Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
By seven o’clock, Sable had retired to the upstairs study to make her phone calls, leaving the heavy scent of her lavender perfume lingering in the hallway. Nathan walked into the living room and lowered the needle onto an old Dave Brubeck record, the soft sax notes bouncing off the bare hardwood where the Persian rug used to lie.
I sat on the yellow sofa, the fabric rough against my palms, watching the way the floor lamp cast long shadows across the empty bookshelves.
“She is trying, Mom,” Nathan said, jamming his hands deep into his trousers pockets as he stood by the turntable.
“She is trying to secure the house, Nathan,” I said softly.
“She wants to make things right,” he said, his voice fading at the end of the sentence as he stared at the spinning black vinyl. “If you sign the paper, we can stop all this fighting with the lawyers.”
He walked over and sat on the opposite end of the sofa, his knees nearly touching mine in the narrow space between the cushions.
