Chapter 6 - NINETY DAYS
I thought Grandma had made a mistake.
Rachel didn't.
“Eleanor was extremely deliberate.”
“She made Brenda the backup trustee.”
“Yes.”
“The woman who stole from her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rachel slid another letter across the table.
Grandma had apparently prepared answers for arguments she knew we'd have after her death.
Claire,
You will think I have lost my mind.
Accurate.
Brenda has spent her life believing love means possession. She collects houses, jewelry, people, and grudges because she is terrified that anything she cannot own can leave her.
I swallowed.
Do not give her my money.
Give her the opportunity to become someone who deserves responsibility.
I read the sentence again.
The trust documents clarified everything.
Brenda could become successor trustee only if I voluntarily resigned after the center was operational and only if she satisfied the trust's ethics requirements.
Her criminal admissions made that almost impossible.
Grandma hadn't left Brenda a shortcut to millions.
She had left her a road back to the family.
Whether Brenda walked it was her choice.
Our immediate problem was simpler.
Seventy-one days.
The house needed inspections, permits, insurance, accessibility modifications, veterinary partnerships, and approval for limited animal boarding.
The first contractor quoted four months.
“No.”
He shrugged.
“Then find somebody who can change physics.”
I called my employer in Denver.
My boss, Mike, listened silently.
“So you're quitting?”
“I think so.”
“Because of a cat?”
“Because of my grandmother.”
A pause.
“That's a much better answer.”
Mike gave me an unpaid leave instead.
Then he did something ridiculous.
He flew to Connecticut with two project managers.
“You said seventy-one days.”
“You didn't have to come.”
“I know.”
Within a week, Grandma's dining room had become construction headquarters.
Volunteers filled the house.
Tom coordinated donations.
Rachel handled legal issues.
I handled budgets and contractors.
And Brenda?
She showed up one Tuesday wearing jeans.
I'd never seen her in jeans.
“What are you doing here?”
“Rachel said you need volunteers.”
“You hate animals.”
“I don't hate animals.”
“You put one in a box.”
Her face tightened.
“I know.”
That answer stole my next insult.
She held up rubber gloves.
“Where do you want me?”
I pointed toward the basement.
“Old litter boxes.”
She stared at me.
“Seriously?”
“Very.”
For a moment, the old Brenda returned.
Then she walked downstairs.
Four hours later she emerged smelling terrible.
Tom nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Brenda pointed at him.
“Not one word, firefighter.”
Something changed after that.
Not dramatically.
Real people don't transform in a montage.
Brenda complained.
She snapped.
She hated being told what to do.
But she kept coming back.
One rainy afternoon, I found her sitting alone with the black kitten the little boy had brought us.
The kitten was asleep inside her cardigan.
Brenda looked embarrassed.
“She climbed in.”
“Obviously.”
“I didn't put her there.”
“I believe you.”
“She won't get out.”
“Tragic.”
“Claire.”
I laughed.
For the first time, Brenda did too.
Then the front window shattered.
We both screamed.
A brick landed across the floor.
Paper was wrapped around it.
Tom ran inside.
I unfolded the note.
STOP THE PROJECT.
Police came again.
Security cameras had captured a masked person throwing the brick, but no license plate.
The following morning, the city received an anonymous complaint alleging we were improperly storing medical waste.
False.
Two days later, the fire department received another complaint.
False.
Then the building inspector suddenly discovered a zoning concern nobody had previously mentioned.
Our seventy-one days became fifty-two.
Rachel suspected somebody was trying to delay us.
Nobody could prove who.
Victor continued publicly denying involvement.
Brenda became strangely useful.
“I know these people.”
She began calling contacts.
She found an architect who worked overnight.
She convinced a retired zoning attorney to help.
She sold a diamond bracelet and anonymously paid for a new fire suppression system.
I only discovered it because Tom couldn't keep secrets.
“Why?” I asked her.
Brenda looked toward Macaroni.
He still wouldn't let her touch him.
“Because Mom would have done it.”
“That never mattered before.”
“I know.”
For once, she didn't defend herself.
Day sixty-eight arrived.
We needed one final inspection.
The inspector walked through every room.
Checked every exit.
Every detector.
Every permit.
Then he entered the recovery room.
Macaroni followed him.
The inspector crouched.
“You run this place?”
Macaroni sniffed his shoe.
The inspector scratched behind his ears.
Then he stood.
“Everything looks good.”
I almost collapsed.
We had done it.
Three days early.
That evening, everyone gathered beneath Grandma's old chandelier.
Tom raised a glass.
“To Eleanor.”
“To Eleanor.”
Brenda stood in the back.
Macaroni suddenly crossed the room.
He stopped in front of her.
Brenda froze.
Slowly, she crouched.
“Hi.”
Macaroni stared at her.
Then walked away.
Tom burst out laughing.
Brenda rolled her eyes.
“I deserved that.”
The doorbell rang.
Rachel entered.
Her expression told me something was wrong.
“What happened?”
“Victor Hale has filed suit against the trust.”
“For what?”
“He claims Eleanor signed a binding agreement to sell him this property six months before her death.”
Brenda's wineglass slipped from her hand.
It shattered.
“No,” she whispered.
I turned.
“You know something.”
Brenda looked terrified.
“That agreement isn't real.”
“How do you know?”
May you like
Her answer silenced the room.
“Because I'm the one who forged it.”
