Page 13 of On the Line

“It’s my sister’s last night here, so I’ve taken her out to dinner.”

“Oh, well, that must be nice ... going out.” There is no mistaking the judgment in her voice, and the guilt washes over me at the implication that I shouldn’t be out doing something fun—or something thatshouldbe fun, if it weren’t for the idiots that decided to just come sit at our table with us—when her son is gone and can’t do the same.

I don’t respond, because if four years as part of her family has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t disagree with Barb Emerson.

“I’m calling because I overheard you talking to your friends the other day about the possibility of moving to Boston.”

I hope she can’t hear the deep gulp that resounds in my throat.

I’d honestly expected to hear from her about that immediately, and I’d started to relax when she didn’t call the next day, or any day since. I can’t know for certain whether it was intentional, but it certainly feels like she waited almost a week to call just so she could catch me off guard. “Um hmm.”

“I’m not sure what game you’re playing.”

I wait for her to follow it up with more details, but she leaves it at that.

“What do you mean?” I work hard to keep my voice light and friendly, despite the fact that she’s only ever treated me like I’m trash.

I’m not sure what she’s mad about this time, but I’m guessing it’s the idea of me moving her grandchildren across the country. She loves the idea of grandkids, but God forbid she actually show up more than once every few months and spend any time with them. Aside from the funeral, we haven’t seen her once since Josh died.

“I mean that we own half that house, and I don’t want you to think for a second that you are going to sell it and skip town with the money.”

My back hits the wood-paneled wall as my knees almost buckle under me. It’s like my body can’t do anything—not even hold my own weight—while I try to make sense of her words.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Which part of what I said requires explaining?”

I swallow down the scream that’s rising in my throat. “The part about you owning half my house.”

“Well, of course,” she says, and I can just picture her blond bob swinging as she juts her chin out. “Obviously, since you and Josh didn’t want a mortgage and we loaned you half the cost of the property and the house you built on it, we therefore own half the house.”

Is she making this up? “What do you mean, we didn’twanta mortgage? Josh said we didn’tneedone.”

“Well, with you not working and Josh having to support you and a growing family,” she says, doing nothing to hide her snide tone, “we needed to help out so you could have the house of your dreams.”

The house of my dreams, my ass. I was perfectly happy with our condo downtown and loved living in the same building as Jackson and Sierra. Josh was the one who wanted the big house in the mountains.

I hesitate for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts, before asking, “So how muchdidyou loan him, exactly?”

“A million dollars. He was able to come up with the rest from what he’d earned skiing, and since then from sponsorships. It’s too bad you had no income and couldn’t have helped out ...”

I’d had a very successful career before I met Josh, and I gave it up and moved to Park City to marry him. She has always acted like I was some sort of gold digger. I wanted to start working when I moved here, but Josh always had a reason I should wait to get a job.

First, it was that I was too busy planning the wedding. Then he wanted to extend our honeymoon phase and have me travel with him throughout Europe during ski season. It was a wonderfully romantic notion, but it would also have been quite isolating if Jackson hadn’t been his physical therapist and we hadn’t formed a quick and close friendship traveling together that winter. Then, it was that we wanted kids, and it didn’t make sense to get a job that I’d just have to quit when a child came along, because we both wanted me to be able to stay home with the baby. I didn’t know it was going to take us so long to get pregnant. It wasn’t like I ever planned to be a stay-at-home wife.

“. . . then we wouldn’t have to be involved in this now,” she finally continues.

I’m afraid to ask—afraid to know—what my mother-in-law thinks “being involved” looks like.

I stand up from where I was half-slumped against the wall and take a fortifying breath. “Can you please send me any paperwork you and Josh signed when you gave him the money? This is the first I’m hearing about it.”

She scoffs.

“I assume you didn’t just hand over a million dollars without some sort of paperwork in place,” I say, straightening to my full height. I’ve never before stood up to her. She’s spent the last several years picking apart every single thing about me, and I’ve held my tongue through it all because she’s Josh’s mother.

That stops now.

“Of course our lawyer drew up paperwork,” she says.

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