Chapter 5 - THE MAN WHO WANTED MY HOMEArthur Sterling arrived in my life through a photograph.
Not the polished portrait on his company's website, where he stood beside a private jet with a confident smile.
Not the society-page picture of him and Victoria at a charity gala.
It was an old newspaper photograph from eleven years earlier.
Arthur stood outside a courthouse, shielding his face with one hand.
The headline read:
DEVELOPER SETTLES DISPUTE OVER ELDERLY HOMEOWNERS' PROPERTY TRANSFERS.
Eleanor brought the article on Monday.
She placed it on my kitchen table beside a fresh cup of coffee.
"I want you to read this carefully."
I did.
According to the article, Arthur's former development company had been accused in a civil lawsuit of pressuring several elderly homeowners to sell properties for far less than their market values.
The case had ended in a settlement without an admission of wrongdoing.
Arthur denied the allegations.
But the details made me uncomfortable.
The plaintiffs described being rushed into signing documents.
Some said they were told their properties were nearly worthless.
Others claimed their relatives had been persuaded to intervene.
I set the article down.
"He's done this before?"
"He's faced similar allegations," Eleanor said. "That doesn't prove he's doing it now. But it tells us to be cautious."
I thought about Victoria standing on my porch.
About her remarks concerning my age.
About the retirement community reservation.
"How did Cullen get mixed up with these people?"
Eleanor sighed.
"Perhaps he wanted their approval badly enough to ignore the warning signs."
I remembered the first time Cullen brought Blythe home.
It had been eleven months earlier.
She arrived wearing a pale pink cashmere sweater and heels that probably cost more than my grocery budget.
She was pretty, polished, and very good at compliments that didn't quite feel like compliments.
"What a quaint house," she'd said.
Quaint.
As if my home were a charming inconvenience.
At dinner, she asked whether Nile had been a contractor.
"He repaired marine engines and restored boats," I explained.
"Oh," she replied, smiling. "How hands-on."
Cullen immediately added, "Dad also invested in real estate."
That wasn't exactly a lie.
Nile and I had bought two small rental cottages over the years, although we'd sold them long before he died.
But Cullen said it in a way that made his father sound like the owner of a multinational corporation.
I remembered being embarrassed by my son's embarrassment.
And that was perhaps the saddest part.
I had spent months trying to make Blythe comfortable.
I polished silver I hadn't touched in years.
I bought expensive wine.
I even stopped mentioning the grocery store where I'd worked for nearly two decades.
I thought I was helping Cullen.
Instead, I was teaching him that he could hide the parts of our family he didn't like.
That afternoon, I took out an old photograph.
Nile and me, standing in front of the house in 1982.
The roof was damaged.
The porch was missing.
I was twenty-seven and wearing paint-covered overalls.
Nile had a hammer in one hand and his other arm around my shoulders.
We looked exhausted.
We looked happy.
I placed the photograph on my mantel.
Then I removed a newer one showing Cullen and Blythe at an expensive restaurant.
Not because I hated them.
Because I wanted to remember whose home this was.
My phone buzzed at three.
A video call from Cullen.
I answered.
He appeared on a balcony overlooking blue water.
Behind him, Blythe reclined in a chair wearing oversized sunglasses.
"Mom," he said, "we need to talk."
"Hello to you too."
He didn't smile.
"Blythe's mother says you were rude to her."
"She came here without an invitation."
"She's trying to help."
"With what?"
"Making the transition easier."
I looked at him.
"There is no transition, Cullen."
His expression tightened.
"Mom, please."
"No."
He frowned.
"What do you mean, no?"
"I mean I'm not moving out of my house."
Blythe sat upright.
"Are you serious?"
I could hear her clearly.
"Very."
She leaned toward the phone.
"Meredith, we've already hired designers."
"Then you should cancel them."
Her mouth fell open.
Cullen rubbed his forehead.
"Mom, can we not do this right now?"
"You're the one who called."
He lowered his voice.
"Dad promised me that house."
I stared at him.
"Did he?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Before he died."
"That's strange."
"Why?"
"Because your father left me something very different in writing."
Cullen's face changed.
It happened so quickly I might have missed it if I hadn't been watching.
His eyes widened.
Then he looked toward Blythe.
"What writing?"
I said nothing.
"Mom. What writing?"
"Something he wanted me to keep."
Blythe leaned forward.
"Is this about the will?"
I looked at her.
"Why would you think that?"
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Cullen spoke quickly.
"Mom, nobody's talking about legal stuff."
"Then why did your wife contact a title company?"
Silence.
Blythe took off her sunglasses.
Cullen stared at the phone.
"Who told you that?"
I felt my heart pounding.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
Blythe recovered first.
"We were just gathering information."
"About transferring my house?"
"For estate planning," she said.
I almost laughed.
"Whose estate?"
Neither answered.
Then Cullen's face hardened.
"Mom, you're making everything sound sinister."
"Then explain the real estate listing proposal."
His expression went pale.
Blythe turned toward him.
"What did you tell her?"
I watched them exchange a look.
It was quick.
But revealing.
Blythe had known about the title transfer.
Had she known about the proposed sale?
Apparently not.
"Cullen?" she asked sharply.
He ignored her.
"Mom, who have you been talking to?"
I leaned closer to the screen.
"The people who own the paperwork."
He swallowed.
"Look, I can explain."
"I'd love that."
But he didn't.
Instead, Blythe grabbed the phone.
"Meredith, my father has spent months planning this. You're not going to humiliate him because you're having some emotional reaction."
I stared at her.
"Your father has been planning what?"
She froze.
Cullen reached for the phone.
"Blythe—"
"No," I said. "Let her finish."
Blythe lifted her chin.
"The entire property situation."
I felt something inside me turn cold.
"Does Arthur know I haven't agreed to anything?"
"Everyone knows you're attached to the house," she said impatiently. "But sometimes older people need help making practical decisions."
I looked directly into the camera.
"Then here's a practical decision. Neither of you has permission to enter my home without my invitation."
Cullen's jaw dropped.
"Mom!"
"And you have no permission to sell it, transfer it, renovate it, or invite guests there."
Blythe's cheeks flushed.
"You can't do this to us!"
I felt strangely calm.
"Watch me."
I ended the call.
Then I sat very still.
For seventy-one years, I had avoided confrontation whenever possible.
Now I'd made my son angry.
His wife angrier.
And possibly her father dangerous.
But I also felt something I hadn't felt since Nile's death.
Control over my own life.
At six that evening, Eleanor called with another discovery.
"Meredith, remember the investor lawsuit against Cullen?"
"Yes."
"Well, the plaintiff's attorney returned my call."
I sat upright.
"What did he say?"
"Apparently, Cullen borrowed money against expected future proceeds from a family property."
My mouth went dry.
"What family property?"
"He described a $1.94 million waterfront home."
I closed my eyes.
Eleanor continued.
"The repayment deadline is October thirtieth."
Four days after Cullen's planned housewarming party.
"And if he doesn't pay?"
"His financial situation could become much worse."
I looked toward the photograph of my son as a child.
The boy who once saved injured birds.
The man who was now gambling with his mother's future.
Then Eleanor said, "There's something else, Meredith."
I gripped the phone.
"What?"
"The investor says Cullen provided a document showing his supposed future ownership."
My heart stopped.
"What document?"
"A letter bearing your husband's signature."
I glanced toward Nile's study.
"That's impossible."
"That's what I thought."
I swallowed.
"Can you get a copy?"
"I'm working on it."
I stood slowly.
Because suddenly the secret wasn't just about my home.
It was about my husband's name.
His reputation.
And a document that might have been created after he died.
May you like
I stared at Nile's photograph.
"Cullen," I whispered into the empty room, "what have you done?"
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