Chapter 3 - The Uninvited Guests
Two days later, the reality of Ethan's new life began to close in on him.
The suburban house in Lake Oswego, which he had fought so bitterly to keep, was not the paradise he had imagined. For seven years, I had quietly managed the household budget. I paid the property taxes, scheduled the routine maintenance, covered the insurance premiums, and paid down the principal.
Ethan had assumed the house ran on magic and his modest salary.
Within forty-eight hours of moving his things into the master bedroom, the main sewage line backed up into the downstairs basement. When the plumbing contractor arrived, he handed Ethan an estimate for fourteen thousand dollars to replace the cracked cast-iron pipes beneath the foundation.
On top of that, the annual property tax bill arrived in the mail: twelve thousand six hundred dollars, due in thirty days.
Then came Linda.
Having burned through her remaining savings trying to keep up appearances at her suburban bridge club, Linda showed up at Ethan's doorstep with four large rolling suitcases.
"I'm moving in," Linda announced, walking past her son into the foyer. "Now that you've let Claire walk away with sixty million dollars, we have to consolidate our expenses. Sell the sports car, Ethan. We need to save money to hire an appellate lawyer."
Ethan stared at his mother, the first cracks of resentment finally showing through his lifelong conditioning.
"Mom, this house only has three bedrooms, and the basement is flooded with raw sewage," Ethan snapped, rubbing his aching temples. "I don't have money to hire an appellate lawyer. My checking account has four hundred dollars left after paying the mortgage!"
"Well, whose fault is that?!" Linda yelled back, her face twisting into the familiar sneer she used to reserve for me. "You were married to an heiress for seven years and you didn't even notice? What kind of useless husband were you? You let her treat you like an idiot while she sat on an oil well!"
That evening, unable to bear his mother’s constant nagging and the stench in his basement, Ethan made a desperate choice.
He drove two hundred miles north to Seattle in his gas-guzzling SUV.
At seven in the evening, as I was sitting in my glass-walled study reviewing the first-quarter expansion plans for our new cloud infrastructure division, my phone buzzed on the mahogany desk.
It was the security guard at the front gate.
"Ms. Bennett, we have an individual at the gate claiming to be your husband. He’s driving an older silver sedan with Oregon plates. He’s refusing to leave the intercom and insists on speaking with you."
I looked out the window at the rain tapping against the thick glass panes. Seven days ago, hearing his name might have caused a hollow ache in my chest. Tonight, it felt like looking at a stranger through a telescope.
"Do not let him through the gate, Marcus," I said calmly. "I will come down to the gatehouse."
I pulled on a warm wool coat, slipped my car keys into my pocket, and drove down the private road. When I arrived, Ethan was standing under the yellow security floodlight, his jacket soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked haggard, twenty pounds lighter, with dark purple bags sagging under his bloodshot eyes.
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When he saw me step out of the guardhouse, he took two steps forward, his hands outstretched in an attitude of desperate supplication.
"Claire," he choked out, his voice cracking with emotion. "Claire, please. You have to talk to me. We need to talk about this."
