Chapter 17 - MY MOTHER'S TWENTY-EIGHT-MILLION-DOLLAR CHOICE
Mom asked for forty-eight hours.
Grandma gave her twenty-four.
Caroline suggested twelve.
Rose told everyone to stop behaving like mobsters.
Mom went home.
I followed her.
“You're seriously considering this?”
She kept walking.
“Emily.”
“Twenty-eight million for the whole property means your share could be seven million.”
“I understand arithmetic.”
“Then answer me.”
She turned.
“Do you know how much money I have?”
The question surprised me.
“No.”
“Exactly.”
Mom unlocked her car but didn't get inside.
“Your father controlled everything.”
“I know.”
“No, you know the dramatic version.”
Her voice shook.
“The secret accounts. The transfers. The cello. The fraud.”
She looked toward the House of Music.
“You don't know what it feels like to be sixty-eight years old and discover you cannot explain your own retirement.”
My anger weakened.
Mom continued.
“Your father lost money long before any of us knew.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Mom.”
“Almost everything liquid.”
I stared at her.
“The house?”
“Mortgaged.”
“Your retirement?”
“Reduced.”
“And Dad never told you?”
She laughed.
“Your father didn't tell me what brand of toothpaste he bought without acting like it was classified.”
I leaned against the car.
“So seven million would fix everything.”
“Yes.”
There it was.
Not greed.
Security.
That made the problem harder.
“Would you sell?”
Mom looked through the window toward the music room.
“I don't know.”
That night Lucy didn't practice.
I found her sitting on her bed.
“Talk.”
She shrugged.
“No.”
“Excellent conversation.”
“Mom.”
I sat beside her.
“Grandma Susan has a right to think about it.”
Lucy stared at me.
“I know.”
That surprised me.
“Then what's wrong?”
“She shouldn't have to choose.”
“Between?”
“Her future and ours.”
I swallowed.
Lucy looked at her hands.
“When they sold the cello, I thought money made people bad.”
“And now?”
“I think being scared makes people do bad things.”
That sounded far too old for thirteen.
“Grandma Susan is scared.”
“Yes.”
“So what do we do?”
Lucy looked at me.
“We don't make her the villain.”
The next morning, Meridian's representative arrived.
Uninvited.
His name was Grant Holloway.
Forties.
Perfect suit.
Perfect teeth.
The kind of man who could probably say “community partnership” while bulldozers warmed up behind him.
He brought architectural renderings.
The Hartwell House transformed into a luxury hotel.
Glass addition.
Valet circle.
Restaurant.
Spa.
The music room would become a “heritage lounge.”
Grandma looked at the rendering.
“You put a bar where my piano is.”
Grant smiled.
“We'd preserve significant historical elements.”
Caroline pointed at him.
“If you say 'curated experience,' I will hit you with my cane.”
“You don't have a cane.”
“I'll borrow Margaret's.”
Grant wisely changed direction.
He offered thirty million.
Mom's share:
Seven and a half.
She stared at the number.
I saw temptation.
I couldn't blame her.
Then Grant made his mistake.
“We also understand the music program could relocate.”
Lucy looked up.
“Where?”
“There are excellent commercial spaces nearby.”
“Would they have a garden?”
“Well—”
“An outdoor stage?”
“Potentially.”
“The archive?”
“That could be digitized.”
“The music room?”
He smiled.
“A room is ultimately walls.”
Grandma muttered:
“Dead man.”
Rose covered a laugh.
Lucy didn't.
She stood.
“A cello is ultimately wood.”
Grant blinked.
“What?”
“That's what my grandparents thought.”
The room became quiet.
“They thought it was just an expensive thing. So they sold it.”
Grant looked uncomfortable.
Lucy continued.
“This house isn't magic because it's old. It's important because people know what happened here.”
She pointed toward the music room.
“That's where Great-Grandma taught Aunt Caroline.”
Toward the archive.
“That's where we found Daniel.”
Toward the backyard.
“That's where kids play their first concerts.”
Then:
“If you move all of that somewhere else, you don't preserve it.”
She looked at the hotel rendering.
“You decorate its grave.”
Grant stopped smiling.
Mom started crying.
Quietly.
She folded the offer.
“I'm not selling.”
Grant turned.
“Mrs. Bennett, perhaps you should take more time.”
“I've had enough.”
“Seven and a half million dollars—”
“Is a lot.”
“Yes.”
Mom nodded.
“So was eighty-seven thousand.”
Nobody moved.
She looked at Lucy.
“I already helped sell something that wasn't mine because I convinced myself money could justify it.”
Her voice broke.
“I won't do it twice.”
Lucy hugged her.
I thought that ended it.
It didn't.
Grant calmly collected his papers.
“Of course.”
Too calmly.
Andrew noticed too.
“What?”
Grant buttoned his jacket.
“Nothing.”
“Mr. Holloway.”
He smiled.
“Meridian doesn't require voluntary agreement from every owner.”
Grandma's eyes narrowed.
“What are you talking about?”
Grant picked up his briefcase.
“Your title is fragmented.”
Andrew stood.
“Get out.”
Grant headed toward the door.
Then stopped.
“We purchased Samuel Hartwell's outstanding creditor claim last month.”
Grandma went pale.
Andrew did too.
I had never seen that before.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Grant smiled.
“It means this isn't an offer anymore.”
He opened the door.
“It's a partition action.”
May you like
And suddenly the House of Music wasn't being asked to sell.
It was being dragged toward a courtroom.
