Clara’s black sedan kicked up gray dust as it rolled down the gravel driveway. The engine cut out, leaving only the steady hum of the pool filter in the heavy August air.
“She said she had three listings in Gainesville today,” I said.
I tapped my wedding ring against my plastic cup. The sound was flat and dry.
Glen did not look up from his phone. He was running his hand through his hair, smoothing the thin strands over his temple.
“Maybe the appointments were canceled,” Glen said. He kept his voice low, his words separated by long, hesitant pauses. “We should just let her join us, Sarah. It is Ariel’s birthday.”
“She only came here because she wanted something, Glen.”
“Do not start,” he said. He slid his phone into his back pocket, but his fingers kept twitching against the denim. He had received three calls from a Jacksonville area code before noon, and his face had been pale ever since. I knew our business accounts were nearly empty, but he refused to let me look at the digital ledgers.
“Remember the silver tea set?” I whispered, my voice barely louder than the pool filter.
“Sarah, that was two years ago,” Glen said. He did not look at me. “We do not know what happened to that set.”
“She sold it to an antique dealer in Belleview and told my father he had misplaced it,” I said. “He believed her. Just like he believes everything she says.”
Glen ran his hand through his hair again, his brow furrowing. “We cannot afford to start a fight today. The bank is already reviewing our line of credit. If your father hears us arguing, he might withdraw his support for our business lease.”
“My father does not even know about our business debts, Glen.”
“And I want to keep it that way,” Glen said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
My father stood near the brick barbecue, his linen shirt pressed and spotless despite the high humidity. He cleared his throat, a formal, rasping sound, and began walking toward the driveway to greet his wife.
Clara stepped out of the sedan. She was forty-nine, but she dressed in the bright silk wraps of a younger woman. Today she wore a floral wrap over a dark, thick swimsuit, and three wide silver bracelets clinked against her wrist as she reached for her canvas bag.
“Arthur, darling,” Clara said. Her high-pitched voice carried across the lawn. “The traffic on the interstate was absolute murder. I thought I would never make it.”
“You are here now,” my father said. He spoke slowly, choosing each word with the stiffness of a man who refused to show he was tired. “That is what matters.”
I stayed on the shaded patio, my hand flat against the cool glass table. Clara had spent three years turning my father against me, piece by piece, until my weekly visits felt like depositions. She wanted to secure my father’s remaining estate for herself, and she treated me like an intruder in my childhood home.
“She did not bring a gift,” I whispered to Glen.
“Sarah, please,” Glen said, his eyes darting toward my father. “We do not need a scene today.”
Clara walked toward us, her sandals clicking on the concrete. She adjusted her silver bracelets, sliding them up her forearm.
“Happy birthday to little Ariel,” Clara said, her eyes skipping over my face to rest on Glen. “She has grown so much since June.”
“She is in the pool,” I said.
Clara did not answer me. She turned to my father, who was carrying her heavy canvas bag toward the patio chairs.
“I think I will sit by the water for a moment,” Clara said. “The drive was very draining.”
My father cleared his throat again. “I will go inside and prepare some fresh lemonade. We have the good lemons from the market in town.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” Clara said.
She walked toward the deep end of the pool, her steps quick and short. I watched her wrap flutter in the slight breeze from the oaks.
I stood up from my chair and followed her. The concrete was hot beneath my sandals, smelling of evaporated chlorine and old fertilizer. I wanted to see if she would look me in the eye.
“The pool is warm today,” I said, stopping two feet behind her near a damp vinyl lounge chair.
Clara did not turn around. She stood at the edge, staring down at the blue water where Ariel was splashing with a yellow kickboard.
“I am not getting in,” Clara said. Her voice had that sharp, defensive edge she used whenever I asked about her real estate office. “I have a slight chill.”
“You have a chill, but you are wearing a swimsuit under that wrap,” I said, pointing toward the dark nylon collar peeking through her silk scarf. “A very thick swimsuit.”