“Calm down? You want to sell our house.”
“Sharon has to have an aide. It’s going to cost us an additional two grand a month, which as you know, puts us over the income we get from the rent.” I shoot a glare at a woman my age who is looking at pancake mixes while eavesdropping. She scoots away.
“You can’t sell it. I won’t let you.”
“You can’t stop me.” I sigh and summon up a softer tone. “She needs the money, Krystle. And anyway, it’s time. I can’t manage a one-hundred-year-old house from this far away, and no offense, you’re not going to do it either.”
“There has to be another way, Allie.”
“I don’t get why you care so much. It’s not like we grew up there.” I push the cart down the aisle toward the dairy section. “We lucked into that house. It’s incredibly stupid to let it fall apart beyond repair. We need to sell now, while we can still get good money for it.”
“Allie, that’s our inheritance. My inheritance.”
I stop short in front of the endless wall of yogurt. Even for Krystle, that’s heartless. “It’s not up to us. It’s her money.”
Krystle snorts.
“It is, Krystle.” I put both salted and unsalted butter in the cart, covering my bets.
“I need that money, Allie. I have no retirement savings, and I’m in debt from when I hurt my back two years ago. I’m really counting on it.”
“You’re not listening. The house is falling apart. It’s penny-wise but pound-foolish to keep fixing it up. Look, Mark and I are happy to help if you need cash.”
“I don’t need you and your lawyer husband to help me,” she says. “I just want my inheritance.”
It’s not yours, I want to say, but for some reason, I can’t. I know she resents me for having married someone with money. Before Mark, we would commiserate about when our bank balances hit single digits. We were in the same boat, going to Planned Parenthood for routine pap smears because we had no health insurance, buying clothes off eBay. After I married Mark, that changed. In her eyes, marrying him was like winning the lottery—a stroke of luck, and just one more example of how life was easier for me.
As I turn down the cereal aisle toward the checkout lines, I see Janelle, the English major from book club. I back up. The last thing I want right now is to become entangled in a web of chitchat with a neighborhood mom.
“Do you want to spend your inheritance on keeping up an old house? Because that’s what we’ll have to do. Take out a mortgage and use the money. If we sell now, we can invest and make money. We’ll probably end up ahead.”
“Well, I don’t want to sell it.”
I grit my teeth. I didn’t want to have to say this. “It’s not up to you, though, is it? I’m her power of attorney.”
“You’re not really gonna pull rank on me, are you?”
“I’m not pulling rank, Krystle. But it’s my responsibility. You are familiar with the concept of responsibility, right?”
And with that, Krystle hangs up on me. I drive home, my hands shaking. My sister’s emotions rise and plummet like a roller coaster, and I hate how she takes me along for the ride.
25
I can’t pull up right in front of my house, because there’s a blue BMW parked outside. This is the second day this week that some car has parked in that spot. I frown, juggling the grocery bags and my laptop as I enter the house.
Grateful that the back door is unlocked, I push it open. “Hello?” I call out. “I’ve got baking supplies!”
No answer.
“Susan? Cole? I’m home.” With a loud grunt, I manage to hoist all the bags onto the kitchen counter.
A noise behind me makes me jump.
When I turn, Vicki is there.
“How did you get in here?” A chill runs down my back.
“Your babysitter let me in.” Her voice trembles with controlled rage. “You are not going to get away with this.”
“With what?”
Cole rushes in, a yellow bath towel thrown over his shoulders like a cape, and wraps his arms around my legs.
“I’m Super Duck, and this is my costume.”
Susan follows behind him. I try to push Cole off me, but that makes him cling harder. Despite his size, Cole is strong. I want him out of this room and as far away from this conversation as possible.
“Susan, get Cole out of here. Please. Take him outside.”
“I don’t want to go outside,” Cole whines. “It’s cold.”
“Then go upstairs and watch a video. Anything you want.” With more effort than I’d like to use, I pry his arms off me and nudge him toward the dining room.
“I just need to add the carrots and celery to the soup.” Susan points to the large pot on the stove. A heaping pile of chopped carrots and celery sits on a cutting board next to it. The air is rich with the smell of rosemary and chicken.
“I’ll do that later, Susan.” The terseness in my voice startles her, and her elfin face seems to crumple in rejection. “Please, take Cole out of here.”
“But I want to stay.” Cole stomps his foot.
“Now, damn it,” I say, and Cole’s eyes widen. Susan looks shocked. I’m sure she’s never snapped at a child in her life.
“C’mon, sweetie, let’s go watch Dog with a Blog.” Susan takes my son by the hand and leads him out of the room. My stomach churns. I hate it when I snap at Cole, especially in front of witnesses.
“Look, I don’t know what your problem is,” I say as soon as they are gone, “but you need to leave.”
“Rob Avery was a friend of mine, a good one,” she says. “He was a good person, not a sexual predator. And I’ll be damned if I let you slander him.”
“You can’t slander the dead,” I say, pulling that factoid out of God knows what part of my brain. This seems to
