Chapter 8 - The Truth Behind Christmas Dinner
Claire arrived at Eleanor's office on Monday morning.
She didn't know I would be there.
Eleanor had invited her to discuss documents connected to the property transactions, explaining that her name appeared in the paperwork.
When Claire entered the conference room and saw me, she stopped.
“Margaret?”
I sat beside Eleanor.
“Hello, Claire.”
Her eyes moved between us.
“What's going on?”
Eleanor gestured toward the chair opposite.
“Please sit down.”
Claire remained standing.
“I thought this was about Daniel's business.”
“It is,” Eleanor replied. “And about documents prepared under your name.”
She placed the beneficial-ownership draft on the table.
Claire stared at it.
For several seconds, her expression didn't change.
Then she sat.
“Where did you get this?”
“From someone who was asked to sign it,” Eleanor said.
Claire closed her eyes.
I felt a sickening certainty settle in my stomach.
“You knew,” I whispered.
She didn't answer.
“Claire.”
Tears gathered in her eyes.
“I knew about the house.”
“And Natalie?”
She shook her head.
“Not at first.”
“When did you find out?”
“Last summer.”
I stared at her.
“Last summer?”
She nodded.
“Daniel left his phone in the kitchen. A message came through from Natalie. I saw the picture of Evan.”
I couldn't speak.
“You knew he had another child?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you act surprised when I told you?”
Claire covered her face.
“Because I was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“Of staying.”
The room went quiet.
Eleanor leaned forward.
“Claire, we're not here to judge your marriage. We need to establish what role, if any, you played in these transactions.”
Claire looked at the papers.
“Daniel told me he needed to restructure the property.”
“Did you instruct anyone to prepare these documents?” Eleanor asked.
Claire hesitated.
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because he said the lender was going to investigate the ownership records. He told me we needed to correct them before everything collapsed.”
“Did you know Margaret hadn't authorized the purchase?” Eleanor asked.
Claire began crying.
“I suspected it.”
I stared at her.
“Suspected?”
“Daniel told me his mother had helped him. But when I asked why you weren't signing the new documents yourself, he said you were getting forgetful.”
I remembered what she'd said in my living room.
Daniel says you've been forgetting things.
Claire had repeated his explanation while knowing there was something wrong.
“You should have asked me,” I said.
“I know.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
I felt tears burning my eyes.
“Instead, you let me stand outside your house on Christmas Eve.”
Claire looked down.
And suddenly, I understood there was more.
“Why wasn't I invited?”
She didn't answer.
“Claire.”
Her voice dropped.
“Because my parents were there.”
I stared at her.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“My father had agreed to help Daniel find an investor for the business. He wanted to discuss the company over dinner.”
“And?”
“Daniel was afraid you'd ask questions about the finances.”
I looked at Eleanor.
Then back at Claire.
“So you excluded me.”
Claire wiped her cheeks.
“Daniel said if you came, you might mention the money. He didn't want my father to know how dependent we were on you.”
I sat completely still.
They hadn't been embarrassed by my age.
Or my cooking.
Or my personality.
They'd been embarrassed by the truth.
I was financing the life they wanted everyone else to believe they'd earned.
“Did your parents know I was outside?”
Claire nodded.
“My mother saw you through the window.”
My throat tightened.
“And she said nothing?”
“She told Daniel to handle it.”
I looked away.
For years, I'd sent Claire birthday gifts.
Paid for family vacations.
Bought furniture for their first home.
I had treated her like a daughter.
And she'd watched her husband close the door on me because my presence threatened an illusion.
Eleanor spoke gently.
“Claire, did you sign any documents using Margaret's name?”
“No.”
“Did you know Daniel had?”
Claire hesitated.
“I knew he sometimes signed things for her.”
“Without permission?”
“He said she approved.”
“Did you ever verify that?”
“No.”
Eleanor made a note.
I stared at Claire.
“There's something I need to know.”
She looked at me.
“Was the phone call on Christmas Eve planned?”
Her face changed.
I felt my heart sink.
“Claire?”
She whispered, “Daniel had been drinking.”
“That wasn't my question.”
She swallowed.
“He was angry that you'd come.”
“And?”
“He wanted to make sure you wouldn't show up again.”
I looked at her.
“He called me to humiliate me.”
She began crying harder.
“I should have stopped him.”
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
For the first time, I didn't feel the need to comfort her.
Eleanor concluded the meeting by asking Claire to preserve all related communications and refrain from destroying or altering records.
Claire agreed.
As she stood, she turned toward me.
“Margaret, I know you hate me.”
“I don't.”
She looked startled.
I continued.
“But I don't trust you.”
Her face crumpled.
“I understand.”
I watched her leave.
Then I sat back in my chair.
I felt exhausted.
Not triumphant.
Not vindicated.
Just tired.
Eleanor waited a moment.
“There's another issue we need to discuss.”
I looked at her.
“The mortgage lender has responded to our fraud notice. They're reviewing the file and have agreed to pause certain collection activity while they investigate.”
Relief moved through me.
“Does that mean my house is safe?”
“It means we've made progress. We still have work to do.”
I nodded.
Then she slid another document across the table.
“This came from the bank records.”
It was a transfer summary.
The proceeds from the unauthorized mortgage had been distributed among several accounts.
Some money had gone toward the Montclair property.
Some toward Daniel's business.
But one transfer stood out.
$96,000.
Sent to an account held by a company I'd never heard of.
R. Whitmore Holdings.
I stared at the name.
“Who owns that?”
Eleanor looked at me carefully.
“We're still verifying the ownership information.”
My heart began pounding.
Because there was only one other Whitmore whose first name began with R.
Rebecca.
May you like
My daughter.
The daughter we'd buried twenty-five years ago.
