Chapter 5 - The New Foundation
Six months later, the afternoon sun streamed warmly through the restored paned windows of my aunt Eleanor’s historic Victorian house in Evanston.
The wrap-around porch had been freshly painted a crisp, welcoming white, and the flower beds were overflowing with vibrant yellow daffodils. Sitting in my favorite rocking chair with a cup of herbal tea in one hand and a newly published anthology of contemporary literature in the other, I took a deep, grounding breath of the crisp spring air.
The fallout from Ryan’s arrest had been swift, devastating, and entirely absolute.
The federal investigation uncovered not only his fraudulent land grabs and shell companies, but also widespread financial corruption within his family’s real estate holdings. Ryan’s father was forced into bankruptcy, facing potential prison time, while Ryan himself was currently awaiting federal trial with a stack of felony indictments that practically guaranteed a lengthy stay in a federal penitentiary. His high-society friends had vanished like ghosts in the fog, and his elite architectural firm had been liquidated to pay back defrauded investors and creditors.
As for Tyler, he had cooperated fully with federal prosecutors as a turning witness, securing immunity in exchange for exposing the inner workings of Ryan’s fraudulent operations. He had sent me a brief, respectful text message a month ago apologizing one last time before moving out of state to start fresh. I hadn't replied, but there was no anger left in my heart—only indifference.
My divorce from Ryan had been finalized three weeks ago by Marcus Vance. Not only did I retain absolute, unencumbered ownership of my aunt’s Victorian estate, but the court also awarded me substantial restitution seized from Ryan’s remaining liquid accounts.
Suddenly, the front gate clicked open.
I looked up from my book and smiled. My sister Rachel walked up the brick pathway, carrying a tray of warm, freshly baked lemon bars from our favorite bakery in the city.
“Delivery for the homeowner,” Rachel announced brightly, stepping onto the porch and setting the tray on the small wooden table beside my rocking chair.
“You spoil me,” I laughed, setting my tea down.
Rachel pulled up a matching chair, sat down, and looked out over the blooming front lawn with a contented sigh. “I can’t believe it’s been six months since that awful night at the bar. Sometimes it feels like a bad movie.”
“It was a bad movie,” I agreed, taking a bite of a lemon bar. “Fortunately, the director got fired.”
Rachel chuckled, then reached across the table to squeeze my hand. Her fingers were warm and steady.
“So,” Rachel said, a mischievous sparkle dancing in her eyes. “Word on the street is that the Evanston Historical Society is looking for a new board president. And I heard a certain brilliant, award-winning independent landscape architect who testified as an expert witness in your federal case has been asking if you’re single yet.”
May you like
I felt a warm, genuine flush rise across my cheeks—not the anxious, self-conscious flush of trying to impress someone who thought he was above me, but the effortless, grounded warmth of someone who finally knew her own worth.
“Tell him,” I smiled, leaning back into the rocking chair as the afternoon breeze rustled the leaves overhead, “that I only date men who know how to read the fine print.”
