Chapter 4 - The Dinner Party in My Living Room Where the Traitors Drank Champagne
The fifteen minutes that followed were a whirlwind of shrieking, slamming doors, and bitter recriminations.
Wendy stormed through the downstairs guest bedroom, hurling her designer dresses into matching Louis Vuitton bags. "You ungrateful old witch!" she screamed at Eleanor through the open window. "We gave up our apartment in Upper Arlington to come out here and babysit you! You think Ivan cares about you? He’s just waiting for you to die so he can get the farm!"
"Ivan drove three hours through the snow to pick me up while you were busy buying champagne with my retirement funds," Eleanor replied from her rocking chair in the parlor, not even looking up from her teacup. "Ten minutes remaining, Wendy."
Arthur tried a different tactic. He cornered me by the garage while I was loading their remaining boxes into the back of his Escalade.
"Ivan, listen to me," Arthur hissed, grabbing my forearm with frantic strength. "You don't understand the financial hole we’re in. If that land sale doesn't close on Friday, the bank is going to foreclose on our suburban rental properties. We’ll lose everything. Talk to your grandmother. Tell her to let the sale go through. I’ll give you twenty percent of the proceeds—that’s over a hundred thousand dollars, Ivan! You could pay off your college loans!"
I looked down at my father’s hand on my sleeve, feeling an overwhelming wave of disgust.
"You left your own mother in a lobby with a paper bag of blood pressure pills so you could break into her floor safe," I said, shaking his hand off me. "You didn't care if she lived or died in that facility as long as you got her signature on that deed. I don't want your dirty money, Dad. Get in your car."
Arthur’s eyes turned venomous. "You’ll regret this, Ivan. When she dies, every cent of that estate will be tied up in litigation for ten years. You won't see a dime!"
"Eight minutes, Arthur," Eleanor called out from the front door.
With tires squealing and gravel flying, Arthur and Wendy ripped out of the driveway, their black Escalade disappearing down the country road in a cloud of dust.
When the dust settled, the silence of the farm settled back over us. The only sound was the wind rustling through the bare branches of the oak trees.
I walked back up the porch steps. Eleanor was standing by the door, her hands resting quietly on top of her cane. For the first time all day, I saw a flicker of weariness in the lines around her mouth. She looked smaller, but no less formidable.
"Grandma, are you alright?" I asked gently.
"I am eighty-two years old, Ivan," she said softly. "I survived the polio outbreak, two recessions, and fifty-two years of marriage to a man who snored like a chainsaw. I am not going to break because my son turned out to be a spineless coward."
She turned and walked into the grand foyer. "Come inside. Close the front door. We have work to do before the banks open tomorrow morning."
I followed her into the master bedroom. In the back of the walk-in closet, the carpet had been pulled back, revealing a heavy steel plate embedded directly into the reinforced concrete subfloor.
Eleanor knelt down—carefully favoring her good knee—and began spinning the mechanical dial with practiced ease. Left to 42. Right past zero to 18. Left to 77.
With a heavy, metallic CLUNK, the safe door popped open.
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Inside were four thick leather-bound ledgers, three safety deposit keys, and a stack of antique stock certificates tied with twine.
"Your father thought he was looking for cash," Eleanor said, pulling out the top ledger. "He didn't realize that the real wealth of this family isn't in a savings account. It’s written right here in Harold’s private balance sheets."
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