I slowly turned my head to look at him.
“I’m fine, Greg. I’m old, but I’m not broken yet.”
My son gave a tight, awkward smile and adjusted his cuff. That’s when I saw it. Peeking out from under his sleeve was a flash of gold.
A watch. A heavy, gold Rolex. Either a very good fake or the real deal. Something clicked in my mind. Three days ago, when Eleanor passed, Greg had called me in the middle of the night. He was crying, saying his consulting business was in a tailspin, his accounts were frozen by the IRS, and he didn’t have a dime for the funeral.
“Dad, I’m tapped out. I can’t even cover the flowers,” he’d whined. I paid for everything. The casket, the plot, the service, the catering. I emptied my savings and even borrowed a bit from my friend Bill.
I did it because it was for his mother. And now here he was, drinking my bourbon and wearing a watch that cost more than my car.
“Nice watch,” I said quietly, my eyes locked on his wrist.
Greg flinched as if I’d struck him. He quickly pulled his sleeve down, hiding the gold. His eyes darted around the room.
“Oh, this? It’s… it’s a knockoff, Dad. A high-end replica.”
“A client gave it to me to look the part for a big meeting. You know how it is in business—image is everything.”
He was lying. I knew his tells. His left eyelid gave a tiny twitch when he was being dishonest. It was a habit he’d had since he was a kid stealing change from my dresser.
“Image, huh?” I muttered. “Funny how you had enough for the image but not for your mother’s headstone.”
Greg’s face flushed red. The color crept up his neck.
“Dad, don’t start. You know the situation. I’ll pay you back as soon as this new contract clears…”
He trailed off and poured another drink. The conversation around the table picked up again. Someone was reminiscing about Eleanor’s apple pie. Greg relaxed, thinking he was off the hook. But inside me, a cold suspicion was starting to grow. An hour later, as people started to leave, Greg approached me again.
He was a bit tipsy now, bolder.
“Listen, Pop…” He lowered his voice, glancing toward the kitchen. “Mom mentioned… well, she had a small filing cabinet in her craft room. Some old deeds to the lake house and some tax records.”
“I really need to grab those. There’s a power of attorney form my lawyer needs to see to clear up some paperwork.”
“What paperwork?” I frowned.
“The lake house is in my name. The house here was in both yours and Mom’s. What is there to clear up?”
“It’s just legal technicalities, Dad. You wouldn’t understand the fine print.”
His voice had a desperate, sharp edge to it.
“There are some zoning issues. Just give me the key to the room, I’ll grab the folder and be out of your hair.”
He held out his hand, palm up. It was a demanding gesture.
In his eyes, I didn’t see grief. I saw greed. A raw, naked hunger that made me feel ashamed just looking at him. The craft room.
It was a small room off the hallway where Eleanor did her sewing and kept her records. She always kept it locked when we had company.
“I just like to keep my projects private, Tom,” she’d always say.
“I have the keys,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “But I’m going in there myself. Tomorrow. Today isn’t the time for paperwork.”
“Dad, I need it now! My lawyer is leaving for vacation tomorrow!” Greg almost shouted, catching the attention of my daughter, Susan, who was drying dishes in the kitchen.
“I said no,” I barked. The sound was like a hammer hitting an anvil. “Sit down and have a drink for your mother. Or leave.”
Greg froze. His face twisted with anger for a split second before he masked it with an insulted pout.
“Fine, Dad. Whatever. I was just trying to help.”
He walked away, but I felt his eyes on my back. A heavy, oily stare.
When the last guest left and Susan kissed my cheek before heading home to her kids, I was alone in the silence. The ticking of the grandfather clock sounded like a drum.
I went to the craft room door and pulled out my keychain. My hands were shaking. Why was Greg so desperate for old records? Where did a “bankrupt” man get a Rolex?
And why had Eleanor, who never kept a secret from me, started jumping every time the phone rang these last few years? I turned the key. The click sounded like a gunshot.
I didn’t know it yet, but I was opening a door to a nightmare. The door creaked open, almost protesting. I stepped inside and was immediately hit by her scent.
Lavender, old paper, and the perfume she only wore on Sundays. It was so vivid I almost expected to see her sitting in her armchair by the window, looking up from her knitting to ask, “Tom, why aren’t you in bed?”
But the chair was empty. Her gray cardigan was draped over the back. I touched the wool; it was cold. Everything in this room was cold. I flipped the light switch. The yellow glow revealed Eleanor’s private world.
Her sewing machine, stacks of patterns, and the old roll-top desk she’d inherited from her father. I approached it feeling like a burglar. “I’m sorry, Eleanor,” I whispered. “But Greg is hiding something, and I have to know what.”
The desk key turned easily. I lowered the lid.
Inside was the perfect order she was known for. Pens in a cup. Utility bills filed by year. A stack of birthday cards. I started going through the papers. First carefully, then with more urgency.
Lake house documents?
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