Laurelai called several days after I saw the wedding photographs.
I recognized her number before I answered.
She had never been especially warm toward me, but we had always managed to be polite.
I had believed that politeness was enough.
Apparently, I had been mistaken about that too.
"Hello, Laurelai."
She skipped the usual greetings.
"I think we need to clear something up about the beach house."
I stood beside the living room window and looked out at the street.
"What would you like to clear up?"
She spoke in a tone that suggested I had created a problem everyone else was trying to solve.
"Cullen and Blythe are supposed to be moving in. They've made their arrangements."
"They haven't discussed that with me."
She gave a small, impatient laugh.
"Oh, come on. Everyone understood that the house would eventually go to Cullen."
Eventually.
The same word my son had used.
I wondered how many conversations had taken place without me.
"I haven't given them permission to move in."
"That's not the point," she said.
I almost laughed at that.
Not the point.
The house was mine, but somehow my permission was the least important part of the discussion.
Laurelai said the couple had already announced their plans.
She spoke about their wedding guests and the expectations people had been given.
She made it sound as though I had broken a promise by refusing to hand over my keys.
I told her I had made no such promise.
Her voice hardened.
"You need to think about Blythe here. Don't make this embarrassing for her."
I looked down at the phone.
I had not embarrassed Blythe at her wedding.
I had not told guests she was unable to attend an event.
I had not displayed a house on a cake and then treated its owner as an inconvenience.
I had done none of those things.
Yet Laurelai spoke as if I were the one who needed correcting.
"I hope they enjoy their honeymoon," I said.
Then I ended the call.
My hand was shaking slightly.
I set the phone on the table and sat down.
I was angry, but beneath the anger was something colder.
Laurelai had spoken with the confidence of someone who believed she had a right to make decisions about my property.
That confidence had to come from somewhere.
I began thinking about the conversations I had missed.
Cullen had said they were moving in.
Blythe had said they had surrendered their apartment.
Laurelai had insisted the house had already been promised.
The wedding guests had apparently been told that I was unwell.
Each piece pointed toward a plan that had been discussed, repeated, and accepted by other people before I had even heard about it.
I couldn't understand how they had become so certain.
Then Miles called.
Blythe's father had always been more reserved than his wife.
He tended to speak carefully, and I had never heard him raise his voice.
That afternoon, however, he sounded uneasy.
"There's something I wanted to ask you."
"Go ahead."
"It's about the paperwork for the house."
I stopped moving.
"What paperwork?"
He paused.
"The documents Cullen said were completed."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Which documents, Miles?"
He sounded uncomfortable now.
"The ownership paperwork. He told me back in June that everything had been signed."
June.
I repeated the month silently.
Miles continued, saying Cullen had given him the impression that the arrangements were finished.
He had apparently spoken about the house as if the transfer were already settled.
I asked Miles whether he had seen the documents himself.
He didn't give me a clear answer.
He seemed to believe Cullen's word had been enough.
I sat down slowly.
There was no signed transfer that I had knowingly completed.
I had never handed my son the beach house.
I had never authorized Laurelai or Miles to organize a move into it.
And yet they had been telling people the arrangement was done.
"Did Cullen show you something with my signature?" I asked.
Miles hesitated.
"I thought he had taken care of it."
That was not an answer.
I thanked him for calling and ended the conversation.
For several minutes, I remained in my chair.
The house was quiet.
I could hear the refrigerator running in the kitchen.
Outside, a car passed slowly along the road.
June.
The month bothered me because it brought back something I had tried not to worry about.
Several months earlier, I had spoken privately with my attorney about a document connected to the beach house.
I had wanted to prepare something important for Cullen.
It was not a simple promise to hand over the property.
There were details that needed to be handled properly, and I had wanted everything prepared before I gave him anything.
The decision had been connected to a handwritten note Nile left behind.
I had kept that note for years.
It was one of the few things I had never been able to throw away, even when I cleared out drawers and closets after his death.
I had wanted the document and the note to be presented together.
It mattered to me that Cullen understood what the house represented before he received anything connected to it.
I had planned to give him the document on his wedding day.
That plan had seemed sensible when I first considered it.
I thought his wedding would be a moment when we could speak privately about the future.
I had imagined giving him the envelope, telling him what his father had written, and explaining why I had chosen to prepare the paperwork.
Instead, he had married without telling me.
And now his father-in-law was asking why the documents Cullen claimed were finished had not been completed.
I went to the place where I kept my important papers.
The envelope was supposed to be hidden among them.
It was long and cream-colored, with a plain flap.
I knew exactly where I had left it.
When I found it, I noticed the tape before I touched anything else.
Someone had opened the envelope and then tried to seal it again.
The strip of tape was uneven.
One edge had folded over itself, leaving a small ridge across the paper.
I held the envelope in both hands.
I couldn't tell who had opened it.
I couldn't say when it had happened.
But I knew I hadn't done it.
I checked the contents without disturbing the order of the papers.
Then I returned everything to the envelope.
I sat at the table with it in front of me.
The tape caught the light whenever I moved my head.
I thought about Cullen's certainty.
I thought about Miles's question.
I thought about the wedding cake and the tiny blue door.
Someone had been acting as though the future of my house had already been settled.
Now I had found evidence that the envelope containing my private plans had been tampered with.
I did not know how those facts were connected.
I only knew I could no longer pretend they were separate problems.
That evening, I placed the envelope inside my purse.
I would keep it with me.
Whatever Cullen believed he had seen, I needed to know exactly what had happened to the document I had prepared.
And I needed to stop letting other people decide what my silence meant.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Invitation My Neighbor Brought Me Revealed That Thirty-Four Strangers Had Been Invited to My Own Home
The Sunday Morning Call That Made Me Question Everything I Thought I Knew About My Only Son
Part 4 of 24
