Chapter Three
“More!” Benny pounded a pudgy, sticky fist on the high chair tray.
“More—what?”
“More pana-cake.”
Kit raised an eyebrow in the toddler’s direction, and thus prompted, he smiled and added sweetly, “Pease.”
“Nicely said.” She added a pancake to his plate. Wally sniffed at the floor around the high chair hopefully.
Footsteps skipped down the steps at a quick clip. Silently Kit counted. Eight. Nine . . .
Ten.
For some, old habits never died: Abby still made it from the stairwell to the kitchen in ten seconds flat, as first established when she was five years old.
“Mom, I can’t believe you let me sleep so late. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for you to have to take care of Benny.” Abby all but slid into the kitchen on socks that were too big, probably lifted from Ned’s old dresser. “Benny, did you wake Nana up this morning?”
His mouth stuffed with pancake, his hands and face sticky with syrup, her son nodded happily.
A chagrined Abby made an apologetic face. “Sorry, Mom. He’s gotten really good at climbing out of his crib.”
Kit handed Abby a mug of coffee. “No need to be sorry. Dad was already up, and whenever Benny stays with us, he always comes into our room as soon as he’s awake. Sometimes we just have a snuggle and sometimes he’s hungry. This morning he was hungry, right, bud?”
Benny, studying a blueberry before squishing it between his thumb and index finger, nodded again.
“And you made pancakes.” Abby swiped a piece from Benny’s plate and popped it into her mouth.
“Sit. There’s plenty of batter left. This recipe always makes more than enough for four people.
I thought your dad would eat his fair share this morning.
But he grabbed a cup of coffee and poured it into a travel mug on his way out the door, muttering something about wanting to get into the office early. ”
Abby sighed as she sank into the cushioned banquette seat. “No one takes care of you like your mama. But oh, look. He got blueberry smudge on your shirt. I’m so sorry!”
Kit laughed. “Honey, this shirt is almost as old as you are.”
“It still looks good. You still look good.” Abby took a sip of coffee. “I hope I look as good as you do when I’m your age. I bet I have fifteen or twenty pounds on you.”
“You also have eight inches in height on me. You and Ned were lucky. You got the tall genes from your dad and from my parents as well. I got the short genes from—well, I’m not sure who I got my lack of height from.”
“I was this tall in seventh grade. Everyone made fun of me. I wanted to be short and cute and blond and look like you. I got tall and lanky and nondescript dark-brown hair. I thought five feet, two inches was the ideal height for a woman.”
“Short has its challenges, too. I can’t reach half the shelves in this kitchen.” Kit relit the burner. “And these days I owe my blond hair to my hairdresser. She’s a magician with highlights.”
She dropped a few blueberries into the batter and gave it a stir.
Abby shrugged. “A small price to pay. Plus you married a tall guy.”
“I did. So how did you sleep last night?”
“For most of the night, I didn’t.” Abby took a sip of coffee. “The last time I looked at the clock, it was four twenty.”
“There’s half-and-half in the fridge,” Kit told her as she poured batter into the pan.
“Thanks, but I think I need it straight today.” Abby covered her face with her hands. “I hope I don’t look as bad as I feel.”
“You just look a little tired,” Kit assured her. And sad and weary, like you cried yourself to sleep, and maybe a little bit scared. But there was no need to say any of that aloud.
“Mom, I called Mr. Walls before I came downstairs. He said I can come in tomorrow morning.”
“Are you certain you want to move so quickly?”
“Why would I not? He’s . . .” Abby glanced at Benny, who was removing the blueberries from the pancakes and rolling them around the tray, and lowered her voice. “He’s done the unthinkable. He hasn’t even bothered to answer my calls or texts. You’d think he’d at least want to find out where we are.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s smart enough to figure out where you’d go.”
“Probably. But it doesn’t matter. I cannot live with someone I cannot trust. He cheated. There’s no going back from that, even if he wanted to, which apparently he does not. I don’t want to be around him or speak to him. Ever.”
“That’s going to be very difficult, sweetie, with—” She tilted her head in Benny’s direction. “You know you’re going to have to share custody.”
“Evan never wanted”—Abby mimicked her mother’s gesture—“in the first place. Everything he did annoyed Evan. So I doubt it’s going to be much of a fight. I think we’ll just sell the house, split whatever equity we have in it, and go our separate ways.”
Kit bit her bottom lip. She doubted things would be that easy or that fast, but she’d let Leo or whichever attorney he sent Abby explain it to her.
Benny tossed a chunk of pancake over the side of the tray and watched it fall. When Wally snatched it up, the toddler laughed and did it again. Both Kit and Abby leaned forward to pick it up, but Wally got there first.
“Mom, I’ll wash the floor later.”
“No need. I’ll wash off the syrup, and the cleaning crew comes tomorrow, so we’re good.
” Benny leaned over the side of the chair and dropped another piece, this one landing in Kit’s hand, which had shot out to catch it.
“Sorry, bud. I think Wally’s hit his carb limit for today.
” She dumped the pancake into the trash just as her phone began to ring.
“Abby, can you grab that? My hands are sticky.”
“Sure.” Abby got up and grabbed the phone from the counter. “Hello? Oh, no, I’m her daughter. Who’s calling, please? Oh. Just a moment.”
She hit the mute button and held the phone out to her mother, who was swiping the floor with a wet paper towel.
“It’s a Mr. Banks. He said he’s an attorney from Maine and he—”
“And he’s a scammer.” Kit rinsed her hands before taking the phone. She put it on speaker and said, “Does your mother know that you make these phone calls?”
“Excuse me?” the male voice replied. “Ms. Porterfield?”
“Scam calls. Calls to convince people to send you money.” Kit picked up a spatula and flipped over the nearly forgotten pancakes.
“Ms. Porterfield,” he said with what sounded like infinite patience, “I assure you, I’m not trying to scam you. As I told you in the voicemail I left yesterday, your aunt Maxine—”
“Stop right there, Jeremy Banks, if that’s your real name. I do not have nor have I ever had an aunt Maxine. My mother had no siblings.”
“Wherever did you get that idea?” he scoffed.
“From my mother. I think she would have known. I’m hanging up now.
Don’t call me again.” Kit disconnected the call and put the phone down.
“Honestly, these people get more and more bold all the time. I just saw a show on TV about how many millions of dollars these guys have tricked people into sending them.”
“Yeah, I saw that, too. Nana always said she was an only child. You’d think a scammer would do better research.” Abby reached for the plate of pancakes Kit was passing to her. “Funny, though, he said he was calling from Tolerance, Maine. That’s where Nana grew up, right?”
“She did. So I’m guessing he found my mom’s name in an old directory or something.”
“But how would he have known about you?”
Kit shrugged. “Maybe from her obituary, or from the internet. There are very few things you cannot learn from a good search.”
“That’s true. I just didn’t think scammers went to that much trouble.
I thought they succeeded because they’re vague.
” Abby plowed into her stack of pancakes as if she hadn’t eaten all week.
“I read somewhere that they rarely even know the names of the people they’re calling.
But, whatever. I doubt he’ll call back.”
But the next day, when Abby returned from her meeting with Leo Walls, she brought in a FedEx package that had been left on the front porch. She handed it to Kit, who was on the floor in the TV room reading a book with Benny.
“Looks like Mr. Scammer Banks spent a lot on postage to send you something scammy,” she said. “Open it, Mom.”
Kit read the return address. Jeremy Banks, Esquire, Attorney-at-Law. Banks, Anderson & Banks. 12 Camp Hill Road. Tolerance, Maine.
She handed the book to Abby, then stood slowly, rubbing her right knee, the box under her left arm.
“You okay, Mom?” Abby sat on a nearby hassock.
“I’m fine. Every now and again I get a twitch in my knee.” She shifted the box to her right hand. “Okay, let’s see what Mr. Jeremy Banks, Esquire, of Banks, Anderson, and Banks, from Tolerance, Maine, has sent us.”
“Open it in here so I can see, too.” Abby opened the book and prepared to read where her mother had left off, but Benny had moved on to his toy cars.
Kit sat on the sofa and pulled the cardboard tab to open the box. A large manila envelope with her name on it fell into her lap.
“Whatever it is, it’s sure hefty,” she said as she slipped a finger under the tape that secured the flap and pulled out a sheaf of paper, on top of which was a letter addressed to her.
She began reading silently until Abby said, “Mom, I can’t stand the suspense. What does it say?”
“‘Dear Ms. Porterfield. As I mentioned in our very brief conversation, I represent the interests of the late Maxine Evelyn Meadows, of the Camp in the Meadows, located in Tolerance, Maine.’” Kit paused, confused.
“Mom, Nana’s maiden name was Meadows,” Abby reminded her.
“It was. And she did talk about growing up in some sort of a camp. I’m trying to remember what all she said about that. But I know she never mentioned anyone named Maxine.”
“So go on.” Abby gestured to the letter.