Evan had always folded at the mention of Ruth. He could argue with me. He could hide from me. But his mother’s name still found the boy inside him.
“Dad…”
“Come over if you want to hear it in person.”
“I’m at work.”
“No, you’re hiding at work.”
He exhaled sharply.
“I didn’t want it to go this way.”
“That’s what people say when they were willing to let it go that way until it hurt them.”
I hung up before he could answer.
Ten minutes later, Lindsay’s SUV came flying down the county road too fast for gravel. Dust rose behind it in a long pale ribbon.
She parked crooked near the gate. She didn’t bother with sunglasses this time.
She got out holding a stack of papers.
But she wasn’t smiling.
I was on the porch with my coffee when she marched up the walk.
“You need to explain this,” she said.
I sat in Ruth’s old rocking chair. The other chair beside me was empty. It had been empty for six years, but some mornings it still felt occupied.
“Morning, Lindsay.”
She slapped the papers onto the porch table.
“The title company said Evan has no authority to sell. They said the property is in a trust. They said any attempted transfer requires trustee approval. They said—”
She stopped because she finally heard herself.
“They said a lot for people who were supposedly confused,” I said.
Her face flushed.
“This is ridiculous. Evan is your son.”
“He is.”
“This is his inheritance.”
“Maybe.”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
That one had reached her.
“What does that mean?”
“It means inheritance is not a coupon you cash while the owner is still breathing.”
She looked toward the gate as if the sign might defend her.
“You’re being emotional.”
“No,” I said. “I was emotional yesterday. Today I’m rested.”
Lindsay’s hand tightened around the papers.
“We were trying to help.”
