that hour starting on the papers.
Less guilt that way.
Carrying the watering can, she started back upstairs while the wind—it had graduated from breeze—sent the window treatments flying.
“Well, Mom, your house is definitely getting aired out.”
She walked into the office, and into chaos.
The bottom filing cabinet drawer hung open—she’d have sworn it was locked. Papers winged around the room like birds.
Setting the watering can down, she rushed to grab at them, scoop them off the floor, snatch them from the air as the wind whirled.
Then died, like a door had slammed shut while she stood with her hands full of paperwork.
The ever-efficient Jennifer would be seriously displeased.
“Put it back, put it all back, tidy it all up. She’ll never know. And there goes my extra hour.
“Sorry, Marco, no Sally’s for me tonight.”
She picked up empty file folders, scads of paper, and sat at her mother’s workstation to try to sort them out.
The first file’s label puzzled her.
ALLIED INVESTMENTS/BREEN/2006–2013.
She didn’t have any investments, was still paying off her student loans for her master’s, and shared the apartment with Marco not just for the company, but to make the rent.
Baffled, she picked up another folder.
ALLIED INVESTMENTS/BREEN/2014–2020.
Another listed the information with the addition of: CORRESPONDENCE.
Had her mother started some sort of investment account for her, and not told her? Why?
She’d had a small college fund from her maternal grandparents, and had been grateful, as it helped her get through the first year. But after that, her mother made it clear she’d be on her own.
You have to earn your own way, Jennifer told her—repeatedly. Study harder, work harder if you ever want to be more than adequate.
Well, she’d studied in between two part-time jobs to manage the tuition. Then took out the loans she figured she’d be paying off this end of forever.
And she’d graduated—adequately—landed an adequate teaching job, then added to the debt because she’d needed that master’s degree to hold on to it.
But there were investments in her name? Didn’t make any sense.
She started to sort through the papers, intending to make stacks that applied to each folder.
She didn’t get far.
While she couldn’t claim to know or understand much about investments or stocks or dividends, she could read numbers just fine. And the monthly report—as it clearly stated—for May of 2014, when she’d been struggling to make ends meet, working those two jobs and eating ramen noodles, listed the bottom line in the account as over nine hundred thousand—thousand—dollars.
“Not possible,” she murmured. “Just not possible.”
But the name on the account was hers—with her mother’s name listed as well.
She pawed through others, found a consistency of a monthly deposit from the Bank of Ireland.
She pushed away from the workstation, walked blindly toward the windows as she yanked out the tie holding her hair back.
Her father. Her father had sent her money every month. Did he think that balanced just leaving her? Never calling or writing or coming to see her?
“It doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t. But . . .”
Her mother knew and hadn’t told her. Knew and let her think he’d simply vanished, stopped paying child support, left them both without a thought.
And he hadn’t.
She had to wait until her hands stopped shaking, her eyes stopped burning.
Then she went back to the workstation, organized the papers, read through the correspondence, studied the latest monthly report.
The resentment, the grief coalesced into a low and steady burn of fury.
Taking out her phone, she called the number for the account manager.
“Benton Ellsworth.”
“Yes, Mr. Ellsworth, this is Breen Kelly. I—”
“Ms. Kelly! What a surprise. It’s so nice to actually speak with you. I hope your mother is well.”
“I’m sure she is. Mr. Ellsworth, I’ve just become aware that I have an account with your firm with funds and investments totaling three million, eight hundred and fifty-three thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars and, um, sixty-five cents. Is this correct?”
“I can get you the account value as of today, but I’m not sure what you mean you’ve become aware.”
“Is this my money?”
“Yes, of course. I—”
“Why is my mother’s name also on the account?”
“Ms. Kelly.” He spoke slowly. “The account was opened when you were a minor, and you expressed the wish to leave the account in your mother’s hands. I can promise you, she’s been scrupulous in overseeing your investments.”
“How did I express this wish?”
“Ms. Wilcox explained that you had no desire to deal with the investments, and you never communicated with me or the firm to request the account be turned over to you exclusively.”
“Because I didn’t