Chapter 4 - The Family Reunion
When I got into my sedan in the parking garage below the high-rise, my phone buzzed in my handbag.
The caller ID displayed a number I had blocked two years ago, but which had somehow been routed through an unlisted VoIP exchange. I tapped the speaker button.
“Claire?”
It was Elaine.
Her voice was instantly recognizable—that synthetic, melodic lilt she deployed when she was hosting a charity luncheon or attempting to manipulate a bank teller.
“Hello, Elaine,” I said.
A brief, irritated pause crackled over the line. She hated being called by her first name. It stripped away her maternal authority.
“Claire, darling! It has been far too long. I can’t tell you how relieved your father and I were to hear from Mr. Vance’s office that you were coming into the city today. We’ve been worried sick about you for months. Just sick!”
“Have you?” I adjusted the rearview mirror. “That’s fascinating, considering you didn't call on my thirty-first birthday, nor did you respond when Lucas’s father passed away last winter.”
“Well, you made your boundaries so terribly rigid, Claire!” Elaine laughed, a brittle, tinkling sound. “We wanted to give you space to work through your... emotional difficulties. But family is family, darling. Blood always calls to blood. In fact, Vanessa and I are having lunch right now at the Bistro Laurent on Michigan Avenue. Just four blocks from your meeting! Come join us. We have so much to celebrate, and we can get those silly little legal papers out of the way together.”
She didn't know yet.
Vance hadn't called her attorney back to deliver my response; he was waiting for the formal paperwork to be drawn up. She assumed I had signed the quitclaim deed like a compliant, obedient daughter who wanted to avoid a scene.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said.
“Splendid! We saved you a seat at our table, sweet girl.”
I hung up, started the engine, and pulled out into the Chicago traffic.
Bistro Laurent was an opulent French restaurant with white tablecloths, brass chandeliers, and an outdoor terrace enclosed by heated glass panels. When I walked through the revolving doors, I spotted them immediately.
My mother wore an emerald green cashmere coat draped casually over her shoulders, her blonde hair coiffed into an immaculate bob. Sitting across from her was Vanessa, now twenty-seven, dressed in a designer houndstooth blazer, her manicured fingers tapping furiously on an iPhone with a gold-plated case. On the table between them sat two half-empty flutes of champagne and an iced platter of oysters.
As I approached, Vanessa glanced up, rolled her eyes slightly, and tucked her phone into her purse.
“Look who decided to join the living,” Vanessa said, not bothering to stand. “You look tired, Claire. Are you still working those eighty-hour corporate weeks? It’s really showing around your eyes.”
“Claire, precious!” Elaine stood up, leaning over the table to offer an air-kiss that missed my cheek by four inches. “Sit down, sit down! Waiter, bring another glass of the Veuve Clicquot for my daughter. Put it on our tab.”
“I don't want champagne, Elaine,” I said, pulling out a wrought-iron chair and sitting down. I didn't take off my trench coat. I kept my posture straight, my hands resting calmly on the white linen.
Elaine sighed, casting a theatrical, martyred glance at Vanessa. “Still so defensive. We’re trying to build a bridge here, Claire. We know you’ve harbored some... unreasonable resentments about how things were handled after your grandmother passed. But we’re ready to put all of that behind us.”
“Are we?” I asked.
“Of course,” Elaine said, leaning forward and lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Richard’s attorney told us you went to Whitaker, Sloan this morning. We are so proud of you for doing the mature thing. Vanessa has worked so hard to launch her bridal collective, Claire. The carriage house at Elmwood is the perfect permanent venue. Once the title clears into her name on Friday, she can secure the venture capital loan to take the brand national.”
“I’m going to be featured in *Chicago Modern Bride* next spring,” Vanessa chimed in, tossing her hair. “It’s about time someone in this family did something creative instead of crunching numbers in a cubicle. The developer wanted to buy the garden lot, but I told Dad we need it for valet parking. High-end brides don't park on the street.”
I looked at my sister. The entitlement was so thick, so completely unmarred by self-awareness, that it was almost magnificent to behold.
“And what about the ten dollars?” I asked softly.
Elaine blinked, her smile faltering slightly. “What?”
“The quitclaim deed,” I said. “It stated that I was relinquishing my rights to Elmwood Crescent for ten dollars. Did you bring the bill with you today, or were you planning to venmo me?”
Vanessa scoffed, swirling her champagne. “Don't be ridiculous, Claire. It’s standard legal boilerplate. You know you don't actually get ten dollars. Why do you always have to make everything about money?”
“Because,” I replied, looking directly into my sister’s wide, hazel eyes, “the property you are planning to turn into a bridal boutique is worth six million dollars. And the cash accounts attached to it hold two point four million in liquid securities.”
The color drained from Elaine’s face with terrifying speed.
The waiter arrived with a fresh champagne flute. Elaine waved him away with a violent, spastic jerk of her hand. “Leave us,” she hissed.
The waiter backed away nervously.
“Claire,” Elaine’s voice dropped its honeyed veneer, dropping an octave into the cold, venomous tone I remembered from my adolescence. “What did Arthur Vance tell you?”
“He didn't have to tell me much,” I said. “He simply let me read the trust agreement Grandma Margaret signed before she died. The one you spent three years hiding from the probate court.”
Vanessa looked between us, her petulant expression fracturing into confusion. “Mom? What is she talking about? Dad said the paperwork was just a formality to clear Grandma’s old debts.”
“Be quiet, Vanessa!” Elaine snapped, her eyes never leaving mine. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the table. “Claire, you are meddling in affairs you don't understand. Your father and I have maintained that estate for three years. We paid the property taxes! We kept the heating on! We preserved the Mercer family name while you ran off with that... that carpenter!”
“Lucas is a structural engineer with a master's from Northwestern,” I said coolly. “And you didn't pay the taxes out of your pocket, Elaine. Vance showed me the filings. You paid them using Grandma’s residual escrow funds, which you illegally accessed through an expired power of attorney.”
Elaine’s chest heaved. “You think you’re so clever. You think because some senile old woman wrote your name on a piece of parchment that you actually belong in that house? Margaret was losing her mind! She was vindictive! She did that purely to punish me because I wouldn't let her dictate how I raised my children!”
“Grandma wasn't senile,” I said. “I watched her video deposition this morning. She was as lucid as I am. And she knew exactly what you were.”
“You listen to me, you ungrateful little bitch,” Elaine whispered, leaning over the table, her teeth bared. “You will sign that waiver. If you don't, your father and I will be ruined. Do you hear me? The bridge loan on the carriage house defaults on Monday! They will place a lien on our personal accounts! They will seize our cars! You are going to sign that deed, or I will make sure every person in this state knows what an unnatural, monstrous daughter you are!”
People at nearby tables began to turn and stare.
Vanessa’s lips trembled. “Mom... what does she mean, default? What about my boutique? My launch party is in two weeks!”
I reached into my handbag, pulled out a single ten-dollar bill, and pressed it flat against the linen tablecloth between their champagne flutes.
May you like
“Keep the ten dollars,” I said, standing up. “Use it to buy some packing boxes. You have until five o'clock on Friday to clear your personal belongings out of my house.”
***
