Chapter 2
Grant was in the kitchen when we got home, slicing an apple into equal pieces for Sophie's afternoon snack.
He looked up at the sound of the door.
"You're back early."
Sophie walked past him without removing her coat.
I placed my phone on the island and opened the photograph of the deed.
"What is this?"
Grant's knife stopped.
Not surprise. Recognition.
He set the blade down carefully.
"Sophie, go upstairs."
"No."
His voice sharpened. "Now."
She looked at me.
"Take your snack," I said. "I'll come up soon."
She left the apple where it was and climbed the stairs. Her bedroom door closed softly.
Grant waited until she was gone.
"I was going to tell you after closing."
For a second, the room became very still.
"You sold Harbor House."
"I found a solution."
"That isn't what I said."
"The inn has been empty for three years. The roof leaks, the east wing is unstable, and every month you pour more money into taxes and emergency repairs."
"You sold property you don't own."
"We're married."
"My father left it to me."
"And marital money has kept it standing."
He walked to the cabinet and took out a folder. He had prepared for this conversation. That hurt almost as much as the signature.
"Vanessa's group offered a fair price. The sale clears the liens, covers the remaining repairs on this house, and creates a proper education fund for Sophie."
"Where did you get my signature?"
He exhaled through his nose.
"You gave me authority to manage the property."
"To pay taxes and hire maintenance crews. Not to sell it."
"You signed the authorization."
"I signed a limited authorization after your accident because you said the insurance company needed one contact."
"Clara, listen to yourself. You have postponed every decision about that place because it belonged to your father. You can't separate the building from your grief."
"So you copied my signature."
His jaw tightened.
"I used the signature already attached to the authorization. The intent was the same."
"No. It wasn't."
"It was the decision we would have reached if you had been willing to be rational."
There it was. Not remorse. Not even fear.
Certainty.
Grant had spent eighteen months relearning how to walk after a truck crossed the center line and crushed the driver's side of his car. I had driven him to physical therapy, handled his clients, kept Sophie from seeing how often he woke screaming. When he could stand without a cane, he kissed my hands and said he owed me his life.
Somewhere after that, gratitude had hardened into entitlement.
He had decided that because I carried the family when he could not, I would carry whatever he chose next.
"The workers changed the locks," I said. "They marked Room One for demolition."
"The east wing is unsafe."
"Sophie saw it."
His face flickered. "She shouldn't have been there."
"Neither should a demolition crew."
He reached for my phone, but I closed my hand around it.
"I'll speak to her," he said. "She'll be upset for a few days, then she'll understand."
"Understand what?"
"That we're moving forward."
The pronoun landed wrong.
"Who is we?"
Grant looked toward the staircase.
"Vanessa found an excellent school near Portland. Smaller classes, a strong arts program. The term begins next week."
"Why does that matter?"
"Because Sophie and I are moving on Sunday."
I stared at him.
"You're taking her?"
"I'm her father."
"I've raised her for six years."
"And I will always appreciate that."
Appreciate.
As if I had been an employee completing a long and difficult contract.
"Vanessa can help until I get established. Sophie should spend more time with Emily's family."
"Has Sophie agreed?"
"She's ten. She doesn't decide where she lives."
"Did you ask her?"
"I am not debating my daughter with you."
He picked up the knife again, returning it to the cutting board as if the conversation had become untidy.
"You never adopted her, Clara. Legally, this is not complicated."
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Grant did not hear it.
"Once the inn closes, we'll discuss what happens with us. You need time to calm down before you turn this into something none of us can undo."
I looked at the man I had slept beside for seven years.
Then I went to the study.
I took my father's will, the deed, the limited authorization, three years of tax statements, and the binder containing Grant's hospital records from the day of his spinal surgery.
The printer tray held a single forgotten page.
PORTLAND DAY SCHOOL—ENROLLMENT CONFIRMATION.
Student: Sophie Emily Mercer.
Start date: Monday.
At the bottom, a travel itinerary showed two passengers on Sunday evening's flight.
Grant Mercer.
Sophie Mercer.
There had never been a third ticket.