Chapter 3 - The Golden Ledger
The front door opened with a gentle click, and my lifelong friend and attorney, Martha Vance, walked into the foyer carrying two paper cups of hot coffee.
Martha had known Walter and me since our days at Ohio State in the 1970s. She had handled our wills, our real estate purchases, and the painful probate after Walter died.
"I heard the yelling from the porch," Martha said sympathetically, handing me a steaming cup. "Was that Thomas?"
"He wants six thousand dollars by Friday," I said, sitting down on an overturned packing crate.
Martha sighed, shaking her gray head as she leaned against the doorframe. "Did you tell him about the closing?"
"No," I answered, blowing gently across the surface of the coffee. "He didn't give me the chance. He hung up after telling me I would die alone in this drafty museum."
Martha’s eyes flashed with anger. "That ungrateful boy. After everything you and Walter did for him. If Walter were here today, he would take his belt off."
"Walter would have been heartbroken, Martha," I said softly. "Walter thought the world of Thomas. He spent his final weeks making sure the house was completely paid off so Thomas would inherit an unencumbered estate."
Martha reached into her leather briefcase and pulled out a blue folder titled Dorothy Henderson Revocable Living Trust.
"The title company wired the net sale proceeds thirty minutes ago, Dorothy," Martha reported, opening the ledger. "After broker commissions and transfer taxes, one million, seven hundred and forty-two thousand dollars has cleared into your primary trust account."
I looked at the numbers on the page.
It was an unimaginable sum for a woman who had spent forty years clipping coupons and buying grocery store brand flour.
"The moving company arrives at eight o'clock tomorrow morning," I said, looking around the living room. "The new owners take possession on Friday at noon."
"Are you certain you want to proceed with the coastal cottage in Maine, Dorothy?" Martha asked, looking at me with deep affection. "It's a long way from Columbus."
"My sister Sarah has lived in Camden for twenty years," I smiled, feeling the first genuine flutter of excitement in my chest in years. "The cottage is two blocks from the harbor. It has a screened-in porch, a garden for heirloom tomatoes, and the ocean breeze."
"And your will?" Martha asked, holding her pen ready. "Do you still want to execute the revisions we drafted last week?"
May you like
I stood up, walking over to the mantel to look at the framed photograph of Walter smiling proudly in his work boots beside our garden shed.
"Execute them, Martha," I said with absolute certainty. "Every single word."
