This time it was my father. “Rebecca,” he said tiredly when I answered. “Please do not make this situation harder.”
There was no question about what Diana had said or whether it was true. Instead he jumped straight to asking me to stay quiet.
“Diana is only trying to keep peace in the family,” he continued. “Maybe banning you from the house was extreme, but maybe giving everyone some space would help.”
I looked down at the trust document spread across my desk.
“The beach house belongs to me,” I replied calmly. “Mom placed it in a trust before she died.”
He hesitated. I could hear the faint sound of a glass touching the table on his end of the line.
“Diana told me you were not interested in the property anymore,” he said slowly. “She said you never visited and did not want the responsibility.”
I let out a quiet breath.
“I will handle this,” I told him.
Then I hung up.
An hour later I booked a flight to Logan Airport for the following morning.
The fog rolled thick along the Massachusetts coast when my car finally reached the narrow road leading to the house. Through the haze I saw the familiar outline of the building standing against the ocean.
But something about it looked wrong.