He’d neglected to mention that those details involved the complete ruin of the first Weston family.
“How can there be nothing?” Hallie demanded, as if Arthur were the one at fault, and not just the regretful messenger.
Arthur cleared his throat, a profoundly awkward look on his grizzled face. “Your, uh, father died intestate.”
“No, he didn’t,” Hallie exclaimed. “He died in bed with that bitch!”
“Hallie . . .” Grace tugged her sister’s sleeve — long and black, since Hallie had declared herself in official mourning and was recycling every outfit from her juvenile goth phase. “Let him finish.”
“Intestate means without a will.” Arthur coughed again, avoiding their gazes. “And in those cases where the deceased has no will, all assets pass directly to his nearest living kin.” He coughed again. “His wife.”
Hallie swore. Their mom sat silently on Grace’s other side. By now, Grace knew not to expect a response from her. Her mom’s fugue state had been replaced with wild-eyed nights spent painting in her studio; Grace had to physically drag her downstairs to meet Arthur, red paint still staining her fingertips like blood.
“But I don’t understand,” Grace said. “He had to have a will. He was all about paperwork, it was his thing.” Bills, forms, official documents: those had been her father’s forte. His filing system was a work of art, his study lined with banks of cabinets. “It’s all in the details,” he’d said, and winked, stowing away Grace’s report card in her personal drawer. That was what made him such a financial whiz: he’d always take care of the fine print.
“I’m sorry.” Arthur finally met their eyes. “There was one, but he and Portia had it voided, after the baby. . . . He always planned on making a new one, but things got busy, and . . . well, they never got around to it.”
“How convenient,” Hallie remarked, scathing. “Bitch.”
Grace showed Arthur out, and then joined her mom and Hallie in the kitchen. It was still gray and damp out, but the kitchen had always been the warmest part of the house, painted yellow and snug with heat from the antique Aga cooker that took up half of one wall.
“We’ll be fine,” Hallie was saying, stabbing leftovers from a sympathy casserole straight from the dish. “We don’t need anything from him, we never did.”
Grace put the kettle on. “We can challenge it. The alimony he’s been paying these last years, they have to keep that going. There’ll be documents, some divorce judgment.”
Their mom stayed silent. Grace looked over. “Mom? The alimony documents? Do you have them somewhere?”
She gave a faint shrug. “We never went to court. He offered more than enough, so we just kept it private.”
Grace gaped. “You didn’t have a lawyer?”
“He wanted it settled quickly, with the baby coming.” Their mom looked drained. “I didn’t see the point in fighting it. He was already gone.”
“No, now he’s gone.” Grace set out teacups and a plate of cookies. The pie had only been the beginning: their cupboards were stocked full of sympathy baskets and bereavement baked goods. They’d be needing it, since apparently now they had no money to buy food.
“I don’t get what you’re so stressed about.” Hallie pouted. “If he couldn’t care enough to write a stupid will, then we’re better off without him.”
“Oh, yeah?” Grace shot back. “Who’s going to support us now? Pay for heat, and electric bills, and all your trashy shows on cable?” She turned to their mom hopefully. “When was the last time you sold a painting?”
“Last month.” Their mom paused, frowning. “No, wait. That was a gift, for Julianne. She gave me those lovely glazed urns in exchange.” She smiled fondly at the row of hideous misshapen pottery.
So their mom’s artistic endeavors wouldn’t put food on the table. Hallie would be away at college soon, and Grace didn’t think there were any businesses out there looking to hire a high-school student to work part-time for a full-time salary.
She slumped, the solution to their problems becoming painfully clear. “We’ll have to sell the house.”
Hallie gasped. “Grace!”
“What? It’s our only option.” She looked around, trying not to feel the clench of pain at the thought of leaving it and, instead, look at the cold, hard real-estate facts. Four bedrooms, two baths, a charming — if decrepit — attic studio . . .
“We can’t leave. This is our home!” Hallie was still glaring at her as if Grace were the one who’d forgotten to leave a will.
“Which we can’t afford on our own,” Grace explained, trying to stay calm. She poured the tea and wished that, for once, Hallie could think logically. “But if we move somewhere smaller, we can live off the money from the sale. At least for a while.” Grace put a teacup in front of their mom. “You should call a Realtor, start the whole process.”
Their mom toyed with the delicate china cup. “I can’t, sweetie.” She sighed. “The house is in his name too. Was.”
Grace sat down with a thump. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
“Like I said, it was all so stressful. I didn’t want to have to deal with the taxes, so we decided to just leave it in his name. So nothing would have to change.”
“But it did!” Grace exclaimed. “It has! And now . . .” She trailed off, the terrible truth becoming clear.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Her mom squeezed Grace’s hand. “I’m sure it’ll work out. It always does.” She suddenly brightened. “Varnish!”
“What?”
“Varnish! I’ve been trying to get a glossy finish on this new piece I’m working on. Of course.” Their mom got up from the table, finally animated. “Why didn’t I think of it? Try not to disturb me, honey.” She kissed Grace on the cheek. “I need total concentration.” She wafted out.
Grace slumped until her chin was level with the table. Hallie pushed the casserole dish her way. “Don’t be such a drama queen.”
Grace’s mouth dropped open, but Hallie didn’t seem to grasp the irony. She rolled her eyes, unconcerned by their imminent poverty and destitution. “It’s not like Portia’s going to throw us out of our own home. We’ll be fine.”