Chapter 2 - The Home We Had Never Owned
Theodore did not take us to one of his hotels.
He took us to a guest cottage behind his sister’s house in Middletown, six miles from Newport, where the girls slept in clean beds with windows that opened toward the Sakonnet River.
I remained awake in the kitchen.
At two in the morning, Theodore placed a folder on the table but did not open it.
“Before we discuss documents, tell me how you ended up in that basement.”
The answer began long before Andrew died.
Windward Cottage, the cedar-shingled house where we had lived for nine years, had never been titled in our names. It belonged to Hawthorne Properties, the family company Beatrice controlled.
Andrew had a written option to purchase it after ten years of employment with the family foundation. We paid the taxes, renovated the kitchen, replaced the roof, and treated the cottage as ours because Andrew believed the transfer was one year away.
His death ended the option.
At least, that was what Beatrice told me.
She said Andrew had left debts connected to the foundation. She said the cottage had to be sold quickly and that contesting the decision would consume money I did not have.
My name had never appeared on the deed.
Andrew’s salary stopped immediately. The company health plan ended at the close of the month. I had been home with Nora and doing occasional catering work, so I had little income of my own.
Beatrice offered us temporary rooms at Hawthorne House.
The “rooms” were a narrow former staff bedroom beside the commercial laundry and a storage alcove where Clara slept behind a folding screen.
In return, I helped with dinners, donor luncheons, and foundation events.
“Did the foundation pay you?” Theodore asked.
“No.”
“Did it provide housing assistance?”
“Beatrice said living at the estate was the assistance.”
He finally opened the folder.
Inside was the most recent annual donor report.
A section titled CALLOWAY FAMILY RESIDENCE described a private two-bedroom apartment, full meal support, grief counseling, educational assistance, and a monthly living stipend.
My daughters’ names appeared beneath mine.
Theodore tapped the page.
“I approved a restricted grant that funded this program.”
I read the numbers twice.
According to the report, the foundation had spent more than seventy-eight thousand dollars supporting us since Andrew’s death.
I had received none of it.
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Theodore closed the folder.
“Beatrice didn’t simply hide where you were sleeping,” he said. “She reported you as the foundation’s model beneficiary.”
