Chapter 2
“Seventeen.”
Marisol glared at him.
Daniel smiled.
For a moment, the apartment felt normal.
Then Ethan walked in.
Daniel nearly dropped the coffeepot.
“Mr.
Callahan?”
“Ethan.”
Daniel looked at Marisol.
Marisol looked at me.
I looked at Ethan.
Sophie sneezed.
Somehow, that broke the tension.
Marisol led us into the living room.
On the coffee table were wedding programs, ribbons, unopened boxes, and a framed photograph of our father.
Miguel Morales stood behind the counter of his bakery, flour on his cheek, grinning at whoever held the camera.
My throat tightened.
I picked up the photograph.
“You kept this.”
“Of course I kept it.”
There were a hundred things inside that sentence.
Ethan saw the photograph.
For the first time since I had met him, the famous Ethan Callahan looked genuinely unguarded.
“That was taken in 2008,” he said.
Marisol stared.
“How do you know?”
“Because I took it.”
I nearly dropped the frame.
“What?”
Ethan moved closer.
“I was twenty-one.
My father sent me to the bakery every Friday morning.”
“My father never mentioned you.”
“He wouldn’t have.”
“Why?”
“Because he made my father promise not to involve you.”
The room became still.
Daniel sat beside Marisol.
I remained standing.
“Start talking.”
Ethan nodded.
“My father, Thomas Callahan, owned a warehouse company before Callahan Holdings existed.
He made several bad investments.
By 2008, he was close to losing everything.”
I waited.
“Your father knew because he handled maintenance contracts on two of our properties.
He was good with numbers.
Better than the accountants my father was paying.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
I almost smiled despite myself.
Dad could calculate ingredient costs in his head faster than anyone I had ever known.
Ethan continued.
“Miguel discovered my father was about to sell a property for far less than it was worth.
He convinced him not to.”
“What property?”
“A row of commercial buildings near Fulton Market.”
Daniel let out a quiet whistle.
Even I knew what that meant.
Property there had become extraordinarily valuable.
Ethan nodded.
“My father kept it.
Years later, that decision saved the company.”
“What does any of that have to do with us?”
“My father offered Miguel money.”
I knew the answer before Ethan said it.
“He refused.”
Ethan almost smiled.
“Repeatedly.”
That sounded exactly like Dad.
“So my father offered him something else.
A small ownership interest in the property.”
Marisol stood.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible.”
Ethan reached inside his coat and removed a plain envelope.
He placed it on the table.
“The interest was placed in trust.”
My heart began beating harder.
“For who?”
Ethan looked at both of us.
“For Miguel Morales and his daughters.”
I stared at the envelope.
Seven years of overdue bills flashed through my mind.
The diner.
My landlord.
Sophie’s formula.
The cracked transmission in my car.
But Marisol was shaking her head.
“If this existed, why didn’t we know?”
“That,” Ethan said, “is what I’ve been trying to determine for almost three years.”
He looked toward me.
“When your father died, the trustee attempted to contact both beneficiaries.
The addresses in the file were outdated.
Your aunt responded on behalf of the estate, saying both daughters had declined involvement until probate was completed.”
I turned slowly toward Marisol.
“I never declined anything.”
“Neither did I.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed.
“Then we have a misunderstanding that has lasted far too long.”
My sister sank onto the couch.
“I thought Rachel wanted nothing to do with the estate.”
I stared at her.
“You told me you sold the bakery.”
“No.
I told you we couldn’t keep the bakery.”
“You mailed me papers.”
“Aunt Teresa mailed you papers.”
The room tilted slightly.
Daniel stood.
“I think I know where something is.”
He disappeared down the hallway.
Marisol rubbed her forehead.
“After Dad died, I couldn’t handle any of it.
Teresa took over the paperwork.
You were already in California.”
“Because every conversation with you became a fight.”
“I know.”
There was no accusation in her voice.
Only regret.
Daniel returned carrying a faded blue metal recipe box.
I recognized it instantly.
Dad kept recipe cards inside it.
Wedding cookies.
Guava pastries.
Cinnamon bread.
Daniel placed the box between us.
“We found this when we were packing Marisol’s things last month.”
Marisol looked at me.
“I was going to give it to you after the wedding.”
My fingers trembled as I opened the lid.
Dad’s handwriting covered dozens of index cards.
Then I saw the envelope underneath them.
Yellowed.
Sealed.
Our names written across the front.
RACHEL AND MARISOL.
TOGETHER.
Neither of us moved.
Finally Marisol whispered, “Open it.”
Inside was a short letter.
And a small brass key.
I unfolded the paper.
My father’s handwriting blurred behind sudden tears.
Girls,
If you are reading this, I probably waited too long to explain something.
Money can help a family.
It can also give people one more thing to misunderstand.
So before you make any decisions, promise me one thing.
Sit at the same table.
Listen all the way to the end.
Then decide together.
There is something I kept from both of you because I thought I was protecting you from a complicated family situation.
Maybe that was a mistake.
The key belongs to a box at First Chicago Trust.
Ethan Callahan knows why.
I stopped reading.
Slowly, Marisol and I looked toward Ethan.
For the first time all morning, Ethan Callahan looked uncertain.
“There’s one problem,” he said quietly.
“What?”
He looked at the brass key in my hand.
“My father told me that box had been emptied seven years ago.”
I stared at him.
“By who?”
May you like
Ethan’s gaze moved from me to Marisol.
“That’s what none of us knows.”
