I move across the room to stand in front of the framed photo collage until I’m casting a shadow over the pictures. Mostly they’re of Bee’s family. My gaze catches on a picture of Bee with Donovan. He was always wearing a ball cap, half his face hidden in shadow, making it impossible to get a clear picture.
I took it on the sly with the camera on my phone while I was working in the food truck, the summer before I left for college. They were picking up deck boards at the hardware store. Bee was trying to climb into the bed of the truck while wearing a dress, and Donovan was trying to stop her. It encapsulated everything about her as a person and the love between them.
Despite being close to Bee, I always kept my distance when her favorite grandson was with her for the summers. I had Bee ten months out of the year, and I knew how much she looked forward to seeing him, so I gave them privacy. So, other than seeing brief glimpses here and there, we never crossed paths.
I touch the corner of the frame to straighten it. Then I step back to make sure the rest of the pictures line up properly as well. Which is when the sound of water running registers. I glance toward the kitchen, but the sound isn’t coming from the sink, which means there’s either a leak somewhere, or someone is in the bathroom.
I take a cautious step toward the center of the living room, and the floor creaks under my foot. The sound is ridiculously loud in the quiet space, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“Hello?” I call out. “Is anybody here?”
CHAPTER 4
NOT QUITE WHAT I EXPECTED
Van
Everything about Pearl Lake is steeped in nostalgia—full of some of the best summer memories. I spent my youth here, staying at my grandmother’s cottage on what she cheekily referred to as the right wrong side of the lake.
On my way through downtown, I smile as I pass the specialty candy shop with treats from England, homemade ice cream, and deluxe chocolates. In all the years I’ve been coming here, I’ve only been inside once. I was eight at the time and had never so much as cleaned my own room, let alone anything else. Grammy Bee had offered to pay me twenty dollars for helping her wash all the windows on the cottage. I’d been bored, and I couldn’t say no to her, so I’d picked myself up off the front porch swing and got to work.
It had taken me almost the entire day. Plus, I was only eight, so reaching the top of the windows meant climbing up and down a ladder for hours. Regardless, as soon as she handed over the money, I jumped on my bike and pedaled to town—without a helmet, despite her constantly telling me how important it was that I protect my brain, since it couldn’t be upgraded or replaced—and the first stop I made was that fancy candy store Grammy Bee refused to let me go in whenever we went to town.
I’d been so excited. I left my bike outside and rushed in, and I ended up spending almost everything I’d earned. I gorged on ice cream, chocolate, and soda. When I left the candy shop, I crossed the street, my paper bag of treats in hand, and stopped in the convenience store to pick up a copy of the city newspaper that Grammy Bee liked to read on the weekends.
I rushed down the aisle and came to an abrupt stop when I noticed the same glass bottles of soda and the same fancy candies, except instead of being in large glass jars with ornate tongs to handle them, they were stacked in plastic Tupperware, and salad tongs sat on top of each bin. Everything cost half as much.
I learned a valuable lesson that day: just because something looks prettier doesn’t mean it’s better.
When I left the convenience store, I crossed back over to the candy store without a paper because I was fifteen cents short. And I realized my bike was gone because I’d forgotten to lock it up. The hour-long walk home was another lesson. By the time I got back to Grammy Bee’s, I was fuming, frustrated that the candy store jacked up their prices like that and that someone had stolen my bike.
Two days later, the bike showed up on the front porch. It was the first and only time I didn’t lock it up, and the last time I ever went to that specialty candy shop.
I pull into Grammy Bee’s driveway. My driveway. The thought is intrusive and unwelcome. I push it aside, determined not to let sadness override all the other emotions that come with being here. Grammy Bee wouldn’t want me to fixate on her absence. She would want me to find the joy in being here again. Even without her.
The gravel pops and crunches under my tires as I pull up next to her ancient truck, still parked in the driveway. I shift into park and take in the sight before me. It’s been six months since I’ve been here. And even when I came to Grammy’s funeral, I avoided coming here specifically. I wasn’t in the right place emotionally to deal with the cottage. I didn’t want to face the loss more than necessary. I’m finally ready to properly say goodbye to her.
I smile as I take in the modest three-bedroom cottage. Old and run down, but so full of love and memories. I open the door and breathe in the fresh sweet air. A combination of pine, sunshine, and lake water. The gravel crunches beneath my running shoes—I know better than to wear anything other than casual footwear when I’m here, which, of course, is part of the allure. I shed city life like a stuffy suit and slide into the comfort of worn T-shirts and age-softened shorts.
The deck boards creek under my feet. They’re in worse shape than I remember and definitely need to be fixed. Or replaced entirely. I slide the key into the lock and have to do the jiggle and turn thing a few times before it finally gives.
The Dillion dude who’s been communicating with me via email about Grammy’s place is supposed to come by every week and check on things, but based on how hard the lock is to turn, I’m not sure that’s been happening. Why did he promise he’d take care of it if he had no intention of doing so? Why Grammy picked him as executor is beyond me; he seems a bit irresponsible. He couldn’t even bother to attend the funeral.
I take a deep breath and brace myself for the visual onslaught I’m about to face. Grammy Bee loved her trinkets, and patterns, and wallpaper. I always loved that about Grammy Bee’s cottage—the fact that nothing ever changed. Being here was reliable and predictable. Comfortable and homey. I needed that when I was a teenager, maybe more than I realized.
I push the door open with a creak and step inside, breathing in the familiar scents. Despite the place having been vacant for six months, it still smells almost exactly as I remember it. The air is stale, but the faint smell of Grammy Bee’s homemade potpourri, a combination of cloves, cinnamon, and citrus, still hangs in the air. Nothing inside has changed in the past twenty-five years. It’s like being stuck inside a time warp of floral patterns and teacup wallpaper.
I realize how much I need this. To be here. To grieve her properly and remind myself why this place is so special and needs my attention.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking the spell. I sigh, annoyed by the interruption. I’ve taken the week off so I can come here and deal with the cottage and finally put the will into probate. Something I should have done months ago. I fish my phone out of my pocket, intending to send the call to voice mail, but pause when Dad flashes across the screen.
There are few people in the world whose calls I don’t avoid. My father, while admittedly not the best at the job of parenting, is still my father and the only parent I have left, so I generally don’t ignore his calls. I answer and put the phone on speaker. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
“Donovan, hello, are you still in Chicago?”
Something in his tone unsettles me. “No, I’m already in Pearl Lake. Remember, I’m here to settle the estate?”
“Yes. Of course I remember. We have an issue.”
“An issue?” I cross over to the kitchen and turn on the tap. The water sputters for a few seconds before the pump kicks on. “What kind of issue?”
He clears his throat. “With Adelaide’s Love.”
My mother, Adelaide, died when I was eight years old during surgery to have her tubes tied—and a tummy tuck and a breast lift to restore her body after three pregnancies, per my father’s su
ggestion—but she had a rare and unexpected reaction to the anesthesia and died of a heart attack. One morning she was there kissing me goodbye, telling me she’d see me after school, and the next, she was gone. The loss threw our family into a state of upheaval.
But when I was in my late teens, I asked if we could create a memorial foundation for Mom, and my dad, of course, said yes. Don’t let that fool you, though. I’m pretty sure my dad agreed to it for an opportunity to rub elbows with the Chicago elite and paint the picture of a devoted husband who wanted his wife’s legacy to live on. Besides attending galas and events in the name of the foundation, I don’t think my father has ever made it much of a priority. But my mother always liked working with children, so I helped create the foundation to provide scholarships to disadvantaged children for their education.
I turn the faucet off and stop moving. “What about it?”
“There’s money missing.”
I sincerely hope my dad isn’t starting to lose his faculties. My grandfather was sound of mind all the way until the end. “I transferred funds last week for the sports scholarship. Right after the board meeting.” For the past ten years I’ve sat on the board of directors, along with my father and siblings, and it has grown into a decent-size fund. While my family’s role is more in name only, I’m actively involved in the management of the fund.
“That’s not the money I’m referring to. If you’ve been having financial troubles, you should have come to me, Van. We could have found a better way to deal with it. Gotten you a loan.”
“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” I don’t have financial issues. I never want to be in the position my father is—always spending money he doesn’t have. It’s gone before it even has a chance to hit his bank account.
“Three million dollars is missing from your mother’s foundation.”
“That’s not possible. The check was for five hundred thousand.” I run a hand through my hair, panic starting to take hold. “This has to be some kind of mistake.”
“I’m afraid it’s not. The board called a meeting this morning after reviewing the books. Millions are missing, and everything is pointing at you, son.”
I drop onto the ancient, faded floral sofa. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would I steal from my own mother’s memorial foundation?”
“Are you telling me you didn’t take it?”
“How can you even ask that? Of course I didn’t take it!” My voice rises, right along with my incredulity.
“I’m sorry, Van, but your signature is on all the documents, and you’re one of the few people with access to the accounts.”
“Well, I didn’t steal three fucking million dollars from my own mother’s memorial fund!”
“Okay. I trust that you’re being honest.” I can hear my dad’s pen tapping on the desk.
“Should I come back to Chicago?”
“No, no. I think it’s probably better you stay put for now. I’m going to do what I can, but you don’t want to be in Chicago if the media gets wind of this.”
“Shit. Do you think that’s likely to happen?”
“I’d like to say no, but I can’t be sure, and I’d rather you be out of the line of fire for now. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”
My phone buzzes with another call. This time it’s my boss. “Can I call you back, Dad? That’s my work calling.”
“Of course. I’ll call my lawyer.”
I end the call with him and answer the one from my boss, dread settling in my stomach, especially with him calling me on a Saturday. I’m right to be worried. Because word has gotten out that I’ve apparently stolen three million dollars. And now, in addition to being accused of theft, I’m also no longer employed, since all the accounts I was working on have asked I be removed from their projects.
They give me a two-month severance package.
I toss my phone on the cushion beside me and press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “What the fuck is happening, Grammy Bee?”
The wind chimes on the front porch tinkle loudly.
“Sorry ’bout my language, but this is kinda messed up,” I mutter.
My phone rings for the third time in the past hour. I reluctantly glance at the screen. It’s my sister, Teagan. Mood-wise, I’m not in the best form, but I’m guessing that she’s probably heard the news, and now she’s going to be on the receiving end of the backlash. “Hey, Teag.”
“Have you talked to Dad?”
“Yeah. Just a few minutes ago.”
“I know it wasn’t you. I don’t care what proof they think they have. There’s no way you’d steal from Mom’s foundation.”
Her conviction makes me feel the tiniest bit better. But then I remember I’m also freshly unemployed, to go along with my new status of thief. “Dad is going to get his lawyer to look into it.”
“I know. I just talked to him. Is there anything I can do to help? Do you want me to come up to Pearl Lake? I could do that. If you need me to.”
I adore my sister. She’s my favorite sibling and one of the kindest, most giving people I know. But I don’t know if her coming up here on the heels of this scandal would be best. “I appreciate it, but I don’t honestly know what I need right now. Other than to find out what happened. There has to be some kind of mistake with the paperwork or signatures or something.” I need more details. Like how $3 million goes missing without any red flags being raised in the process.
“I’m sure that’s what it is, Donny. We’ll get to the bottom of it.” I cringe at the horrible nickname she can’t seem to give up, and then a buzz comes through the line. “Crap. That’s Troy. I bet he’s seen the freaking media coverage on this and wants to know what’s going on.”
Troy is my sister’s boyfriend. I’m not his biggest fan, but my sister loves him, so I tolerate him. “Wait. What media coverage?”
“Uh . . . it’s really nothing. You know how they like to blow everything out of proportion.”
“This has already made the news?” I find the remote for the TV and turn it on. Grammy Bee didn’t like to spend money on unnecessary things, but she did invest in cable and high-speed internet because she loved being able to FaceTime with me.
“Just the local stations.”
I’ve never been the subject of any kind of drama. Until now. Luckily I don’t find anything on the TV here and turn the TV off again. “Shit, Teag. This is bad.”
“It’ll be okay.” The reassurance sounds empty.
“I’m not sure about that. I just got fired before you called.”
“No. How? Why?”
I’m assuming the questions are mostly rhetorical. “Apparently my former employer doesn’t love it when people are accused of stealing millions from charity.”
“I’m so sorry, Donny. We’ll figure it out. Whoever did this won’t get away with it.”
I sincerely appreciate her vote of confidence. Especially since my father immediately believed it was true. She and I have always been close, she being only two years younger than me. We’re like minded, so we’ve always confided in one another.
“Three million dollars doesn’t grow legs and walk away,” she continues. “We will track that money down, and we’ll get your name cleared and your job back.” I tune back in as my sister finishes her we’re-going-to-fix-this spiel.
“Fingers crossed.” Even if I do get my job back, which I know is a long shot, I just want to know what happened to the money and how my name ended up being the one attached to the fact that it went missing in the first place.
“I promise we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
I know she’s running out of positive things to say, and frankly, hearing them makes me want to slam my head into a wall. “Thanks, Teag. I need to process, but we’ll talk soon, okay?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“Sure. Tomorrow works.” I end the call and blow out a breath.
What started as a great day has swiftly done a swirly down the toilet. Up
until a few minutes ago, I had a fantastic job working at a prestigious company as an architectural engineer. I worked my ass off to get that job, and I had to deal with my dad’s moderate disapproval over the fact that I was his only child who decided not to come work with him, my brother, and my sister at Smith Financial, where my father is the CFO.
Teagan gets it. Losing our mom when we were young was hard on her, and she feels an extraordinary responsibility to be there for our dad and Bradley. And he, in turn, has showered her with gifts and a pampered lifestyle she’s become used to, even if she doesn’t necessarily want it. It’s a tough place for her to be in. She doesn’t want to say no, or make him feel like his gifts are unappreciated, but she’s become the child my dad puts the most energy into. Probably because she is the spitting image of our mother. It’s sort of a toxic relationship, one that’s cost my dad thousands in therapy, and still she’s under his thumb.
I’m not knocking him. He’s a good guy, and he basically raised us on his own after our mother passed away. Well, actually, it was nannies who raised us, since he buried himself in work to avoid being a single father. But he did the best he could, I guess.
My dad blamed himself and became a workaholic, Teagan developed abandonment issues, and the youngest of us, Bradley, who was only four when it happened, lived a carefree life playing video games all the way through until the end of high school, and he put in just enough effort to get the grades he needed for college. Despite Mom’s death messing us all up, we came out the other side okay. I think.
Until now.
What was supposed to be a one-week vacation is now a permanent job hiatus. And with these accusations flying, it seems like finding a new job is going to present a real challenge.
I survey the cottage, drinking in the sight of mismatched furniture and Grammy Bee’s love of eclectic trinkets. At least I can stay here while I’m avoiding the media scrutiny in Chicago.
Love Next Door Page 4
