“As far as you understand?” I asked.
He hesitated. “Helen was private about that property.”
That was putting it mildly.
I had been married to Helen Miller for thirty years, yet until that afternoon I had never known she owned a cabin by the coast.
Bradley tucked his copy of the papers into a leather portfolio and rose. His tailored suit fit him perfectly, just as everything in his life always had, because someone else had always covered the cost before he ever noticed it. “This has been fun,” he said, already heading for the door. “But I have a flight to arrange. The villa needs appraising.”
“Bradley,” Mr. Thompson said quietly.
My son paused with one hand on the doorframe. “You should probably pack, Dad.”
I looked up.
He smiled again. “I’m putting the house on the market next week.”
For a second I thought grief had distorted what I heard. “This is my home too.”
“Not according to the will.” His voice remained light, almost cheerful. “Mom left the house and everything else that matters to me. You’ve got your beach cabin.”
“Your mother would not want you to force me out.”
“My mother made her wishes very clear.” He glanced at the envelope in my hand. “You have forty-eight hours.”
The door shut behind him.
Mr. Thompson remained quiet for a moment. He removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and suddenly looked ten years older.
“Eugene,” he said, “there may be more to Helen’s decisions than it appears.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she asked me to carry out the will exactly as written. She didn’t explain everything.”
