Chapter 13
He accepted the rebuke.
“I should have acted sooner.”
I heard a car passing
somewhere behind him.
Then he said,
“There's something else.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Tell me.”
“Ranata kept a separate filing cabinet
in our home office.”
“Okay.”
“She told me it contained
confidential client records.”
“Did you open it?”
“After the loan notice arrived.
Yes.”
He stopped.
“What did you find?”
“Folders labeled by year.
And one labeled with your name.”
I felt my stomach turn.
“What's in it?”
“Copies of letters.
Invoices.
Bank transfer requests.
Notes about conversations
she claimed to have had with you.”
He swallowed.
“Fay, I think she documented
the story she was telling your parents.”
I looked at the window.
Outside,
the first light touched the orchard.
“Do you still have it?”
“I haven't removed anything.
I photographed some pages.”
“Don't destroy or alter anything.
Tell Miriam about it
when we speak with her.”
“I will.”
A long silence followed.
Then Desmond said,
“I believed what she told me about you.”
I didn't answer.
He continued.
“I thought you resented her success.”
I stared at my coffee.
“She told me you refused
to attend family gatherings
because you were jealous.”
I almost smiled.
A sad,
disbelieving smile.
“Desmond, I attended every holiday
I was invited to.”
“I know that now.”
“No,” I said.
“You're starting to know.”
He was quiet.
Then he whispered,
“That's fair.”
Before ending the call,
he told me something
that stayed with me
through the rest of the day.
“Ranata didn't just steal money, Fay.
She made everyone feel responsible
for the life she invented for you.”
I sat with that sentence
long after we hung up.
Because he was right.
And somehow,
that was worse than the number
at the bottom of Dad's page.
Monday morning,
I arrived at Miriam Cole's office
ten minutes before our appointment.
She was a woman in her fifties,
with silver-streaked dark hair
and a calm,
precise way of speaking.
Julia was already there.
Dad and Mom arrived together.
Dad wore his old navy jacket.
Mom carried a folder
pressed tightly against her chest.
She looked at me.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
“Morning, Mom.”
She stepped forward,
then stopped.
I could tell she wanted to hug me.
I could also tell
she wasn't certain she should.
I appreciated that more
than an apology delivered too soon.
We sat around a conference table.