Chapter 7 - The Invitation
By Thursday, the frost had settled deep into the bones of the city, turning the Boston Common into a white wasteland of frozen mud and bundled-up tourists.
Margot and I were building a lopsided snowman near the Frog Pond when my phone finally rang with an incoming number I hadn't seen on my screen in over a decade.
Estelle.
I let it ring out until it hit voicemail, watching Margot attempt to crown our lopsided snowman with a blue wool hat that was three sizes too small for its head of packed snow. Then the phone buzzed again immediately.
I swiped the screen and brought it to my ear.
"Desmond," Estelle’s voice didn't sound arrogant anymore. It sounded thin, fragile, and cracked, like dry autumn leaves crushed under a heavy boot. "Desmond, please... please don't hang up."
"I'm listening, Mom," I said quietly, keeping my eyes on Margot as she giggled and patted the snowman’s lumpy belly.
"We... we don't have electricity," she whispered, a sob catching in her throat. "The utility company sent a final notice this morning. They said the automatic draft from the estate account was rejected twice, and when Wallace tried to pay with his corporate card, it was declined. It’s freezing in the house, Desmond. The heating system runs on smart-grid gas, and they shut the main valve off an hour ago."
I felt a cold prickle of satisfaction, followed immediately by the dull, heavy weight of inherited family baggage. "Where’s Wallace?"
"He’s... he’s in the study," she choked out. "He’s been sitting in his leather chair for six hours staring at the wall. He won't talk to anyone. Cecilia packed a bag and went to stay with a friend in Brookline, but her friend told her she couldn't stay past tomorrow because Preston’s car got repossessed outside her apartment building and the paparazzi—or debt collectors, I don't know which—showed up at the front door."
The house of cards hadn't just fallen; it had been pulverized into dust in less than four days.
"If you want to come to Somerville, Mom, you can," I said evenly. "There’s a spare pull-out couch in the living room. It’s warm, the radiator works most of the time, and we’re having leftover lasagna for dinner."
Estelle fell silent on the other end of the line. The thought of leaving the Wellesley estate—the grand, white-pillared monument to her social standing—to sleep on a pull-out couch in a three-decker apartment in working-class Somerville was undoubtedly the most humiliating prospect she had ever faced in her life.
"Is there... is there no other way?" she whispered. "Can’t you just... restore your father’s allowance? Just enough to keep the house running?"
May you like
"No, Mom," I said softly. "The house is mine now. The trust owns the title. If you want to keep the lights on, you’ll have to learn what it's like to live on a budget like the rest of us."
I hung up before she could answer.
