Chapter 4 - Leaving Her Mother's House
Claire packed that evening.
Not much.
Two overnight bags.
Ellie’s school backpack.
Medication.
Pregnancy vitamins.
The broken music box wrapped in a dish towel.
The ledger stayed on Vivian’s desk.
Claire photographed every page and emailed the images to herself and Susan.
Vivian followed her from room to room.
“You can’t manage those stairs at your house.”
“I’ll stay downstairs.”
“The shower isn’t accessible.”
“I’ll use the powder-room sink until I figure something out.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“So is living with someone who lies to me.”
Vivian stopped beside the guest-room door.
“I did not steal from you.”
Claire zipped Ellie’s bag.
“Then tomorrow should be easy.”
“You think Susan Pike understands what it took to keep that company alive?”
“No. I think Susan understands numbers.”
“And numbers don’t raise families.”
Claire looked at her mother.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Vivian had raised Claire after Claire’s father died from pancreatic cancer when she was nineteen.
Hayes House had been a small cabinet shop then.
Vivian expanded it during the worst decade of her life, taking construction loans, negotiating with contractors, learning enough about design to turn a shop with six employees into a company with twenty-two.
Claire admired her for it.
Sometimes admiration had made questioning her feel disloyal.
Her husband had never had that problem.
That was one reason Vivian disliked him.
Ellie appeared with her coat.
“Can we go home now?”
Claire nodded.
Vivian crouched slightly, trying to catch her granddaughter’s eye.
“Sweetheart, Grandma was angry. I shouldn’t have broken your box.”
Ellie looked at the floor.
Vivian reached toward her.
Ellie moved behind Claire’s wheelchair.
Vivian dropped her hand.
Claire felt the consequence of the afternoon settle into the room.
Not the ledger.
Not the money.
A nine-year-old girl no longer trusted her grandmother to touch her.
“I’ll have it repaired,” Vivian said.
Ellie whispered, “Daddy made it.”
Claire turned.
“What?”
Ellie looked embarrassed.
“He made it at the shop. Mr. Luis helped.”
Luis Ortega had run Hayes House’s millwork floor for sixteen years.
Claire knew her husband enjoyed working with him on weekends, but she had never known he made the box.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Daddy said it was our thing.”
Claire nodded.
That was allowed.
A child was entitled to things that belonged only to her and a parent she had lost.
Vivian looked impatient.
“Claire, you’re making decisions while emotional.”
Claire almost smiled.
“When have you ever thought I wasn’t?”
A car horn sounded outside.
Claire had called a wheelchair-accessible rideshare because she was not willing to let Vivian drive them.
Vivian watched her put on her coat.
“If you walk into Susan’s office tomorrow waving those photographs around, the bank could get nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because Hayes House is carrying a line of credit.”
“How large?”
No answer.
“Mom.”
“Four hundred thousand.”
Claire stared at her.
Their approved operating line had been two hundred fifty.
“When did that change?”
“Last summer.”
“I didn’t sign an increase.”
“The operating agreement gave management authority—”
“To ordinary borrowing within our established facility. Not a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar increase.”
Vivian’s lips pressed together.
Claire felt suddenly cold.
“What was it for?”
“Expansion.”
“What expansion?”
Vivian looked toward the front door.
And Claire understood there was another piece.
“VHC,” she said.
Vivian did not answer.
Claire remembered photographs her mother had shown her the previous summer of a boutique hotel project in Montclair.
Custom furniture.
Imported stone.
A showpiece job for VHC Design Holdings.
Vivian had described it as the contract that would “put us in a different league.”
The hotel renovation stalled after the developer lost financing.
Claire had never asked who had paid the suppliers.
She should have.
Her mother’s private design company had taken the contract.
Hayes House had fabricated much of the millwork.
“Did you use Hayes House’s credit line to finance your hotel project?”
“Temporarily.”
Claire closed her eyes.
There it was.
Not the entire truth.
But enough.
She opened them again.
“And my husband found out.”
Vivian’s expression shifted.
Claire saw the answer.
“He found out,” she repeated.
Vivian’s voice softened.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“August.”
The first transfer in the binder was September.
Claire turned her wheelchair toward the door.
Behind her, Vivian said, “He agreed not to tell you.”
Claire stopped.
“Why?”
Vivian took too long.
Claire looked back.
Her mother’s face carried something Claire had not expected.
Not triumph.
May you like
Shame.
“Because,” Vivian said, “by then he was already helping me hide it.”
