Chapter 12 - BEATRICE FINALLY HAD TO PAY HER OWN RENT
The eviction was less dramatic than I imagined.
Beatrice received proper notice.
She hired a lawyer.
Her lawyer argued that she had lived in the house with family permission and needed reasonable time to relocate.
My lawyer agreed.
So did I.
I wanted her gone.
I did not need her belongings on the curb to feel powerful.
Thirty days later, Beatrice moved into the Falmouth apartment Thomas had been paying for all along.
The irony was almost too neat.
She already had furniture there.
That was the next surprise.
A sofa.
Bed.
Kitchen supplies.
Television.
Even framed photographs.
Prepared months earlier.
“Why would they furnish it if she never moved?” I asked Denise.
“Planning?”
“For the divorce.”
Probably.
Beatrice had expected to leave my house after Thomas secured temporary occupancy.
Not before.
When that failed, the backup apartment became real.
Thomas stopped paying the rent after his lawyer told him separate finances needed to be documented.
Beatrice called Cassandra.
Cassandra refused.
Then Beatrice called me.
I almost admired the nerve.
“You can’t expect me to pay two thousand dollars a month.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have income like you.”
“You have a brokerage account.”
Silence.
“That money is for retirement.”
“You’re sixty-two.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I’m not discussing your budget.”
“You caused this.”
“No.”
“You turned my children against me.”
“No.”
“You took Oliver.”
“No.”
Her voice broke.
“Then what do I have?”
For one second, I saw her.
Not the woman with the lobster.
Not the notebook.
A widow who had built her identity around being needed by adult children.
Thomas’s marriage gave her a house.
My work gave her money.
Oliver gave her purpose.
Cassandra’s pregnancy gave her another baby to organize.
Then I stopped cooperating with the arrangement.
Her fear became visible.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She went quiet.
“That’s cruel.”
“No.”
I looked at the salon ledger.
“It’s honest.”
She began crying.
I did not hang up.
I also did not rescue her.
Those were different skills.
The financial discovery kept moving.
MHC Services had received $73,860 from Harbor & Pine.
Thomas’s separate account sent Beatrice another $42,000.
Some money went to household costs.
Some to the Falmouth apartment.
Some to investments.
Some remained unexplained.
Carter Coastal’s $95,000 business loan was in default after I cut off salon-funded payments.
The lender pursued the guarantors:
Thomas.
Beatrice.
Not me.
That mattered.
The Falmouth retail lease for Cass & Coast was still active.
Cassandra wanted out.
The landlord refused to simply cancel because a family had imploded.
Her attorney negotiated.
She surrendered the deposit.
Thomas and Beatrice remained liable under guarantees.
No salon ever opened.
The sign mockup stayed on a designer’s hard drive.
Harbor & Pine remained mine.
Three stylists told me Thomas had approached them.
All stayed.
One didn’t.
Amy accepted a job at a hotel spa.
That hurt.
Then I reminded myself employees were allowed to choose.
I had spent enough time around people who thought loyalty meant ownership.
Oliver adjusted slowly.
He liked weekends with Thomas.
That complicated my anger.
He came home talking about pizza, Lego, and the ferry.
Not manipulation.
Thomas followed the temporary order.
No litigation talk.
No missed returns.
No sudden requests for extra days.
Good.
I documented that too.
Fairness was not only useful when it helped me.
One Sunday evening, Oliver came home holding a small plastic container.
“What’s that?”
“Daddy made you dinner.”
I froze.
Thomas stood beside his car.
He looked embarrassed.
“It’s chowder.”
I almost laughed.
“Why?”
Oliver answered.
“Daddy said people should save food for everybody.”
My chest tightened.
Thomas looked at the ground.
“I’m trying.”
I took the container.
“Thank you.”
That did not mean forgiveness.
It meant chowder.
The distinction mattered.
Then Oliver said, “Grandma cried.”
I looked at Thomas.
He shook his head.
“She called during breakfast. I ended it when she started talking about you.”
“Good.”
Oliver looked confused.
“Why can’t Grandma see me?”
I crouched.
“Because grown-ups are sorting out some things.”
“She says you hate her.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
I stood.
“She spoke to him?”
He nodded.
“She called my phone. I didn’t know she’d say that.”
“What did you do?”
“Told her not to call again when Oliver’s with me unless I answer alone.”
I stared at him.
“Thank you.”
He looked surprised.
Then said, “She’s not okay.”
I almost snapped.
Instead:
“Then help her find help.”
He nodded.
“Not my job anymore.”
“I know.”
For once, he did.
The next morning, Erin called.
“Thomas’s lawyer wants mediation.”
“For divorce?”
“And business/property claims.”
“Why now?”
“Because their financial position is deteriorating.”
“What does he offer?”
“You keep the house.”
“It’s mine.”
“I know.”
“I keep the salon.”
“Also yours.”
“I’m not impressed.”
She laughed.
“Thomas assumes Carter Coastal debt and waives any claim to Harbor & Pine.”
“He has no valid ownership claim.”
“Correct.”
“What does he want?”
“Equal parenting time eventually.”
I stared at the wall.
“And?”
“A cash equalization payment.”
“How much?”
“Sixty thousand.”
I laughed.
“From me?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Marital contributions toward the house and salon.”
Some could be arguable.
Thomas had contributed to repairs.
Paid expenses.
Worked unpaid hours during early salon years.
Marriage did not erase every contribution because later betrayal was ugly.
“What do you think?”
“I think we evaluate numbers.”
I hated that.
Then Erin said, “There’s one more issue.”
“What?”
“His counsel produced additional email discovery.”
My stomach tightened.
“Bad?”
“For him.”
I waited.
“One email from Beatrice to Thomas says, ‘If she won’t trade the house for Oliver, make her think the judge will take the salon income as proof she cares more about work.’”
I closed my eyes.
“And Thomas?”
“He replied.”
“What did he say?”
Erin read:
She will trade. She always pays when she feels guilty.
May you like
The lobster head had never been about dinner.
It was their entire understanding of me in one sentence.
