Chapter 3 - The Shadow Sister
The shrill ring of a cell phone shattered the quiet. Eleanor fished the device out of her cardigan pocket, glancing at the screen before pressing it immediately to her ear.
"Clara, darling, where are you?" Eleanor asked, her tone shifting instantly into an overprotective, soothing purr. "The traffic on the interstate? Don't rush, honey. Just be careful. Your sister is... well, Victoria has made quite an announcement."
Victoria leaned back against the high-backed chair, watching the performance. Clara was twenty-eight—two years younger than Victoria—and possessed an ethereal, radiant charm that had always insulated her from practical consequences. While Victoria spent her teenage years working the drive-thru window at the local dairy mart to pay for her used Honda’s transmission, Clara had taken oil painting seminars in Tuscany financed by credit cards Arthur insisted on co-signing.
"Tell her to come straight to the porch," Victoria said clearly so the receiver would catch it. "We need everyone in the room."
Eleanor ended the call and glared at Victoria. "You resent her. You’ve resented her since the day she was born because your father called her his little artist. You have no romance in your soul, Victoria. You see the world as debits and credits, assets and liabilities. You don't understand what it means to nurture a sensitive spirit."
"A sensitive spirit still needs running water and roof shingles that don't leak into the breaker box," Victoria said evenly. She pulled a second folder from her bag. "Clara’s business entity—the boutique studio she opened on 4th Street last summer—has generated five thousand dollars in total revenue against thirty-two thousand in commercial lease liabilities. The guarantor on that lease isn't Clara. It's you, Mom. And because your credit score fell below six hundred after the HELOC default, you forged Grandpa’s power of attorney to co-sign."
Arthur’s head snapped up. His eyes, clouded by cataracts, widened behind his lenses. "You used my name for a storefront?"
"It wasn't like that!" Eleanor pleaded, tears finally spilling over her mascara. "The broker said it was standard procedure for family businesses! Clara swore she had four private corporate commissions coming in from Seattle. She was going to pay it all back before the balloon payment matured in November!"
The front door clicked open. A gust of cold wind blew through the foyer, accompanied by the clatter of ankle boots on hardwood. Clara walked in, enveloped in an oversized wool poncho and carrying an artisan ceramic pie dish.
"Happy birthday, Grandpa!" Clara sang out, her voice bright and theatrical. She paused in the archway of the dining room, taking in the scene: the unlit candles drowning in wax, Arthur’s bowed posture, Eleanor’s tear-streaked face, and the reams of legal paper spread across the table.
May you like
Clara’s smile vanished. "What is this? Did somebody die?"
"No," Victoria replied, pointing to the empty chair between them. "We’re just finally reading the obituary of our family’s financial illusions. Sit down, Clara."
