Chapter 4 - THE KEY MY MOTHER LEFT BEHIND
Andrew moved toward the table.
“Where did you get that?”
His voice was so sharp that Monica flinched.
I closed my hand around the key.
“It belonged to my mother.”
“I know that.”
“Then why was it missing from her sewing box?”
He looked at Monica.
She stared at the floor.
For several seconds, the only sound was the kitchen clock.
Then Andrew forced a laugh.
“Laura, sweetheart, I was looking for the old house paperwork. Remember? When we refinanced?”
My mother had been dead for four years.
We'd refinanced our mortgage eight months earlier.
I wondered whether he thought I was stupid or simply too frightened to challenge him.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because it wasn't important.”
I held up the key.
“Then why do you look so upset?”
His face hardened.
“Because you're treating me like a criminal over a worthless piece of brass.”
Monica whispered, “Andrew, stop.”
He turned on her.
“You've done enough.”
There it was.
The man beneath the gentle husband.
The impatient voice he normally reserved for difficult customers or employees who challenged his decisions.
Only now, it was aimed at us.
I stood.
“Both of you need to leave.”
Andrew stared at me.
“This is my house.”
“Then Monica can leave, and you can give me some space.”
He opened his mouth.
I spoke before he could.
“I'm tired. You keep telling me I'm exhausted, remember?”
He hesitated.
Then he picked up the leave papers.
“We'll talk when you've calmed down.”
Monica followed him toward the front door.
As she passed me, she brushed my sleeve.
“Check the cedar chest,” she whispered.
Then she was gone.
Andrew drove Monica home.
I knew because I watched his truck disappear down our street.
The moment the taillights vanished, I hurried upstairs.
My mother's cedar chest sat at the foot of the guest-room bed.
It had been there since the funeral.
I hadn't opened it in nearly a year.
The smell of lavender and old fabric rose when I lifted the lid.
Inside were crocheted blankets, family photographs, birthday cards, and the blue cardigan my mother wore every Christmas morning.
I sat on the floor for a moment holding that cardigan.
My mother, Rosa, had been a seamstress.
She never made much money, but she could repair almost anything.
When I was little, she'd tell me, “A crooked seam isn't the end of the world, mija. You can always take it apart and sew it right.”
I wished she were there.
I needed someone to tell me my life could still be repaired.
Then I noticed the bottom of the chest.
The wooden panel wasn't quite flush.
I pressed one corner.
It lifted.
Beneath it sat a narrow metal cash box with a small brass lock.
My heart began pounding.
The key fit.
Inside were three things.
A photograph.
A sealed envelope.
And an old silver watch with a cracked crystal.
I recognized the watch.
It had belonged to my father.
He'd worn it every day at the manufacturing plant where he worked until arthritis forced him to retire.
I hadn't seen it since his funeral.
The photograph showed my parents standing outside Casa Encino's first warehouse.
Beside them stood a much younger Victor and Teresa Alvarez.
All four were smiling.
My father had his arm around Victor's shoulders.
I'd never known they were friends.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
My Laura,
If you're reading this, I hope it's only because you finally decided to sort through my old things.
But if someone has been asking questions about your father, or about the papers I kept, please listen carefully.
Your father did more for Casa Encino than most people know.
He helped Victor when the business nearly failed. He never wanted recognition. He only wanted the company to survive because it employed families like ours.
There are records Victor should still have. I kept copies because your father believed promises should be written down.
Don't let anyone tell you that what he did doesn't matter.
Love, Mama.
I read it twice.
Then I opened the folded pages beneath it.
There were copies of old correspondence dated almost thirty years earlier.
One letter described a private loan my father had made to Victor during Casa Encino's early years.
Another referred to a repayment agreement.
The final page was a photocopy of a memorandum signed by both men.
It mentioned a small ownership interest assigned to my father in exchange for helping preserve the business.
My hands trembled.
My father had never told me he owned any part of Casa Encino.
I examined the memorandum more carefully.
A handwritten note at the bottom read:
Interest held for family benefit. Details retained with company records.
I didn't understand the legal implications.
But Andrew clearly knew something about them.
And he'd taken the key.
I photographed every page.
Then I called Victor.
He answered after the second ring.
“Laura?”
“I found something belonging to my father.”
When I mentioned the warehouse photograph, he went silent.
When I read the memorandum, he sounded as though he had stopped breathing.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother kept it.”
“Laura, don't let anyone take those papers.”
“Victor, what does this mean?”
He hesitated.
Then he said, “Your father helped save my business in 1997.”
“I know that now.”
“What you don't know is that I offered him an ownership interest.”
I looked at the memorandum.
“How much?”
“Originally, five percent. But it was complicated. We later discussed restructuring it.”
My heart pounded.
“Did you ever pay him?”
“Partially. We made arrangements.”
“Were those arrangements completed?”
He didn't answer.
I felt the first flicker of anger.
“Victor?”
“After your father died, I believed the remaining obligations had been settled.”
“By whom?”
Another silence.
Then he said, “Andrew brought me paperwork indicating your mother had accepted a final settlement.”
I stared at the silver watch.
“My mother never mentioned receiving money.”
“I need to review the original records.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course Andrew had been involved.
He'd been involved in everything.
“When did he bring you that paperwork?”
“Three months after your mother's funeral.”
Four years ago.
Not three months ago.
This betrayal might have started long before the affair.
Suddenly, my marriage felt unfamiliar from beginning to end.
After we hung up, I carried the documents into my bedroom.
I opened the drawer where Andrew kept our financial records.
There were tax returns, insurance papers, mortgage statements, and an old folder labeled Estate.
Inside, I found a receipt for a cashier's check.
The amount was $48,000.
The payee was listed as Rosa Ramirez.
The date was two weeks after my mother's funeral.
But the endorsement on the back of the attached deposit copy didn't look like my mother's handwriting.
It couldn't have been hers.
She had already been buried.
I covered my mouth.
My mother's name had been used to receive money after her death.
I took photographs.
Then I placed everything exactly as I'd found it.
A car door slammed outside.
Andrew was home.
I returned the cash box to the chest, but kept the letter and watch in my purse.
When he entered the bedroom, I was sitting on the bed.
He looked at me carefully.
“Feeling better?”
“Not really.”
He sighed.
“Laura, I don't know what's gotten into you.”
I looked at the man I'd married.
He had kissed me at the altar while my mother cried in the front pew.
He'd helped carry her coffin.
He'd hugged me afterward and promised we'd face everything together.
And now I wondered whether he'd been stealing from her memory while pretending to mourn.
“Andrew,” I asked quietly, “did my mother ever receive money from Casa Encino?”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“Why would she?”
I held his gaze.
“That's what I'm asking.”
He took off his watch.
Set it on the dresser.
Then he said something I would never forget.
“Laura, you need to stop digging into things you don't understand.”
That night, after he fell asleep, I examined my father's old watch beneath the bedside lamp.
The cracked crystal caught the light.
I noticed a tiny engraving on the back.
R.R. — 1997.
And beneath it, almost too small to see, were four numbers.
0417\.
I recognized them.
They weren't a date.
May you like
They were the last four digits of the old company safe combination my father had once helped Victor remember.
And if the safe still existed, I knew exactly where Victor had kept it.
