Chapter 7 - The Twelve-Week Audit
By December, the New England winter had set in earnest. The pond at Lake Forest had frozen into a thick, milky sheet of ice, and the cedar house was surrounded by three feet of clean, white snow.
Inside my Brookline kitchen—the one where the glass had broken two months ago—the brass cardinal still sat on the bookshelf. The camera was still active, but these days, the cloud server mostly recorded the sound of Noah learning how to play the harmonica and the low, rhythmic hum of the dishwasher after Sunday dinners.
Madison had completed eight weeks of the court-ordered counseling.
On a Tuesday afternoon, Arthur Vance arrived at my house, his heavy winter coat covered in gray slush, carrying a thin blue folder. He sat at the island, took off his spectacles, and accepted a cup of black coffee without a word.
"The counselor's report came through this morning, Eleanor," Arthur said, tapping the folder. "Madison is attending the sessions. The supervisor says she’s… cooperative. Not happy, mind you, but she’s stopped shouting at the social worker."
I adjusted my cardigan. "And her financial situation?"
"Vivian had to take out a personal loan to clear Madison’s credit card debts before the separation went to the final hearing," Arthur said, a dry chuckle escaping his throat. "The country club membership was terminated for non-payment in November. The Henderson family got that slot after all."
"Good for the Hendersons," I said. "I hope they enjoy the indoor tennis courts."
"Ethan’s firm promoted him to senior partner last Friday," Arthur continued, his old eyes fixing on mine. "Without the eighty-hour weeks trying to cover the Brookline lifestyle, his billable hours dropped, but his quality of work doubled. The senior partners noticed. They told him he looked like a man who had finally slept for eight hours."
I looked toward the hallway where Noah’s winter coat hung from a low peg—a bright yellow parka with a reflective stripe. He was upstairs, napping in the bedroom that used to belong to his father.
"Madison is asking for an extra weekend for the holidays, Eleanor," Arthur said softly. "A non-supervised visit at her mother’s house for Christmas Eve. Ethan wants to know what you think."
I looked at the brass cardinal on the shelf. I thought about the fury in Madison’s face when she threw my phone, the raw, ugly poison of a woman who thought she could crush an old lady with a single gesture. But I also thought about the look on her face in the lawyer's office—the pale, broken look of a person who had finally run out of lies.
"Tell her she can have the visit, Arthur," I said. "But tell her the yellow parka stays with Ethan. And tell Vivian that if I see a single photo of my grandson on a public social media page with a caption about 'family values,' the DA gets the secondary file on the notary stamp before New Year’s Day."
May you like
Arthur smiled, his white teeth bright against his gray beard. "You're a terrifying woman, Eleanor Avery."
"No, Arthur," I said, taking my coffee. "I'm just a grandmother who knows how to use the cloud."
