He did not sit down at the pine table where we usually ate our breakfast.
He began to pace between the pantry cupboard and the back door, his hands shoved deep into his trousers pockets.
“If we do not get these filed by Friday, the estate tax penalties will start compounding,” he said, stopping to look out the dark window. “My grandmother had properties in three different counties, and Margaret Vale is going to freeze the accounts if we do not show progress on the title transfers.”
I poured the boiling water into the silver teapot, watching the steam rise and turn to mist against the window pane.
“Why would Margaret Vale freeze Evelyn’s accounts?” I asked, keeping my back to him as I let the tea steep.
“Because that is what trustees do when there is no clear transition plan,” he said, his voice fast and defensive. “I am trying to protect what is left for both of us so we can actually walk away with something when this is over.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver ballpoint pen, setting it beside my mug with a soft click.
