Tyler leaned back, arms crossed, doing that little tongue-click he’d done since he was nine and wanted the last cookie. “Don’t make this hard. Mom says you can’t even drive up there anymore. We’re doing you a favor.”
I set the glass down. “You’re right. I can’t drive the mountain roads. That’s why I called Howard last month.”
Karen finally looked up. “Howard who?”
“Howard Pressley. Your father’s attorney. The one you told me was ‘too expensive’ after the funeral.” I slid my own folder out of my purse. Pale blue. Tabbed. The kind of folder a tired old woman supposedly couldn’t organize. “The cabin went into an irrevocable trust in April. The beneficiary is the Sundown Veterans Retreat, in your grandfather’s name. It transfers fully on my death. Nobody can sell it. Nobody can borrow against it. Not even me.”
Brittany’s wineglass froze halfway to her lip-glossed mouth. “You can’t do that.”
“I did do that. Three months ago. Notarized. Filed in Blanco County.”
Tyler’s face went the color of the marinara. “You senile old —”
“Careful.” I tapped the folder. “Because the second thing in here is a letter from Howard. Your mother forged my signature on a power of attorney in February. Bank caught it. They called me, not her. I didn’t press charges then.” I looked at Karen, who had finally, finally put down the phone. “That offer expires tonight.”
Karen started to cry the way she used to when she wanted a pony. Tyler started to bargain. Brittany started to film, until I said sweetly, “Please do, honey. My lawyer loves a clean recording.”
I stood up, left two twenties for my chicken piccata, and walked past the hostess stand into the parking lot where my Uber was already waiting. My phone buzzed. Howard.
“How’d it go, Ellie?”
I watched through the window as my daughter buried her face in her hands.
“Like lemon polish,” I said. “Clean.”
