Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
Richard let out a short, sharp breath that was almost a laugh, a sound devoid of any real amusement. He checked his silver watch, the metal gleaming under the recessed halogen lights of our kitchen.
“Margret is sixty-two years old, Laura,” he said, his voice rising in that fast, persuasive rhythm he used when he was pitching a commercial property to a doubtful buyer. “She is a family friend who drafts simple wills and handles property lines. She is slowing you down because she does not understand modern investment timelines.”
“She understood my father’s wishes well enough to keep his estate intact for forty years,” I said.
He stood up from the counter, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the stove as he crossed to the kitchen window. He looked out into the darkness of our Queen Anne backyard, where the October rain was starting to slide down the glass in long, thin runnels.
“Your father is not here to manage this,” Richard said, his back still turned to me. “And you are not in any condition to handle the pressure of these deadlines alone.”
