Dora delivered a hard look to Mr. Harbison. “Let me make my position clear. I don’t care what price the house brings in. Nor do I care what the value of my possessions are,” she said, making an effort to speak in an even voice. “I’m not parting with my family antiques. They belong to my family. I’ll have my grandmother write a letter to that effect. Y’all know Marietta Muir well enough that she’ll make certain nothing leaves the family’s hands.” She sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “That’s all I have to say.”
Mr. Harbison’s lips tightened in acknowledgment of the truth in that statement. He shot a glance at Cal, who stared at Dora with barely concealed frustration.
“Very well, Mrs. Tupper,” Mr. Rosen said in a conciliatory tone. He adjusted his spectacles and addressed Cal’s lawyer. “I suggest that we discuss this matter with our clients individually and meet again. We can consult our calendars and pick a date at a mutually convenient time.”
Dora resolutely looked at her hands during the uncomfortable time it took the lawyers to tidy up the few remaining details. She felt battered by the ordeal, refusing to look up for fear that now she’d meet Cal’s wrathful gaze. When at last the gentlemen began rising to their feet, Dora joined them. She reached for her purse and, muttering something about powdering her nose, hurried from the room before she had to face Cal again.
Summerville, South Carolina
The afternoon sun was lowering as Dora drove along the shaded streets of Summerville, South Carolina. Sunlight dappled through the thick foliage, and summer flowers burst in brilliant colors wherever she looked. Dora always felt at home in the historic district where beloved Southern traditions were reflected in streetscapes, parks, and gardens. She never tired of glancing dreamily at the charming raised cottages, the classic Greek Revivals, and sweeping Victorian homes. Cal’s family had lived in Summerville for generations, but it was the timeless quality of these historic homes in this district that ultimately prompted her to settle here.
Dora had thought herself so clever to “steal” her large Victorian at an auction ten years earlier. The historic location was very desirable and boasted one restored home after another. A house down the block from hers sold for a staggering sum. It had caused a ripple throughout the neighborhood and a flurry of renewed pride of ownership. She and Cal had been so young when they’d moved into the house, so full of hope, so sure they were on the cusp of change and poised for prosperity.
They had been so naive, Dora thought with a stab of sadness as she passed the town square framed by quaint shops that, in the spring, came alive with the azaleas that gave Summerville the moniker “flower town.” She passed St. Paul’s church, where she’d volunteered in the Women’s Mission; the quaint Timrod Library, which she’d helped to support through fund-raisers and where she’d spent hours with Nate while she homeschooled. This was her community, her home . . . yet driving through the winding roads she knew so well, she felt like a stranger.
She’d spent years developing her network of friends in her church and community. People she’d thought she could count on when the chips were down. Yet once she and Cal received Nate’s diagnosis of autism, it altered the nature of her friendships.
One by one, her so-called friends grew uncomfortable with Nate’s behavior. The children ignored him and the mothers stopped inviting her to bring Nate over for play dates. For her part, she’d stopped trying as well. Eventually, she simply dropped out—of volunteering, school activities, and entertaining. Instead, Dora dove heart first into therapy and homeschooling for her son. Only the parent of a child with a disorder would understand that kind of commitment.
Dora took a long, steadying breath, focusing on the present. None of that mattered, she told herself. None of them mattered. She’d managed well enough on her own, didn’t she?
Dora glanced at the coral brooch on her lapel. The sight of it comforted her, like a mental hug, reminding her that there were others who did care and who did matter—Mamaw, Lucille, Carson, and Harper. She felt her shoulders soften as she let go of the hurt and rejection that she still harbored in a place deep within. She had created a world of self-sufficiency. Her mother, Cal, the women she’d surrounded herself with were takers, not givers. When the time came that she needed help, they’d disappeared. But perhaps now, she thought with a glimmer of hope—with them—she could begin a give-and-take.
She turned on a road that led away from the park and arrived at the long driveway to her house. From the street entrance, she saw the house the way strangers might as they drove past. The white Victorian peeked out from the cloak of green foliage like a shy bride, enchanting with its charming red pyramid roof trimmed with elaborate bric-a-brac. Unfortunately, it turned out to be more of an old Miss Havisham.
Behind the veil of distance and foliage, the house revealed its turpitude and age. Decades of peeling paint, the crumbling brick foundation, porch pillars tilting under the weight of overgrown vines could not be clouded over with daydreams. She pulled in front of the old house and turned off the engine. She sat in the stifling heat and stared at the large white Victorian. She didn’t feel a shred of the old excitement. Instead, despair spread through her bloodstream. Dora no longer saw what could be. Everywhere she looked, Dora saw the rot that festered from foundation to roof and the realization that no amount of effort on her part could save it.
The comparison to her marriage was too obvious and too painful to ponder.
Heart weary, she reached for the bag of groceries, the chilled bottle of white wine, and the box of fried chicken she’d picked up on the way home from the lawyer’s office. Dora felt exhausted and utterly depleted, barely able to make it up the brick stairs to the front door. After a brief struggle with the lock, she pushed open the door and was met with a wall of musty heat. Her heart sank and her shoulders slumped.
“How many more disasters do I have to face today?” she groaned as she mentally added Call air-conditioning repairman to her burgeoning to-do list.
The house was as quiet as a tomb. The crews had left for the day but the heavy odor of paint and varnish hung in the air. Dust motes floated in shafts of light as she gazed around the rooms, checking the progress of the workmen. The antique pieces of furniture that she and Cal had inherited were clustered in the middle of the rooms. Wallpaper had been scraped off and repair on drywall had begun. Rotten windowsills had been removed. There was a long way to go but it was a start.