“I have my own mortgage to think about, Camille,” I said, sliding a carton of eggs into the refrigerator door.
“Yes, but you have a stable job with a salary and a pension plan,” Camille said, her keys making a rhythmic jingling sound as she swung them around her finger. “Your position doesn’t require the kind of capital outlay that a real investment does. Mother says we have to look at the big picture if we want the family to remain respected.”
“The big picture is that Father’s business went under eleven years ago,” I said, keeping my voice flat and professional, the same voice I used when explaining why a flood claim was denied. “We are still paying for a warehouse that has been empty for a decade.”
Camille laughed, a high, breathy sound that lacked any real warmth. “Some of us are looking forward, not backward, Nora.”
“I thought you were still looking at townhomes,” I said, folding the empty paper grocery bag into a neat square.
“A townhome is so limiting, Nora,” she said, leaning back and smoothing her hair. “This lot is right near the country club, with a three-car garage and a professional kitchen
