Chapter 3 - THE WATCH IN THE COAT
“The date on what?” I asked.
Chloe pointed to her wrist as though that could explain a pocket watch.
“Grandpa’s gold watch.”
Theresa recovered quickly.
“She misunderstood.”
Chloe frowned.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You are eight years old.”
“Mom.”
Rachel’s voice cut across the room.
“Stop talking to her like she’s stupid.”
I turned toward my sister.
The words surprised both of us.
Theresa stared at Rachel.
“You’re defending this?”
“I’m defending a child you humiliated at my wedding.”
Rachel laughed once, bitterly.
“Which apparently I was stupid enough to help you do.”
Mom’s jaw tightened.
“This is not the place.”
“No,” Rachel said. “The place would have been twelve years ago.”
Logan looked exhausted.
He motioned to the DJ.
“Make a copy of that video.”
Theresa immediately objected.
“You have no right.”
“I’m in it indirectly, my wife is discussing my assets, and my best friend is sleeping with her. I think I’ll take my chances.”
Rachel flinched at the word wife.
Logan noticed but said nothing.
I picked up Chloe’s cardigan from the stage.
“We’re leaving.”
Rachel looked at me.
“Valerie—”
“I can’t do this here.”
“What about the watch?”
That stopped me.
I had not seen Dad’s watch since the week he died.
But suddenly I remembered something.
His brown wool coat.
Dad wore it every winter for almost twenty years. After his funeral, Mom told me to take it because I used to steal it from him when I was a teenager.
I hadn’t worn it.
I couldn’t.
It had stayed inside a garment bag through two apartments, one marriage, a divorce, and three moves.
I looked at Chloe.
“We need to go home.”
Rachel stepped forward.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
Her face tightened.
“Valerie, please.”
“You stood in front of hundreds of people tonight and called my daughter useless.”
“I know.”
“That doesn't disappear because Mom lied to you.”
Rachel lowered her eyes.
“I know that too.”
Logan finally spoke.
“Let her go.”
Rachel looked at him.
He did not look back.
That hurt her more than anger would have.
Twenty minutes later, Chloe and I were driving home.
She sat quietly in the back seat.
At a red light, I looked into the mirror.
“You okay?”
She shrugged.
Eight-year-olds can put whole heartbreaks inside one shrug.
“You didn't do anything wrong.”
“Aunt Rachel hates me.”
My hands tightened around the wheel.
“No.”
“She said I was useless.”
“She said something cruel because she was angry and selfish.”
“Does that mean she hates me?”
I chose my answer carefully.
“It means grown-ups can love people and still do things that hurt them.”
Chloe stared out the window.
“That sounds dumb.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
“It is.”
At home, I put Chloe in pajamas but she refused to go to bed.
So we walked together to the storage closet.
I pulled out three boxes.
Then four.
Finally, beneath an old Christmas wreath, I found the garment bag.
My father’s coat still smelled faintly like cedar.
My throat closed.
Chloe touched one sleeve.
“Was Grandpa tall?”
“Very.”
“Taller than Logan?”
I laughed softly.
“No. But Grandpa would have said yes.”
I checked the pockets.
Nothing.
Then Chloe slipped her hand into the inside lining.
“Mom.”
The seam had been torn.
Something heavy rested between the fabric layers.
I worked two fingers inside.
A gold chain appeared first.
Then the watch.
For twelve years, it had been hidden inside Dad’s coat.
I sat down on the floor.
“Oh my God.”
Chloe sat beside me.
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
The gold surface was scratched.
The hinge was stiff.
But when I pressed the release, the face opened.
The hands had stopped at 4:17.
Inside the cover was an engraving.
June 14, 1998. Equal means equal. — Dad
I stared at it.
June 14.
The summer Rachel turned ten and I was thirteen.
The summer Dad took us to Newport for six weeks.
We swam in freezing water, ate lobster rolls on paper plates, and fought over the upstairs bedroom with the round window.
I had not thought about that summer in years.
Chloe touched the engraving.
“What does equal mean?”
“That something belongs to two people the same.”
“Like sharing?”
“Yes.”
She thought about it.
“So you and Aunt Rachel?”
I swallowed.
“I think so.”
When I lifted the watch, something thin slipped onto my lap.
A tiny photograph.
Dad stood in front of the Newport house with his arms around Rachel and me.
On the back, in his handwriting, were four words.
For my girls. Always half.
My eyes filled.
Dad had never sold Newport.
At least he hadn’t intended to.
Then Chloe noticed something else inside the garment bag.
“A paper.”
It was caught beneath the folded coat.
Not a letter.
A faded claim ticket.
Harbor House, Newport.
Dated three weeks before Dad died.
On the back was handwriting I recognized immediately.
My mother’s.
Meet E. Cross. Bring both girls’ birth certificates.
Why would Mom take our birth certificates to Newport three weeks before Dad died?
And who was E. Cross?
Then I turned the ticket over again.
At the bottom, almost hidden beneath the hotel stamp, Dad had written one additional sentence.
May you like
If Theresa comes alone, do not sign anything.
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