with twenty years of examples.
Instead, she asked, “Why did you sign my name?”
Eric’s eyes flicked toward Vanessa.
Patricia went completely still.
Vanessa set down her glass.
“What?”
“On an authorization sent to the management office.”
“I didn’t—”
“Please stop before you add another lie.”
The refrigerator hummed behind them.
Finally, Vanessa said, “They wouldn’t talk to me.”
“Because you weren’t authorized.”
“Dad hates handling this stuff.”
“That didn’t make you me.”
Eric stood.
“We’re not doing a courtroom routine in our kitchen.”
Harold looked up at him.
“Your kitchen?”
It was the first time anyone had questioned the way Eric spoke about the apartment.
Claire drew the forged form from her bag and placed it on the table.
Vanessa stared at it.
Patricia whispered, “Oh, honey.”
But she was looking at Vanessa.
Not Claire.
Even now.
Claire felt the old wound open, familiar and precise.
“What did you know, Mom?”
Patricia’s eyes filled.
“Only that they borrowed some money.”
“Did you know they were telling Dad the rent was higher?”
“No.”
“Did you know they were telling management he couldn’t handle his affairs?”
“No.”
“Did you know they sent me to the garage while they used his money?”
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“It has everything to do with how comfortable you’ve all become.”
Vanessa slapped her palm against the table.
“Oh, here we go. The garage. You stayed out there for twenty minutes, Claire.”
“Because I could leave.”
“You’re acting like we abandoned you in a snowstorm.”
“You thought I had nowhere else to go.”
Patricia cried silently.
Claire didn’t raise her voice.
“That’s the part you keep skipping.”
From the living room came the soft clink of Lily setting down her fork.
Everyone heard it.
No one moved.
Then Harold looked at Vanessa.
“How much is left?”
Eric answered.
“Some funds are tied up.”
“How much?”
“Harold—”
“How much?”
Vanessa whispered, “Nothing we can access.”
Harold sat down as though his knees had stopped working.
Claire wanted to reach for him.
She also wanted to ask where that helplessness had been when she carried her suitcases outside.
Both feelings could exist.
She was beginning to understand that.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Ruth.
Inspection scheduled Tuesday. Also, tenant in 1A says Eric offered to take her rent in cash last month. She declined. Calling you tomorrow.
Claire read it twice.
Then she put the phone away.
“This needs to stop tonight,” she said.
Eric laughed once.
“You don’t get to walk in here and run everybody’s life.”
“No. But Dad can take control of his accounts. Mom can tell the truth. And both of you can provide a written accounting of every dollar.”
“Or what?” Vanessa asked.
Claire stood.
“Or the people whose money you used decide what to do next.”
She gathered the papers.
Harold touched her sleeve.
“Could you stay?”
The question should have come twenty years earlier.
It still mattered that he had finally asked.
“Not tonight.”
At the living room doorway, Lily stood clutching the pink blanket.
Claire knelt.
“I’m going home now.”
“Did we do something bad?”
“You didn’t.”
“Everybody’s mad.”
“I know.”
Lily leaned forward and hugged her fiercely.
Claire held her for a moment, then let go.
As she reached the front door, Eric followed.
His pleasant dinner-party voice was gone.
“You’ve got no idea who owns this place,” he said quietly. “I’m already talking to someone connected to the buyers. You keep stirring things up, you might not like where your parents end up.”
Claire looked at him.
“Who are you talking to?”
He smiled.
“That’s business.”
May you like
For the first time all evening, Claire smiled back.
“Then I look forward to meeting them.”
