Chapter 3 - THE SILVER WATCH
The tarnished silver pocket watch sat on the white tablecloth, ticking faintly, a ghost from the grave.
I stared at it, unable to process what was happening.
When my father-in-law, William, passed away from a sudden stroke seven years ago, Lorraine had wept over his open casket. She had made a massive show of placing that exact watch into his suit pocket, claiming he could never step into eternity without it.
Yet here it was.
“Where did you get that?” Daniel demanded, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet register. He walked slowly toward his mother. “Mom. Where did you get Dad’s watch?”
Lorraine took a step back, her back hitting the heavy oak wainscoting of the dining room. Her aristocratic composure was entirely shattered. Her hair was slightly out of place. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps.
“It’s mine,” she stammered. “He was my husband. I had a right to keep it.”
“You faked putting it in his casket?” Daniel asked, repulsed. “You made a show out of it in front of the whole family, and then you stole it back before they closed the lid?”
“Don’t you dare judge me!” Lorraine shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at him. “You have no idea what I’ve had to deal with! William left everything in a mess. The debts, the mortgages—I’ve been trying to save this family’s reputation for seven years!”
I looked down at the watch.
The silver casing was scratched, but I remembered the intricate engraving on the back. It was a family heirloom.
Mr. Harris stepped forward and picked up the watch. His wrinkled hands moved with practiced precision as he pressed the small latch at the top.
The casing popped open.
Inside, tucked against the glass face of the clock, was a tiny, perfectly folded piece of yellowed paper.
Mr. Harris carefully extracted it. He unfolded it with the tip of his pen, avoiding touching it too much.
“William brought this to my office the week before he died,” Mr. Harris said softly, addressing the room but looking directly at me. “He knew his health was failing. And he knew his wife had a terrible, secret gambling addiction that had drained three of their retirement accounts.”
The relatives around the room began whispering fiercely. Lorraine closed her eyes, a tear ruining her expensive mascara.
“William knew that if he died, Lorraine would sell the lake house in South Carolina to cover her debts,” Mr. Harris continued. “But William wanted that property to remain in the family. More importantly, he wanted it to be a sanctuary for his grandchildren.”
Mr. Harris slid the yellowed note across the table toward me.
I leaned forward. The handwriting was unmistakably William’s. Slanted, hurried, but clear.
If something happens to me, look in the lining of my old leather briefcase. The true deed is there. I have transferred the lake house out of my name entirely.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Transferred it to who?” Daniel asked, stepping up beside me, his warmth a sudden, desperate comfort.
Mr. Harris looked at Daniel with deep sorrow. “Not to you, Daniel. Your father knew you would never be able to stand up to your mother. He knew she would manipulate you into signing it over to her.”
Daniel flinched as if he had been slapped. The truth of the statement was brutal, and undeniable. For twenty years, Daniel had always chosen the path of least resistance when it came to Lorraine.
Mr. Harris turned to me.
“He transferred it to a trust, Claire. A trust controlled entirely by you, for the benefit of Chloe and Ben. You are the sole legal owner of the lake house.”
The room went dead silent again.
I owned the lake house.
The property was sitting on fifty acres of pristine shoreline. It was worth millions. And I owned it.
I looked at the fake divorce papers still sitting on the table. The final page, the one with my forged signature, was an addendum.
Upon dissolution of this marriage, Claire Whitmore hereby relinquishes all claims, current or future, to the South Carolina property known as the Lake House, returning all rights to Lorraine Whitmore.
Bile rose in my throat.
“You tried to divorce me without my husband knowing,” I whispered, looking at Lorraine, “just so you could sneak a property waiver into the settlement? You were going to destroy my family, take my children's father away, just to steal a house?”
Lorraine’s eyes flashed with venom. The cornered animal finally bared its teeth.
“You never deserved him!” she spat, dropping all pretense. “You were a middle-class nobody who trapped my son! And you never deserved William’s loyalty! That lake house belongs to me!”
She lunged forward, not for the divorce papers this time, but for the yellowed note.
She knocked over a champagne flute. It shattered against the hardwood floor.
But as she reached across the table, her purse slipped off the chair. It hit the floor, spilling its contents across the Persian rug. Lipstick, a wallet, receipts, and a heavy ring of keys scattered everywhere.
And something else.
A thick, folded legal document secured with a rubber band.
Mark stared at it, his face turning ghostly pale.
“Mom,” Mark whispered, pointing at the document on the floor. “Is that the contract?”
May you like
Daniel looked at his brother. “What contract, Mark?”
Mark swallowed hard. “The contract with the commercial developers. Mom already sold the lake house, Daniel. The bulldozers are scheduled to tear it down on Monday.”
