“I didn’t know about any of this,” she said.
Deborah turned on her. “Don’t perform surprise.”
“I’m genuinely surprised,” she said. “Arthur only gave me this box. He told me to open it after the funeral. That’s all I know.”
The attorney nodded. “Arthur completed the transfer of the deed last month. The recording is already done. Camille owns the cottage legally and outright.”
Alfred pushed back his chair. “We’ll challenge it.”
“You’re welcome to consult another attorney. The transfer is valid.”
Deborah pointed across the table.
“You manipulated him.”
Camille looked at her.
“No. I sat with him when he was sick. I drove him to his appointments. I fed him when he stopped wanting to eat. I listened when he talked about missing your mother. I never asked him to pretend she hadn’t existed.”
For the first time all evening, Deborah had no quick answer.
Camille stood with
the box against her chest.
“You can keep the mansion,” she said. “I never wanted a house where people stood in doorways taking inventory of whether I belonged.”
She left before her legs had a chance to change their mind.
What Was Inside the Box, and What Arthur and Sophia Had Both Understood About Her
She sat on the bedroom floor that night with the cardboard box between her knees.
“All right,” she said quietly. “Show me.”
The first thing she found was a photograph.
It was her, on the cottage porch, one hand resting on the railing, her face turned toward the lake. She had not been aware of Arthur taking it. She had not been performing anything in it. She was simply standing there with her shoulders down.
On the back, in Arthur’s uneven handwriting:
This was the first place I saw you stop looking ready to leave.
