Chapter 7: Gerald Calls
I let it go to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, a message appeared.
I put it on speaker so my mother could hear.
*"Ms.
Calloway — or perhaps you prefer your foster name.
My name is Gerald Calloway.
I believe we may have some family business to discuss.
I'd appreciate a call back at your earliest convenience.
I think you'll find what I have to say is worth your time."*
The way he said foster name.
Flat.
Deliberate.
I called Grace.
"He left a voicemail," I said.
"He used the name Calloway."
"He knows you've been informed.
Someone told him, or he made the connection from the newspaper article faster than Paul expected." A pause.
"Don't call him back.
I'm filing in two hours.
After that, all communication goes through his attorney."
"He called me by my father's name."
A beat of silence.
"How did that feel?"
"Like he was testing something."
"He was.
He wanted to see if the name rattled you.
If you called back confused or emotional, he'd know how much you actually understand about the situation." She paused again.
"You didn't call back."
"No."
"Good.
I'll be in touch after the filing."
I hung up.
My mother was watching me from the table.
"He knows," she said.
"He knows."
"Then it moves faster now."
She was right.
Gerald called twice more that afternoon.
I let both go.
At four o'clock, Grace texted: *Filed.
Served by five.
His attorneys will have it by end of business.*
At six-fifteen, my store manager called.
"Nora, I'm sorry to bother you.
There are two men here from the county licensing office.
They're asking to inspect the premises.
They say it's a routine review, but—" A pause.
"It doesn't feel routine."
"Don't let them in without a warrant," I said.
"Call me back if they push."
I looked at my mother.
"That was fast," she said.
"Grace said he'd create noise."
"Are you worried about the stores?"
"My paperwork is clean.
Every license, every inspection, every filing.
I've been careful since the first store." I picked up my phone.
"But it's going to cost me time."
I texted Grace.
She responded in four minutes: *Expected.
I'll have a letter to the county office tomorrow morning.
This is harassment and they know it.
Document everything your manager tells you.*
My mother made dinner while I was on the phone with three of my five store managers, walking each of them through what to do if anyone arrived asking questions.
She moved around my kitchen quietly, finding things without asking where they were, and when I finally sat down, there was food in front of me and tea beside it.
I looked at the plate.
"You didn't have to do that," I said.
"I know," she said, and sat down across from me.
We ate without speaking for a while.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
It was something else — careful, maybe.
Two people learning the distance between them.
"Tell me about the stores," she said eventually.
"How did the first one actually start?"
So I told her.
The candle table at the weekend market.
The woman who bought six candles and came back the following week and asked if I could do custom orders.
The church fundraiser that turned into a wholesale account.
The lease I signed on a storefront that was too big for me and spent three months being terrified I'd made a mistake.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said, "Your father would have loved that story."
My throat tightened.
"Tell me about him," I said.
She did.
For an hour, she told me about Robert Calloway — not the name on the will, not the man in the medical records, but the person.
The way he laughed.
The books he kept beside the bed.
The way he had driven two hours to buy a specific kind of tea she had mentioned once in passing, and presented it to her like it was nothing.
I listened and didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say.
At nine o'clock, my phone rang.
This time the number was different.
A law firm's main line.
Gerald's attorneys.
May you like
I sent it to Grace's voicemail and went to bed.
In the morning, everything changed.
