Margaret Sutherland had been my attorney since 1994, which meant she had seen me through the sale of my first company truck, the purchase of the back lot, the partnership agreement that nearly ended my business, Helen’s medical directives, the trust we set up when Hattie was born, and the will I signed three months after Helen died because Margaret had looked me in the eye and said, “Theo, grief is not an estate plan.”
She was sixty-six, widowed twice, sharp as broken glass, and loyal in the old Maine way, which meant she would not flatter you but would show up with documents before most people had found their shoes. My thumb hovered over her number. Behind me, Hattie’s pencil scratched softly over paper.
The heron spread its wings once, changed its mind, and settled again. Up at the house, the porch table still held the plates, the coffee, the sugar bowl, and the empty space where Brin’s folder had been. I thought of Marcus as a baby in my arms.
Marcus at six, asleep in the backseat after Little League. Marcus at seventeen, furious because I would not let him drive to Portland in an ice storm. Marcus at twenty-four, standing beside Brin at that first dinner, looking proud and nervous and hopeful.
Marcus that morning, eyes lowered, saying nothing. Then saying the wrong thing. I pressed call.
Margaret answered on the second ring. “Theodore,” she said, and something in her voice changed immediately. “What happened?”
I looked at my house.
I looked at the dock. I looked at my granddaughter drawing in the sun, still young enough to believe grown-ups fixed what they broke. And for the first time that morning, I allowed myself to understand that Brin had not merely asked for my lake house.
She had given me a reason to open every locked drawer in my life. “Margaret,” I said, “I need you to listen carefully.”
On the other end of the line, there was a brief silence. Then my attorney said, “Tell me everything.”
