Chapter 5: Gwendolyn Comes to the Gate
The letter from Renata went out on a Thursday.
By Saturday morning, Gwendolyn was at my gate.
I was in the kitchen when the intercom buzzed.
I crossed to the panel by the front door and looked at the small screen.
Gwendolyn's car was stopped at the steel gate at the bottom of the drive.
She was in the driver's seat, window down, staring up at the camera with an expression I had never seen on her face before.
She looked frightened.
I pressed the intercom button.
"Gwendolyn."
"Paige." Her voice came through thin and slightly distorted.
"I need to talk to you.
Please."
"You could have called my attorney."
"I'm not here as — I'm not here about the legal thing.
I just need five minutes.
Please."
I looked at her on the screen for a moment.
Then I pressed the gate release.
---
She came in and stood in my entryway and looked around the house with an expression she couldn't quite control.
I watched her take in the glass walls, the limestone floors, the view of the hillside through the back windows.
She had expected something smaller.
Something that suggested I had needed them.
"Sit down," I said.
We sat at the kitchen island — the same place I had read the deed on my first night here.
Gwendolyn set her bag on the stool beside her and folded her hands on the counter.
"I didn't know," she said.
"About the deed.
I want you to know that."
"I believe you."
She looked up, slightly surprised that I had said it so easily.
"Samuel told me the morning after you left.
I was —" She stopped.
"I was very angry with him."
"That's between you and Samuel."
"I know." Her hands tightened together.
"But I want you to understand that I would never have — if I had known that half of that house was yours, I would never have spoken to you the way I did at dinner.
I would never have told you to leave."
I looked at her steadily.
"Gwendolyn.
You told me to leave a house that was legally half mine.
You told me to give my bedroom — the room my mother designed — to your daughter for a social media studio.
And before that, you gave away my mother's Christmas dishes.
You told our family I was difficult.
You made me feel like a guest in my own childhood home for nine years." I kept my voice even.
"The deed doesn't change any of that.
Those things happened whether you knew about the deed or not."
Gwendolyn's jaw tightened.
For a moment I thought she was going to argue.
Instead, something in her face shifted.
"You're right," she said quietly.
I hadn't expected that either.
"I've been — I've been unkind to you.
For a long time." She looked down at her hands.
"I told myself it was because you were difficult.
Because you never accepted me.
But that wasn't really it." A pause.
"You looked like her.
Your mother.
Samuel had photographs of her all through the house when we first got together, and I asked him to put them away, and he did, but then there you were.
Every time I looked at you."
The kitchen was very still.
"That's not my problem to carry," I said.
"No.
It isn't." She looked up.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me.
I'm asking you — I'm asking you not to destroy my family over this."
"I'm not destroying anything.
I'm asserting a legal right that has been mine since I was seven years old."
"The lender." Her voice dropped.
"If they get involved — Samuel could face —"
"I know what Samuel could face."
"He's your father."
"He signed a document that misrepresented my ownership of my mother's property.
He made that choice.
I didn't."
Gwendolyn was quiet for a long moment.
Then she said: "What do you want, Paige?
Just tell me.
What will make this stop?"
I looked at her across the kitchen island.
"I want the house transferred to my name.
Full ownership.
Not a buyout — a transfer.
I want my mother's half back, and I want Samuel's half as well, in acknowledgment of what he did with that refinance application."
Gwendolyn went very still.
"That's the whole house."
"Yes."
"You want us to sign over the entire house."
"In exchange for which I will not pursue the refinance misrepresentation with the lender, and I will not seek any additional damages." I kept my eyes on hers.
"That is the offer.
It won't be made again."
Gwendolyn stood up slowly.
She picked up her bag.
She looked around the kitchen one more time — at the pendant lights, the glass walls, the hillside beyond.
"I'll talk to Samuel," she said.
"Have your attorney call Renata."
She walked to the front door.
Her hand was on the handle when she turned back.
"For what it's worth," she said, "I think your mother would be proud of you."
I didn't answer.
The door closed behind her.
I stood in the kitchen for a moment, alone.
Then I picked up my coffee cup, walked to the back porch, and sat down in the morning sun.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Renata: *Their attorney just called.
They want to discuss terms.*
May you like
I set the phone on the armrest and looked out at the ridge.
The hawk was back, circling slowly in the clean morning air.
