Part 4 — Margaret Came to My House
I barely slept that night.
I was angry with Walter.
Grateful to Walter.
Proud of him.
Furious with him.
Heartbroken all over again.
You can love someone for almost seventy years and still discover there are rooms inside them you were never invited to enter.
The next morning, Margaret came to my house.
I hadn’t called her.
She arrived at nine-thirty wearing sunglasses and carrying a bakery box.
“I thought you shouldn’t be alone.”
“That hasn’t bothered you for the last three weeks.”
She paused.
Then she smiled.
“Grief makes people sharp.”
“So does being left nothing by one’s husband.”
I watched her carefully.
Walter’s warning echoed in my head.
Don’t trust Margaret.
She followed me into the kitchen.
For several minutes, she talked about ordinary things.
Then she finally asked, “What did Daniel want yesterday?”
There it was.
I poured coffee.
“He gave me a letter from Walter.”
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her cup.
“What kind of letter?”
“A personal one.”
“What did it say?”
“Personal things.”
For the first time since I had known Margaret, she lost control of her expression.
“Eleanor, my brother kept things from you.”
“So you’ve told me.”
“There may be accounts. Property. Investments.”
I looked at her.
“How would you know?”
Silence.
Then Margaret leaned closer.
“Walter wasn’t who you thought he was.”
“Who was he?”
She glanced away.
“I can’t explain everything.”
“Then don’t.”
I stood.
Her voice hardened.
“If Daniel gave you paperwork, you should let me see it.”
“No.”
“Eleanor, you don’t understand what you’re dealing with.”
“Perhaps not.”
I opened the kitchen door.
“But I’m beginning to understand you.”
Margaret stared at me.
Something cold passed between us.
Then she picked up her purse.
At the doorway, she turned.
“Walter owed me.”
I shook my head.
“No, Margaret. Walter loved you. Those aren’t the same thing.”
She left without answering.
That afternoon, I called Rebecca Lawson.
