Chapter 3: What Carol Saw
I held the phone so Daniel could read Carol's message himself.
He didn't reach for it.
He just stared at the screen from across the room, his jaw tightening in a way I recognized from when he was twelve years old and had broken something he hoped I wouldn't notice.
"Daniel," I said.
"Who was that man?"
"I don't know anything about a property assessor."
"His card had Vanessa's number on it."
"That doesn't mean—"
"Stop." I set the phone down on the nightstand.
"I have known you for fifty-three years.
I know when you are lying to me.
I am asking you one more time.
Who was that man?"
He stood up from the chair.
Walked to the window.
Stood with his back to me, looking out at the garden his father had planted the year Daniel was born.
"Vanessa made some calls," he said finally.
"Just to understand the market.
What the house might be worth.
Nothing formal."
"Nothing formal," I repeated.
"She was curious.
That's all."
"She sent a man to question my neighbors, Daniel.
That is not curiosity.
That is preparation."
He turned around.
"She worries about the future.
About what happens to you.
To the house.
She thinks it would be better if everything were arranged properly before—"
"Before I die."
The word landed between us like something heavy dropped on the floor.
He flinched.
"I wasn't going to say that."
"But that's what you meant."
He crossed his arms.
"You're seventy-seven, Mom.
It's not unreasonable to think about these things."
"No," I said slowly.
"It isn't.
But there is a difference between thinking about the future and sending strangers to assess the value of a house that still belongs to its owner.
A living owner.
Who is standing right in front of you."
He looked at the floor.
"I want to see the renovation plans," I said.
"The apartment you told me about three months ago.
I want the address.
I want the contractor's name."
His head came up.
"Why?"
"Because I'm starting to wonder whether there is a renovation at all."
The color left his face so quickly I could see it happen.
"Of course there is," he said.
But his voice had gone thin, the way it does when a person is choosing each word very carefully.
I picked up my phone.
"I'll call Carol back.
Ask her to describe the man.
Whether she kept his card."
"Mom—"
"Or you can tell me the truth right now.
Everything.
And we can decide together what to do next."
He stood in the middle of my bedroom with his arms still crossed, looking at the floor, looking at the window, looking anywhere except at me.
The garden light had come on outside, throwing a pale yellow rectangle across the carpet between us.
He didn't say anything.
I dialed Carol.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Margaret.
I'm glad you called.
There's something else I didn't put in the message."
"Tell me."
"The man — he wasn't alone.
There was a woman waiting in the car at the end of the drive.
I only saw her for a moment when he walked back.
But Margaret—" Carol paused.
"She looked like she was taking photographs.
Of your front garden.
Of the house."
I looked at my son.
He had heard every word.
May you like
He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, and this time he didn't bother pressing his hands flat against his knees.
He put his face in them instead.
