For the first time since this conversation began, Wade looked uncertain, and watching that uncertainty on his face, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years.
Power.
The phone rang at 7:00 a.m., three days after my confrontation with Wade in the kitchen. I expected it. You can't question someone's supposed authority without consequences, especially when they're used to getting their way.
"Mom, we need to talk right now." Wade's voice was tense, filled with barely controlled anger. "Romy and I will be right over."
"It's still pretty early, don't you think?"
"This can't wait. We'll be there in twenty minutes."
Before I could answer, the call disconnected.
I dressed slowly, choosing a navy blue dress that, as Noel said, gave me dignity. Since this was going to be a confrontation, I intended to face it with dignity.
They arrived exactly twenty minutes later, Romy's heels clicking aggressively on the porch. I opened the door before they could knock, maintaining the slight advantage of being a hostess in my own home.
"Good morning," I said politely, as if it were a social call.
Romy pushed past me into the living room, clutching her designer handbag like a weapon. Wade followed her, his face grim. They both remained on their feet, positioning themselves between me and the door in what I recognized as an intimidation tactic.
"Mom, I don't know what game you think you're playing," Wade began, "but Tom Bradley called yesterday and said he couldn't give me business information without proper authorization. What did you tell him?"
I sat down in Noel's favorite armchair, the one with the best view of the room. "I told him to follow procedure. Your father would expect it."
"Proper procedure?" Romy's voice was shrill. "Wade is Noel's son and heir. What other permission do you need?"
"Legal authorization," I said calmly. "The kind that involves beneficial ownership."
Wade narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about? My father left everything to the family in his will. I'm the executor, which means I manage the entire estate until the estate is resolved."
"Actually, Wade, that's not entirely accurate."
I reached for the folder I'd placed on the nightstand, the one containing all the documents Margaret Morrison had given me. Wade and Romy tensed as I opened it.
"In his will, your father did leave his personal assets and this house to the family," I continued. "But Henderson Construction isn't part of his estate. It hasn't been for five years."
"What are you talking about?" Wade asked.
I pulled out the trust documents and placed them on the coffee table between us. “Henderson Construction has been owned by Henderson Construction Trust since 2019. I am the sole beneficiary of this trust.”
A deafening silence followed.
Romy reached for the documents first. Her well-groomed fingers trembled as she scanned the legalese. Wade read over her shoulder, his face paling.
“That’s impossible,” Romy whispered. “You know nothing about business. You never even cashed the checks.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I didn’t. Your father took care of all this. But he clearly understood certain things about our family situation that I was too naive to see.”
Wade sank onto the sofa as if his legs were giving out. “But the company was struggling. Dad always said the margins were slim, that there was barely enough to keep the business afloat.”
“Actually, this business is quite profitable,” I said. “Here are the financial statements for the last five years.”
I handed him another stack of papers. Watching Wade’s face as he crunched the numbers was like watching someone realize they’d been playing chess while everyone else was playing checkers.
“Those profits,” Wade’s voice was barely audible. “Where did that money go?”
“Some of it went to you, Wade. Quite a bit, actually.”
I pulled out the loan documents. “Exactly $87,000 over five years.”
Romy grabbed the loan documents, scanning them frantically. “It says they’re loans. Wade, you told me they were gifts. You said your father was helping us get settled.”
“They were gifts,” Wade said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Dad never asked for installments. He never even mentioned a repayment schedule."
"Actually," I said quietly. "Margaret Morrison has copies of every conversation, every missed payment, every time your father decided to extend the repayment period instead of demanding what you owed."
I watched as the reality of their situation began to sink in. Wade had built his financial situation on the assumption that his father's generosity would last forever. He had probably taken out loans under the pressure of these expectations, incurring debts based on money he considered his own.
"But that doesn't change anything," Romy said suddenly, a note of concern in her voice.
