Chapter 5 - The Secret My Husband Left Behind
For twenty minutes, I sat in Samuel's study wondering how a woman could live forty-three years with a man and still discover he had kept secrets.
Not small secrets.
Not the kind involving forgotten anniversary gifts or extra slices of pie.
Property.
Three addresses.
One I recognized.
Two I didn't.
Our home was the first.
The second was a narrow commercial building on West Madison Street.
The third was a vacant lot on the south side of town.
Beneath the addresses, Samuel had written dates, account numbers, and the name of a trust.
The Samuel and Olivia Reed Family Trust.
I read that line until the letters blurred.
Samuel and I had talked about making a trust.
I remembered sitting with a lawyer after his first heart attack.
We had discussed probate and the possibility that one of us might need long-term care.
But I had believed the trust was never completed.
Samuel had told me the paperwork was complicated.
Then he recovered.
Life resumed.
And we stopped discussing death because we were foolish enough to think avoiding the word might delay the event.
Now I was holding a notebook that suggested otherwise.
I called Caroline.
She asked me to photograph the pages and bring the notebook.
When I arrived, she spent nearly half an hour examining the documents.
Then she looked up.
"Olivia, your husband may have created a trust years ago, but we need the executed documents and current property records to understand whether it's still operative."
"Why wouldn't he tell me?"
"He may have."
"I would remember."
Caroline didn't challenge me.
Instead, she asked whether Samuel had ever mentioned a building on West Madison.
I shook my head.
"Not as something we owned."
"What about a business partnership?"
"He and his brother invested in a repair shop years ago."
"What was his brother's name?"
"Leon."
"Is Leon still alive?"
"No. He died before Samuel."
"Any children?"
"A daughter. She moved to Atlanta."
Caroline wrote that down.
Then she turned another page.
"Do you recognize the name Bernard Ellis?"
I leaned forward.
"Of course."
"Who is he?"
"Samuel's old business partner."
"Where is he now?"
"Retired, I think."
Caroline tapped the notebook.
"His name appears repeatedly."
I felt the first real flicker of hope since my birthday.
Bernard Ellis had been the kind of man who kept receipts for bus tickets.
If anyone could explain Samuel's records, it would be him.
"Can we find him?"
"I'll have my office look into it."
When I got home, Marcus's car was parked in my driveway.
He stood beside it, looking down at his phone.
My heart lifted before I could stop it.
Then I saw Tiffany in the passenger seat.
The feeling disappeared.
Marcus approached as I stepped from my car.
"Mom, can we talk?"
I looked toward Tiffany.
"Is this a conversation or a performance?"
"Please."
He sounded tired.
I decided to hear him out.
We sat on the front porch.
Tiffany remained in the car.
That arrangement suited me.
Marcus looked older than thirty-five.
There were dark circles under his eyes.
His hair, once thick and unruly, was beginning to thin near the temples.
He had Samuel's nose.
That was hardest to look at.
"Mom, I don't know how we got here."
I studied his face.
"I do."
He flinched.
"You think everything is Tiffany's fault."
"No."
"Then why do you treat her like she's evil?"
I took a breath.
"Marcus, your wife deliberately humiliated me."
"She says she didn't."
"I heard what she said."
"So did I."
"Then why are we debating whether it happened?"
He rubbed his face.
"Because I don't know what you want from me."
I was quiet for a moment.
Then I answered honestly.
"I wanted you to defend me before I made the mistake of defending myself with my hand."
He looked away.
"You've never liked her."
"That's true."
He turned back.
"See?"
"Marcus, disliking somebody doesn't make every concern about that person imaginary."
He leaned forward.
"She says you've been making accusations for years."
"About the missing money?"
"Among other things."
"Has she told you about the messages she sent Denise?"
He closed his eyes.
"Mom."
"Did you know about them?"
"I knew she wanted Denise to film the party."
"Why?"
"Because Tiffany said you were going to cause a scene."
I stared at him.
"She predicted I would cause a scene?"
"Yes."
"And then she knocked over the cake."
"She says it was an accident."
I shook my head.
"Son, I don't know how to explain this to you any more simply."
He stood.
"Maybe that's the problem."
"What is?"
"You always have to be right."
The words hurt because there was truth in them.
I had spent a lifetime correcting people.
Employees.
Neighbors.
Marcus.
Samuel used to say I could make an argument out of the weather.
I looked down at my hands.
"Maybe I do," I admitted.
Marcus seemed surprised.
"But wanting to be right doesn't mean I'm always wrong."
His face softened.
For a moment, I thought we might reach one another.
Then Tiffany opened the car door.
"Marcus, we have an appointment."
I looked at her.
"What appointment?"
She smiled.
"Private business."
I turned back to my son.
"Marcus, have you been talking to anyone about selling my house?"
His expression changed.
It was slight.
But I saw it.
"Why would you ask that?"
"Answer me."
"No."
"Are you certain?"
He stood straighter.
"Of course I'm certain."
I studied him.
Then I asked, "Have you signed anything involving Sterling Residential Solutions?"
He went completely still.
Tiffany started walking toward us.
"Marcus," she said sharply.
I looked from her to him.
"Son?"
His face had gone pale.
"Where did you hear that name?"
There it was again.
Not denial.
Recognition.
Tiffany reached the porch.
"This conversation is over."
I remained seated.
"You're standing on my property, Tiffany."
"Not for much longer."
Marcus turned toward her.
"What?"
She smiled.
Then recovered herself.
"I mean, once you decide to move somewhere safer."
Marcus looked confused.
For the first time, genuinely confused.
And suddenly I understood something important.
My son knew part of Tiffany's plan.
But he did not know all of it.
That made him either a useful fool or a willing accomplice who had finally discovered the game was larger than he thought.
I was not yet ready to decide which.
"Marcus," I said, "I want you to look at me."
He did.
"If your wife has involved you in something concerning my property, now is the time to tell me."
He swallowed.
Tiffany reached for his arm.
"Let's go."
He did not move.
"Marcus?"
His voice was barely audible.
"Tiff, what did you mean by 'not for much longer'?"
Her face hardened.
"Get in the car."
I had never heard her speak to him in quite that tone.
It was not the voice of a wife arguing with her husband.
It was the voice of someone reminding an employee who was in charge.
Marcus looked at her.
Then at me.
He stepped down from the porch.
But before he reached the car, he turned back.
"Mom."
"Yes?"
"Don't sign anything."
Tiffany's head snapped toward him.
"What did you say?"
He opened the passenger door.
"Nothing."
But I heard him.
And so did she.
When they drove away, I sat on the porch for a long time.
At six that evening, Caroline called.
She had located Bernard Ellis.
He was eighty-one, lived in a retirement community outside St. Louis, and was willing to speak with me.
But that was not why she sounded concerned.
"Olivia, we found something else."
"What?"
"A document filed with the county clerk last week."
My throat tightened.
"About my house?"
"Not a transfer of ownership."
"Then what?"
"A preliminary notice associated with a proposed financing arrangement. We're obtaining the underlying documentation."
I gripped the phone.
"Who filed it?"
She hesitated.
"An attorney representing Sterling Residential Solutions."
I stared at the street.
Then Caroline said the words I would remember for the rest of my life.
May you like
"Olivia, I believe somebody may be using the appearance of your consent to arrange a transaction you never authorized."
And just like that, the cake stopped being the worst thing Tiffany had done to me.
