“…he left me a letter,” I say.
“A letter. Oh,herewe go.”
“Hold up, Mom. It didn’t say much. Just that he regrets a lot of stuff that happened. But it did say there’s supposedly something hidden here on the property somewhere—and I haven’t had much luck finding it. I guess I just wondered if you could clue me into anything?”
There’s a pause, and I hear the faint click of her heels as she walks through the house. She’s angry-pacing like she always does when Gramps is on her mind.
Always heels, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in flats.
But honestly, Mom’s taste in shoes probably helped spark my lifelong devotion. Even so, it’s a lot to take in right now.
“There’s nothing valuable there. Holden combed the entire property and sent a full inventory about a week after my father died. He was always so meticulous, and I trust him. Far more than the man who was signing his checks,” she says distantly.
“Yes, I remember.” I roll my eyes. “You sent him on a mission.”
My parents were adamant about cataloguing everything that might top off their little fortune at auction.
Mom’s main religion is money. Knowing they’d get the bulk of Gramps’ collection to sell was good enough, minus a few items at his old house in Portland earmarked for my artsy little cousin.
“Then you know all of his assets and personal property were accounted for when we hashed out the estate.”
“I know, Mom. Jackie shared the inventory with me.”
“Well, then why would you expect me to know about anything else? Do I look like the kind to hide his secrets?”
“I just thought there could be something off-record. Maybe sentimental. Mrs. Griffith, the lady we had managing the rental, she mentioned how much Grams loved to come here and paint when she was alive, and—”
Mom sighs louder, silencing me.
“Darling, darling,darling.Oh, dear.” She almost sounds tender. Which isn’t very Mom-like, when I’m pretty sure she took parenting pointers from those birds who push their chicks out of the nest to make them fly.
“He’s got you chasing ghosts. My mother loved to paint there, it’s true. We’d go into that gazebo, and she’d sit me on her knee in front of a canvas when I was little and guide my hand. Just me, Mother, and the lake. I loved it, though I never developed her appreciation for painting. But you must understand, that’s all that ever happened. It certainly didn’t includehim.”
“Look, I know you don’t have the best opinion of Gramps, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupts. “I know the lake house is lovely, even if it’s been rotting for years. But you’re still so young, Margot. The last thing you need is to waste your time hunting down whatever my deranged father left lying around. Please don’t waste the brain cells. Don’t give him the satisfaction, wherever the hell he’s gone.”
A lump builds in my throat.
Just once, I wish she’d give him a shred of respect.
But while we’re at it, I wish I could wake up to a Paris runway, where women cut like human statues strut out smiling in my shoes.
“What if it’s important? Some piece of art that was too tucked away for Holden to find?”
“If it was that important, darling, he should’ve been direct with you. He wasn’t, and that’s onhim,” she bites off. “Of course, I can’t stop you. If you really want to fritter away your time looking high and low behind every rat-infested wall, then fine, knock yourself out.”
This was productive.
Mom never has a clear head when it comes to Gramps, and she’s not the sweet, nurturing presence most people expect with mothers. She can be encouraging, she can be supportive, but she’s rarelykind.
I used to hate it, the lack of real softness. Almost like she was terrified of being overwhelmed if she offered us any real love.
Now, I know more about her and the reasons she burned her bridge with Gramps. The hard fact that Ethan isn’t Dad’s child and I am, so yeah, it makes a little more sense.
She’s still broken and hurting from Gramps thinking Dad wasn’t good enough to marry into the Blackthorn family.
She’s also arranged her life in a way that doesn’t revolve around children.
