“That’s what you bet on us, wasn’t it? A dollar. With the ladies at bridge.”
The color left her face the way it had left mine in Mr. Chen’s office three days earlier. Her mouth opened. It closed. She looked at David and I saw the exact moment she understood that he had heard everything Mr. Chen had to say.
“Kathy,” David said quietly, “I don’t understand.”
But he was looking at his mother. And he understood.
I stood up and walked to the window. The mockingbird had a piece of red yarn in its beak from God knows where. It was building something out of other people’s discarded things, which I felt was on theme.
“The bank wants to schedule a meeting,” I said, turning back. “They’ve found irregularities in the account activity. They’re bringing in a forensic accountant. They’d like you to be there, Linda.”
Her purse slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud. A tube of lipstick rolled out and stopped against the leg of the couch.
“What kind of irregularities?” David asked.
But Linda was already moving toward the door. Her car keys jingled in her hand. The white dress from our wedding day was still crumpled on the armchair in the corner where she’d thrown it after one of her “I just stopped by” visits — the one where she’d told me my centerpieces had been “ambitious.”
I heard her engine start in the driveway. I heard her back out without looking. I heard my phone buzz with Mr. Chen’s second call of the afternoon.
I let it ring twice before I answered.
I’ll spare you the audit. The short version: over fifteen years, Linda had moved a little over $400,000 of David’s grandmother’s money into accounts that were not, strictly speaking, for the maintenance of the estate. Bridge club dues do not generally cost $40,000 a year. Neither does Highland Park hair.
Linda did not go to prison. David didn’t want that, and honestly, neither did I. What she did was sign a settlement, return what could be returned, and move into a one-bedroom apartment in a part of Dallas where the ladies at bridge club do not visit. The trust is mine to oversee now, which means it’s mine to protect — for Emma, and for the children David and I have started, very cautiously, to talk about.
Emma calls David “Dad” now. She did it the first time at a pizza place, casually, while asking for more parmesan, and David had to excuse himself to the bathroom. When he came back, his eyes were red and Emma pretended not to notice, because she’s eight and already kinder than most adults I know.
Linda sent a card on Emma’s birthday last month. Inside was a single dollar bill, folded into quarters, and no note.
I put it in the shredder. I made myself a cup of tea. I watched the mockingbird in the oak tree, which has built three nests in that branch since the spring of my wedding. And I thought about how the women who underestimate single mothers are almost always women who have never had to be one.
Then I went upstairs and tucked my daughter in. And for once in my life, I didn’t have to count the change in my pocket before I turned off the light.
