Loan payments.
Insurance.
There was also something labeled CAMBRIDGE RESTORATION ESCROW.
“What is that?”
Inez tapped the line.
“That’s the interesting part.”
“Interesting good or interesting terrible?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Dad leaned closer.
Inez opened another document.
“Three months ago, twenty-eight thousand dollars appeared in this escrow account.”
“From where?”
“Not your money.”
She looked at Dad.
“It came from a client.”
Dad’s face changed.
“What client?”
“A company called Bellweather Hospitality.”
I had never heard of it.
“They commissioned furniture restoration from Derek,” Inez continued. “If the invoices are legitimate, it’s the largest contract he’s ever had.”
Mom’s eyes widened.
“How large?”
“Potentially enough to repay everything he took from the household account.”
I sat back.
That did not erase what he had done.
But again, the story refused to become simple.
That afternoon, Dad finally agreed to let me visit Derek’s rented workshop.
We went without calling ahead.
The building stood behind a row of antique stores near the old railway district.
The door was open.
Inside, I stopped.
There were twelve dining chairs lined along one wall.
A massive carved sideboard sat under restoration lamps.
Cabinet doors rested on padded tables.
And in the middle of the room stood my brother.
He wore a dust mask around his neck.
Sawdust covered his shirt.
In his hands was one of Dad’s old hand planes.
Derek looked at me.
Then at Dad.
Nobody spoke.
Finally he set the plane down.
“So you came.”
“I came three days ago.”
His face tightened.
“You saw the house.”
“Yes.”
