Chapter 8 - Raymond's Visit
Two months later, the estate was officially debt-free.
To celebrate the fresh start, Thatcher and I decided to host a Sunday dinner at the grand estate. But this wasn't going to be a stuffy, elitist Whitmore gathering with crystal chandeliers and pretentious conversation.
It was going to be a family barbecue.
At 2:00 PM on Sunday, a weathered red Ford pickup truck pulled up the long, winding circular driveway of the estate, parking right beside Odalis’s sleek sedan.
My father, Raymond Carter, stepped out of the truck.
He wore a clean, pressed flannel shirt, dark blue jeans, and his polished work boots. Under his arm, he carried a large wooden box filled with his famous homemade smoked hickory barbecue sauce.
Thatcher ran down the porch steps immediately. "Raymond! You made it!"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, son," my dad smiled, wrapping Thatcher in a warm, tight bear hug.
I walked down the steps, pulling my dad into a hug of my own, smelling the familiar, comforting scent of soap, clean denim, and faint engine oil that had meant safety to me my entire life.
"Look at this place, Simone," my dad said, looking up at the grand white columns with genuine appreciation. "You’ve done a wonderful job helping them set things right."
"Thanks, Dad," I smiled, holding his arm. "Come on up. There’s someone who wants to talk to you."
Bernice stood on the front porch.
Six months ago, the idea of Raymond Carter standing on her porch in work boots would have sent Bernice into a state of social panic.
Today, Bernice stepped forward, wearing a simple sundress and an apron. She held out her hand to my father—not with the tight, fake handshake she had given me three years ago, but with a warm, humble smile.
"Raymond," Bernice said softly. "It is an honor to finally welcome you properly to my home."
My dad smiled, shaking her hand firmly. "It's nice to meet you, Bernice. I brought some homemade barbecue sauce for the ribs Thatcher said we were grilling."
"Oh, wonderful!" Bernice smiled, stepping back to let him inside. "Thatcher was trying to figure out the grill earlier, but I think he needs a professional's advice."
"Say no more," my dad laughed, rolling up his sleeves. "Show me the grill."
As I watched my father and my mother-in-law walk toward the back patio together, discussing grill temperatures and sauce recipes like old friends, Thatcher wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.
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"Look at that," Thatcher whispered into my ear. "A miracle on six acres."
"Not a miracle, Thatcher," I smiled, leaning back against his chest. "Just proper management."
