“Maggie Sullivan,” he said when he answered. “Well, there’s a voice I haven’t heard lately.”
“Peter, do you remember when I moved to Arizona?”
“Of course.”
“Do you remember the money I gave Daniel for the house?”
Silence.
Then his tone changed.
“Yes.”
“Was it a gift?”
“No.”
Relief went through me so quickly I nearly laughed.
“You’re certain?”
“I’m an accountant, Maggie. Certainty is the only interesting thing about me.”
I sat down.
“Do you have anything in writing?”
“I might.”
“Might?”
“I closed the office. Most records were digitized.”
My pulse began pounding.
“Peter, Daniel says there was paperwork.”
“There was.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t want to answer from memory.”
I stared out the window at palm trees moving softly in the evening wind.
“When can you check?”
“Now.”
I heard a chair scrape.
Then footsteps.
A door opening.
Keys.
Peter had always been like that.
If something could be answered, he saw no reason to leave it unanswered.
He returned several minutes later.
“I have the file.”
My mouth went dry.
“And?”
“Interesting.”
I almost laughed from nerves.
“Peter, at my age, interesting is not a reassuring word.”
“Your eighty-five thousand dollars was documented as a family loan.”
I closed my eyes.
“Thank God.”
“But there’s more.”
I opened them again.
“What?”
“You didn’t loan it only to Daniel.”
“What do you mean?”
“The agreement lists Daniel and Rebecca jointly.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yes. But there’s an addendum.”
I frowned.
“What addendum?”
“You signed it three months later.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I can send it to you.”
“What does it say?”
Peter took a breath.
“It changes when repayment is due.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“To when?”
“When the property is sold, refinanced…”
He paused.
“Or when you cease using the residence as your primary home.”
For several seconds, the words made no sense.
Then they did.
“When I move out.”
“Yes.”
I stared at the boxes around my little apartment.
The turquoise scarf lay across the back of my chair.
My moving receipt sat on the desk.
I had thought I was simply reclaiming my independence.
But without remembering it, four years earlier, I had signed a piece of paper that made my decision mean something else too.
“When I moved out Friday,” I whispered, “the loan became due.”
Peter was quiet.
“Yes, Maggie.”
