Most of them are exaggerated.”
Ruth’s expression remained neutral.
“This one was prepared by a licensed structural engineer.”
As if summoned by the words, another man entered from the hall carrying a tablet and a thick envelope.
I recognized him as Samuel Ortiz, the restoration contractor who had assessed Ashbourne for me.
Bellweather’s seller had hired him months earlier after noticing cracks beneath the sunroom.
Samuel placed several photographs on the table.
They showed a stone support wall bowed inward beneath the east side of the house.
One photograph included a ruler pressed against a widening fracture.
Another showed moisture damage along two floor joists.
“The sunroom addition is pulling away from the original structure,” Samuel said.
“The house isn’t in immediate danger of collapse, but stabilization should begin soon.
The preliminary estimate is between six hundred thousand and seven hundred fifty thousand dollars, depending on what we find after excavation.”
My mother’s fingers closed around the edge of the table.
“Grant,” she whispered, “you said the house needed cosmetic work.”
He looked at Samuel.
“That estimate is absurd.”
“You’re free to obtain additional opinions,” Samuel replied.
“But you waived the inspection contingency after receiving notice of the report.”
My father’s confidence had been built around one phrase: cash offer, no contingencies.
He had repeated it as proof of his superiority.
Now the same decision trapped him.
Olivia stared at our parents.
“You can still afford the repairs, right?”
Neither answered.
That was when I understood there was something they had hidden from her too.
Maya removed the final sealed document from the folder.
It was not mine.
Bellweather’s title company had sent it to my parents that morning, and my mother apparently had not seen it.
My father’s bridge loan was secured by their current home and a large portion of his retirement portfolio.
He had expected to sell their suburban house within thirty days, then refinance Bellweather after renovations increased its value.
But the lender’s appraisal had been completed after the foundation report was added to the file.
Bellweather appraised for far less than the amount my father had paid.
The bank would not approve the planned refinance.
My mother read the figures twice.
“You borrowed against our house?”
“Temporarily,” he said.
“You told me we were using investments.”
“The market was down.
This was more efficient.”
“You put our home at risk to buy this place?”
My father glanced around the room and realized everyone was listening.
Instead of apologizing, he did what he always did when cornered.
He attacked the person least likely to shout back.
“None of this would be happening if Claire hadn’t become obsessed with competing against her family.”
The accusation was so detached from reality that, for a moment, I almost admired it.
“You bought Bellweather after learning I planned to bid on it,” I said.
“You invited the neighborhood to watch you announce it.
You hung a banner over the door.
Then you told me I didn’t deserve the house.
Which part of that was my competition?”
My aunt Evelyn stepped out of the crowd.
“I heard Olivia discussing the plan at Thanksgiving,” she said.
Olivia froze.
Evelyn continued.
