Chapter Thirty-Six Mary
Chapter Thirty-Six
Mary
Two years ago
“I don’t think I ever came in this room when I was staying with you guys,” Sam commented as I opened the double doors leading to my father’s study.
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t even spend much time in here. Not like my grandfather did. Dad prefers to be at the office. But this is where he keeps the important personal documents.”
I walked right up to the big oil painting portrait of the three of us hanging in the middle of the far wall.
I’d been maybe seven or eight when my mother had it commissioned.
I wore a burgundy velvet dress and bow, my mother in a more adult style crafted from the same material.
My father was wearing a suit with a tie in the same shade as our dresses.
She was sitting on a chair with me perched on her lap as he stood behind us with a hand on her shoulder.
Despite the formality of the pose, we looked happy.
Probably because we had been happy back then.
The thought sent a wave of sadness crashing over me.
How had we gotten to this point? A part of me still longed for them—for what we’d had. And now we could never go back. Too much had changed.
Carefully, I lifted the painting off the wall to reveal a safe.
Sam whistled. “Well, look at that! You got some gold bars in there?”
“Don’t get too excited,” I warned her with a kidding smile. “This is just where they keep the important papers. The real treasures? The jewelry and cash? They’re in a floor safe downstairs.”
“You got the combination for that one too?” she asked with a sly wink.
“Yup. But we’ve got more important business for now. And believe me, the document I’m looking for in here is worth more than all that stuff put together.”
She frowned. “Seriously? That much?” she asked.
Though they’d never come right out and said it, I was certain my parents thought Sam had been trying to get her hands on my money.
But it was exactly the opposite. She rarely asked about cash and had always seemed a little uncomfortable and a lot grateful whenever I used my own bank account to cover our expenses.
My bank account just didn’t seem to interest her in the way that it would a gold digger.
“Ten million,” I told her simply and watched as her eyes bulged.
“I’m sorry . . . how much?”
“Ten million.”
She looked so funny gaping at me like that, her mouth hanging wide open. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“But . . . I mean . . . Jesus—sorry, jeez—what will you do with all that money? That’s enough to buy a small country! Okay, not a country. Maybe an island . . .”
I smiled. “Well, for starters, we’re going to get our tour company up and running.
After that, I thought maybe we could set up a foundation for wildlife conservation.
Maybe . . .” I paused. I hadn’t had the nerve to broach the subject with her before this.
“Maybe put something in place to support young adults aging out of foster care with no one to help them get established?”
She watched me for so long that I was certain I’d offended her. I was about to apologize when she closed the distance between us and pulled me into her arms for a bone-crushing embrace.
“You’re really something, you know that, Mary?” she murmured into my hair. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. It won’t happen again.”
Then she pulled away as quickly as she’d approached, using the back of her hand to wipe away what I presumed to be a tear. She hated the emotional stuff—giving or receiving—so I knew what a big deal it was, but I played it off nonchalantly.
“Hey, so, how about we divide and conquer?” I started, pulling out stacks of file folders from the safe and handing her half. “We’re looking for anything that says ‘trust’ on it. A last will and testament is good too. Just, you know, anything that looks like it might be estate related.”
She nodded, taking her share and having a seat on the leather couch and spreading out the files on the coffee table.
I took mine to my father’s desk and started to sort through mind-numbing pages of business, house, and insurance documents.
We’d been at it for only about ten minutes when I heard her clear her throat.
“Um, hey . . . Mary?”
“Hmm?”
“I’ve got something here with your name on it . . .”
I spun around in the big chair to find her sitting up, a single page clutched in her hand. “What is it? Is it the trust?”
She shook her head, eyes glued to the paper. “It’s, uh . . . it’s your death certificate.”