The Last of the Stanfields(18)

“What makes you say that? Do you mean that your bank once owed you money?” asked Maggie, hoping she had uncovered some telltale morsel of information about her mother’s alleged fortune.

Her hopes were soon dashed when Dad explained that he had only been talking about his retirement fund. “Thousands of pounds saved that didn’t yield a single thing,” he explained with a sigh. “And why is it that you need a loan? Are you in debt or something?”

“Dad, forget about it, I was just trying to negotiate my overdraft limits, and that’s it. You make the tiniest request, and then, boom, you have to produce a mountain of paperwork! Speaking of which: Do you have any idea where Mum kept stuff like that, administrative papers and what-have-you?”

“More than an idea! I’m the one who’s in charge of that around these parts. Your mother was allergic to paperwork, you could say. I could go and fetch them for you, if you like.”

“Don’t bother. Just tell me where they are and—”

The doorbell rang, cutting Maggie off. Ray had no clue who it could be; he certainly wasn’t expecting anybody, and the postman had already been there that morning. When he swung open the door, he was dumbstruck once again.



“You? Good lord, did you really come all the way here?” Dad looked astonished to see me.

“What’s it look like? I dropped by the office and borrowed a car. The traffic was a nightmare!”

“I was just telling your sister the same thing.”

“Maggie? Is she here?”

“She is. But don’t think for a second that my car breaking down was some kind of excuse to have lunch with her instead of you! It’s the oddest thing, she just popped up all discreet and such, hoping I wasn’t about, all so she could—”

“Could what?” I asked, trying not to sound too panicked.

“Well, if you ever let me finish a sentence, I’d tell you. She was looking for paperwork. Apparently, she’s applying for a loan at the bank. Your little sister’s got a bit of a hole in the pocket, see.”

Right on cue, Maggie stepped into the hallway, glaring angrily, but I had come prepared. “Before you open your mouth to say something you’ll later regret, take a look at your mobile. I left you ten voicemails.”

Maggie retreated to the kitchen and dug through her purse, discovering her iPhone was in silent mode. She quickly realized I’d attempted to warn her over and over.

“You know, I may gripe about the Austin, but I should be singing its praises for this double surprise,” said Dad. “All that’s missing is Michel knocking at my door. I’ll go see what’s hanging around in the fridge. Had I known, I would’ve stocked up!”

With Dad relieved that he was in the clear for his car breaking down, I sat down at the table with Maggie. She gave me a reassuring nod to show that we were in the clear, too; Dad didn’t suspect a thing. As soon as our father stepped out of sight, Maggie grabbed her phone once more and laughed out loud upon checking the screen.

“I can’t believe my eyes, Rigby! You actually texted ‘Abort Mission’ three times! Talk about watching too much TV!”

Dad returned to the kitchen with a document in hand.

“Strictly speaking, it’s not exactly a birth certificate, but rather a printed section of our family tree. One validated by a Mormon notary public, no less! This should appease that banker of yours . . .”

I managed to snatch the paper from him and glance over it.

“Well, that certainly is weird,” I said, as my father fiddled with the switch on the electric kettle and cursed under his breath. “It says here you and Mum didn’t get married until after we were born.”

“Does it now?” he mumbled absently.

“It certainly does! It’s written right here. You’re honestly telling us you don’t remember the date of your own wedding?”

“Before you, after you—what difference does it make? We were in love then and stayed that way until the day she died, as far as I know. I’m still in love with her to this day, for what it’s worth.”

“But the way you always told it, you got hitched right after you reunited.”

“So what? So the truth was a bit more complicated than the stories we told while putting you kids to bed at night.”

“What do you mean by more complicated?”

“And here we go again with the third degree! Really, Elby. You should have been a detective instead of a journalist,” he grumbled, at last yanking the plug out of the wall and wrapping it around the kettle. “Of course. How fitting. My trusty old kettle decides to give up the ghost. No car this morning, and now it’s no tea. I must be cursed.” Dad grabbed a saucepan, filled it with water, and set it down on the hob. “Either of you have any idea how long it takes to boil cold water?” My sister and I both shrugged and shook our heads. “Neither do I, but it looks like we’re about to find out,” he said, peeking at the wall clock.

“What do you mean by more complicated?” I repeated.

My father sighed. “The first few weeks after we got back together were a bit tricky. It took time for her to adjust to her new life out in the sticks. Believe it or not, back then this wasn’t the most joyful place to settle down.”

Maggie scoffed. “Back then?”