Chapter 2 - The Thanksgiving Guests Knew Something My Family Didn't
“Get out of my house, Emma. You've already ruined Thanksgiving.”
My mother stood in the doorway, still wearing the cream silk blouse she'd purchased for Lena's expensive dinner.
Behind her, the beautiful dining room looked like the aftermath of a disaster.
Crystal glasses sat abandoned beside half-eaten plates.
White roses drooped over the center of the table.
A serving dish had been knocked sideways, leaving cranberry sauce across the linen tablecloth.
And the manila envelope Marcy had delivered lay open beside my father's empty chair.
I looked at my mother.
“Your house?”
She blinked.
“Don't start.”
“Six months ago, you were crying because you thought the bank was taking it. I sold my rental property to save it.”
“We've thanked you for that.”
“You've thanked me so much that you banned me from Thanksgiving.”
Her cheeks flushed.
“Your sister was hosting people who could help her career.”
“Then she should have paid for the house herself.”
My father appeared behind her.
Robert Collins had always been a large man, with broad shoulders and rough hands from years of work around boats and industrial machinery.
That evening, he looked ten years older.
“Diane,” he said quietly, “let her inside.”
Mom stepped away from the door.
I entered the house where I had grown up.
The familiar smell of roasted turkey should have brought back happy memories.
Instead, it made me remember every holiday Lena had spent at the center of the room while I washed dishes in the kitchen.
Dad walked toward the dining table.
“Sit down, Emma.”
“I'll stand.”
“Please.”
Something in his voice made me pull out a chair.
He sat opposite me, rubbing his palms against his trousers.
Mom remained standing near the fireplace.
“Where's Lena?” I asked.
“Gone,” Dad said.
“Where?”
“She wouldn't tell us.”
I laughed once.
“That's convenient.”
Dad lowered his eyes.
“Emma, I owe you an apology.”
“An apology for what? Taking my money? Lying about your finances? Or letting Mom tell me I wasn't good enough for Thanksgiving?”
He flinched.
“All of it.”
For the first time that evening, my mother's expression changed.
“Robert, don't make this worse.”
Dad looked at her.
“It's already worse.”
I opened the documents Marcy had emailed me.
“Dad, when did you receive your business payment?”
“September eighteenth.”
“And when did you plan to repay me?”
“The week after it cleared.”
“Then why didn't you?”
He looked at Mom.
She crossed her arms.
“Because Lena needed capital.”
I stared at her.
“Capital for what?”
“A development project.”
“Is that what we're calling it?”
Mom stepped forward.
“Your sister is trying to build something meaningful.”
“Using money that didn't belong to her.”
“We were going to replace it.”
“With what?”
Neither answered.
I turned to Dad.
“Did you agree to transfer $704,000?”
He shook his head.
“I agreed to let her use forty thousand for thirty days.”
“Forty thousand?”
“She showed us a contract. Said the project had investors lined up. She promised we'd get it back with interest.”
I felt my pulse rising.
“And the other $664,000?”
Dad's voice cracked.
“I didn't approve that.”
Mom looked away.
“Diane,” he said, “tell her.”
My mother stared at the fireplace.
“I gave Lena access to the account so she could handle the first transfer.”
“Mom, that's not an explanation.”
“She said the investment window was closing. She said it was important.”
“How much did you know she'd taken?”
Mom's mouth trembled.
“Not at first.”
I looked between them.
Two adults who had spent my entire childhood lecturing me about responsibility had handed their savings to a woman whose last three businesses had failed.
Then they concealed it from the daughter waiting to be repaid.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
Neither answered.
That was answer enough.
Suddenly, someone knocked at the front door.
Three firm knocks.
Dad looked up.
“That's probably another guest coming back for something.”
Mom hurried toward the entryway.
I heard her open the door.
Then a woman's voice.
“Mrs. Collins, I'm sorry to return so late, but I need to speak with your family.”
Mom sounded startled.
“Ms. Ward. I thought you'd already left.”
“I did. Then I made a phone call.”
A moment later, a woman entered the dining room.
She was in her late forties, with straight black hair, a tailored navy coat, and the alert expression of someone accustomed to making difficult decisions.
She carried a leather portfolio.
“I'm Celeste Ward,” she said.
“Emma Collins,” I replied.
Her eyes widened slightly.
“Emma Collins?”
“Yes.”
She looked at my parents.
“Your daughter?”
Dad nodded.
Celeste set her portfolio on the table.
“Then I'm very glad you're here.”
Mom moved toward her.
“Ms. Ward, whatever happened at dinner was an unfortunate family misunderstanding.”
Celeste looked directly at her.
“Mrs. Collins, this has nothing to do with the envelope.”
She opened her portfolio.
Inside was a glossy brochure showing a beautiful waterfront residential development.
Modern cottages.
Walking paths.
A community garden.
Smiling older couples sitting outside attractive buildings.
Across the front were the words Harbor House Living.
I picked it up.
“What's this?”
Celeste studied my face.
“A senior housing development your sister has been promoting.”
“I've never heard of it.”
Her expression darkened.
“That's extremely concerning.”
“Why?”
“Because according to Lena, you're one of its principal financial backers.”
I stared at the brochure.
“That is completely false.”
Celeste reached into the portfolio and removed another document.
“Your sister told several prospective residents that you personally guaranteed the development.”
“Who are these residents?”
“Older people looking for affordable, accessible housing near Seattle. People who were told their deposits would reserve them a home.”
My father slowly stood.
“Deposits?”
Celeste nodded.
“Substantial ones.”
“How substantial?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“Some families paid more than fifty thousand dollars.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“Lena never mentioned that.”
Celeste's voice remained professional.
“I'm the executive director of Harbor Bridge Housing, a legitimate nonprofit. Your sister approached us about a partnership. She has been suggesting publicly that I am her employer, which is untrue.”
I remembered Mom's Thanksgiving message.
Lena is hosting important guests.
The important guest had just returned with questions.
“Why were you here today?” I asked.
“Lena invited my husband and me to discuss a possible partnership. I came because several details in her proposal didn't match what our team could verify.”
She turned another page.
“During dinner, she told my husband her family had already purchased the development site.”
Dad shook his head.
“We haven't purchased anything.”
Celeste looked at him.
“I was afraid you'd say that.”
I slowly set down the brochure.
“Ms. Ward, how many people have given my sister money?”
Celeste took a breath.
“Our organization has already heard from twenty-three households who believe they've reserved homes.”
My father gripped the back of his chair.
Mom stared at the floor.
Then Celeste placed one last page in front of me.
It was an advertisement featuring an artist's rendering of the development.
Beneath it was a testimonial.
The name was mine.
The photograph wasn't.
And the quotation claimed that I had invested my personal fortune because I believed every senior deserved a safe home.
I looked up.
“Lena used my name to sell these people something that doesn't exist?”
Celeste met my eyes.
“Emma, I'm afraid that's not the worst part.”
May you like
She opened a spreadsheet.
“We've identified more than $1.3 million in resident deposits. And no one can find the money.”
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