Chapter 11 - Packing Up the Mirage
The inside of 14 Crestview Ridge smelled of stale champagne, expensive scented candles, and the bitter, sharp draft of cold air that had been blowing through the open doors all morning.
Arthur Vance sat at the massive cherrywood desk in Richard’s former study, methodically sorting through folders. Two locksmiths were working in the foyer, their power drills whirring as they replaced the heavy brass cylinders on every exterior entrance.
Emma walked through the high-ceilinged living room, her small boots squeaking against the polished parquet floors.
She stopped in front of the massive dining table.
The remnants of the party were still there: half-empty crystal goblets, dirty silver platters, and the elaborate place cards Eleanor had written by hand with gold ink.
She walked slowly to the head of the table, where Richard had sat, and touched the carved mahogany arm of the chair.
“Mom?” she called out softly.
I walked in from the hallway, carrying a box of legal documents Vance had marked for retention. “Yes, sweetie?”
“Why did they care so much about these chairs?” Emma asked, looking around the cavernous room. “There are twelve chairs here. And there were only eight of them.”
My throat tightened. I walked over and pulled out the chair beside Richard’s.
“Because to people like your grandparents, Emma, a chair isn't a place to sit,” I said, stroking her dark hair. “To them, it’s a trophy. They only wanted people here who made them feel rich. They didn't understand that the only thing that actually has value in this world is who is willing to sit with you when the room is dark and cold.”
Grandma Ruth walked into the room, leaning lightly on her cane. She looked around the cavernous space, her eyes settling on the crystal chandelier that hung overhead like an ostentatious ice sculpture.
“Tacky,” Ruth muttered. “Your mother always had the taste of an oil baron’s third wife. Arthur!”
“Yes, Mrs. Harrison?” Vance called from the study.
“Call the estate auctioneer. Everything in this room—the table, the sideboard, the silver, that ridiculous glass monster hanging from the ceiling—sell it. Every scrap.”
“And the proceeds, ma’am?”
Ruth turned to Emma, her wrinkled face softening into a smile that was warm, deep, and unshakeable.
“Place the entire balance into an educational trust for Emma Katherine Harrison. Unrestricted access at age twenty-one, fully managed by her mother until then.”
Emma’s eyes went wide. “Great-Grandma... you’re selling their things for me?”
“I’m not selling *their* things, child,” Ruth said, tapping her cane on the floorboards with a sharp rap. “I’m liquidating the debt they ran up against my conscience. Now, go upstairs. Pick whatever room you want. Except the master suite—we’re turning that into Kate’s office.”
Emma looked at me, her face glowing with a hesitant, blooming wonder that I hadn't seen since before her father and I had separated.
“The one with the round window?” she whispered. “The one that looks like a tower?”
“The attic studio,” I smiled, nodding. “The one with the morning sun. Go claim it.”
May you like
She sprinted toward the grand staircase, her laughter echoing up into the two-story foyer—the first sound of genuine joy those walls had heard in twenty-four years.
***
