Three days before the meeting, Ethan’s mother called. Carol Monroe had always possessed the kind of warmth that performed intimacy without ever risking sincerity.
“Claire, sweetheart.”
She said Ethan was worried about me. Said there had been “some confusion” about the cabin and property classification and whether I might be willing to sign it over temporarily for tax purposes. Just paperwork, she laughed. It would simplify things. After all, it wasn’t worth much.
I stood at the sink looking out over the shoreline curving east.
My shoreline.
“I’m not staying here temporarily,” I said.
Silence.
Then she adjusted her tone. “Ethan is only trying to make sure everything is clean on paper.”
“The divorce is final,” I said. “The cabin was my grandfather’s. It is not available for tax simplification or any other kind of simplification.”
Pause.
“You sound upset.”
I almost laughed. “I sound informed.”
After I hung up, I looked again at the settlement paperwork.
Inherited rural structure of negligible value.
Negligible value.
Not insulting anymore. Useful.
So I prepared.