Chapter 8: The Offer She Thought I'd Take
I didn't call the number that night.
I forwarded the message to Gerald and went to bed, though I didn't sleep well.
In the morning I was at his office by eight, and he was already there with coffee made and a second chair pulled up close to his desk.
"She used a secondary number," he said.
"That's deliberate.
It means she wanted contact that couldn't be easily traced back to a formal negotiation." He set his cup down.
"It also means she's not certain Hale is the right move.
She's leaving a door open."
"Should I walk through it?"
"That depends on what she's offering." He looked at me.
"Would you be willing to meet with her?
Alone, without attorneys, one more time?"
I thought about it.
"Yes," I said.
"But not on her terms."
Gerald nodded slowly.
"Then let's set the terms ourselves."
We agreed on a neutral location — a coffee shop on Ashford Street, public, midmorning, no lawyers present but Gerald available by phone.
I texted the unknown number with the address and a time.
The reply came in under a minute.
*Fine.*
Vanessa was already seated when I arrived.
No coat this time.
A black sweater, no jewelry except the wedding ring.
She looked like she hadn't slept either.
I sat down across from her.
"You forwarded my message to Gerald," she said.
"Yes."
"I expected that." She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup.
"I want to make you an offer."
"I'm listening."
"I won't file the petition.
Hale gets paid for the draft work and we're done with him.
In exchange, you sell me the Birchwood property at a fair market valuation — assessed independently, no argument from me on the number.
You get the full value in cash.
I get the house." She met my eyes.
"It's a reasonable offer, Clara.
You've never lived there.
You have your own place.
The house is worth more to me than it is to you."
"And if I say no?"
"Then Hale files by Friday and we spend the next eighteen months in court." She said it without pleasure.
"I don't want that.
I don't think you want that.
This is the version where neither of us has to."
I looked at her for a moment.
"Why is the house worth more to you than the money?" I asked.
Something shifted in her face.
"Because I grew up there," she said.
"Because Mum left from that house and Dad brought you home to that house and I have spent thirty years trying to figure out what that means, and I thought if I could just — if it was mine — " She stopped.
Looked at the table.
"I know how that sounds."
"It sounds like Grandma was right," I said quietly.
She didn't answer.
"Vanessa." I leaned forward slightly.
"If I sell you the house, does that fix what you're actually trying to fix?"
She didn't answer that either.
But her hands tightened around the cup.
"I'll give you my answer by tomorrow," I said.
"I need to think."
She nodded.
She looked, for a moment, very tired.
"For what it's worth," she said, as I stood to leave, "what I said at Grandma's — about not knowing how to do this differently — I meant that."
"I know you did," I said.
"That's why I need to think."
I walked out onto Ashford Street and called Gerald.
"She withdrew the petition offer," I said.
"Conditionally.
She wants to buy the house at market rate."
"And?"
I looked up at the sky.
Pale blue, the same color as my father's stationery.
May you like
"And I think I know what Dad actually wanted," I said.
"And I don't think it was for me to sell."
