The brilliant Muir blue color flashed in Dora’s eyes. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied with heart, and straightened her shoulders.
The two old women watched Dora rush to her car, load the suitcase into the trunk, and roar out of the driveway, the wheels spitting gravel.
“Mmm-mmm-mm,” Lucille muttered as she returned to her basket weaving. “That woman’s hell-bent on taking her fury out on all the men in town today.”
Mamaw released the grin that had been playing at her lips all morning. “I don’t know who I feel more sorry for,” she said. “The workmen at the house, or Calhoun Tupper.”
Chapter Two
Charleston, South Carolina
Dora sat clenching her hands tightly together in her lap in her lawyer’s office. The air-conditioning was working valiantly against the day’s record-breaking heat, but the two lawyers and Cal had removed their suit jackets and rolled up their sleeves. Dora was the only woman in the room, and she still had her suit jacket on. She was resolved not to remove one shred of her armor. And in her mind’s eye she could see the safety pin holding her skirt together because she couldn’t quite fasten the button. So she sat with her jacket on, chafing at the collar and sweltering with a simmering fury while Cal’s lawyer, Mr. Harbison, went on explaining why the amount they were offering for settlement was exceptionally fair.
It was all she could do not to jump from her seat in frustration and rage. Fair? The amount offered wasn’t enough for her to live on, much less take care of Nate and all his therapy sessions. She glanced at her lawyer, Mr. Rosen, hoping to catch his attention. He had been very clear that she mustn’t engage but simply respond when directly questioned. His gaze was fixed to the pile of papers beside his open laptop and he was busily making notations as the items were discussed.
Frustrated, Dora glanced across the long conference table at Cal, raising her brows in a signal. Her soon-to-be ex-husband sat resolutely looking at his hands. He’d not bothered to meet her gaze when she’d stepped into the office. Nor did he offer a word, or even a glance of comfort or concern during the entire morning’s meeting. He never once established eye contact. Cal had never been a touchy-feely sort of man, but today at the lawyer’s office he was positively void of all feeling.
She hadn’t seen Cal in the past few months, though they’d talked on a need-to-know basis. When she walked into the office earlier that morning, she’d been surprised to see he’d lost the spare tire around his waist and that he was taking more care with his appearance. He wore the classic Southern seersucker suit and she’d had to take a second look to believe his dapper bow tie.
She kept her rigid posture and blasé expression, but beneath the table her foot was shaking. She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearing noon. She had endured a brutal morning listening to the cold recitation of positions from both lawyers. Now they had moved on to itemizing her and Cal’s possessions.
She followed the long itemized list as the lawyer droned. But when Cal’s lawyer began divvying up the Muir family antiques, Dora sat straight in her chair and blurted, “No!”
The room immediately went silent as the three gentlemen turned their heads toward her.
“There must be some mistake,” she said. “We are not divvying up the family antiques. Cal and I have already agreed that he would get his family furniture and I would get mine.”
Mr. Harbison offered her a benign smile. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Tupper, that wouldn’t be equitable.”
“I don’t . . .” She stopped when Mr. Rosen placed a hand on her arm.
“You see, all your possessions are considered communal property,” Mr. Harbison continued.
“No, they most certainly are not,” she barked at him, feeling her face color. “I don’t care if it’s equitable, communal, or whatever you want to call it.” Her voice was rising. “My family furniture is mine and he can’t have it. We’ve already discussed this and agreed.”
Cal’s face mottled. “Dora, we may have discussed it, but it was premature. It’s clear that’s no longer fair.”
Dora’s eyes narrowed. “Because now you know how much some of my pieces are worth. You went and had the furniture appraised. I can read the report.”
“If it were just a few hundred dollars . . .” he said. Cal tapped the papers in front of him, a slight flush rising in his cheeks. “But the Chippendale chairs and sofa, and the Empire chests . . . Those alone are worth over one hundred thousand dollars! The silver is worth another thirty.”
Dora lifted her brows in acknowledgment. Their value had been a pleasant surprise, but she couldn’t bear the thought of selling off pieces of her lineage to the highest bidder.
“This is not about the money. I don’t want to sell my furniture. It’s been in my family for generations. And it’ll go to Nate after me. We’re only the caretakers for the next generation. We don’t sell.”
“We do when we have to,” Cal said succinctly. “And with the costs of Nate’s therapy and the fact that the house you wanted has turned out to be a money hole, we have to now.”
“Those expenses are not new,” Dora fired back. “And let me remind you that you wanted that house every bit as much as I did. You saw the potential profit. But you never thought we needed to fix the house up before. You wouldn’t let me do anything. It was good enough for us to live in. Suddenly we need the money to make all the repairs and update the appliances?”
Mr. Harbison cleared his throat, entering the fray. “Mrs. Tupper, I realize this is an emotional subject. The repairs are minimal, just enough to make the house marketable. In the end, the purpose is to bring in a better price, for both your sakes.”
Tears threatened and Dora pinched her lips to stop them from trembling. The men in the room shifted in their seats and exchanged glances in a manner that seemed to say, What could we expect? She was a woman, after all. She couldn’t handle the proceedings without a display of emotion.
Of course she was emotional! These men were dispensing her personal possessions with the same nonchalance as if they were divvying up potatoes. And she was getting cheated in the bargain. Dora remembered Mamaw’s words—You’re a Muir. The captain of your own ship—and bridling, she turned to Cal’s lawyer with resolution. She was not accepting Cal’s ultimatum.