Chapter 2 - THE PRESENT IN THE POOL
I did not open Baxter’s gift at the party.
That mattered.
Police had not yet arrived.
Nobody knew whether the package was evidence of anything.
It was still my son’s property.
My cousin Nathan used the pool skimmer to pull it from the water.
I wrapped the soaked box in two clean towels and placed it on the outdoor bar.
Hester kept staring.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
“It came to my family.”
“It was addressed to Baxter.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“Neither do I.”
That was a lie.
Her face told me she knew.
Calhoun approached.
“Tressa, let’s not turn this into more than it is.”
I looked at him.
“Your mother shoved Baxter.”
“I saw.”
“She destroyed his cake.”
“I saw.”
“And you’re worried about a wet box.”
His jaw tightened.
“Because Mom is acting strange.”
“No. You were acting strange before she fell into the cake.”
He glanced toward the guests.
Family members had begun leaving.
Some quietly.
Some after giving statements to the first officer who arrived.
No one wanted to remain at a six-year-old’s birthday while his grandmother sat under a towel wiping chocolate frosting from her hair.
Officer Dana Brooks separated us.
I told her everything.
Including the slap.
“Did you intend to injure Hester?”
“No.”
“Did you intend to hit her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was furious after she shoved my son and destroyed his cake.”
“Was Baxter still in immediate danger when you slapped her?”
I looked down.
“No.”
That answer mattered.
Officer Brooks nodded.
“You understand retaliation and defense are different?”
“Yes.”
No excuses.
Then Baxter.
An EMT checked him because of the fall.
Scraped palm.
Bruised knee.
Tender shoulder where Hester grabbed him.
No head strike.
Thank God.
He kept asking:
“Can I open the pool present?”
I wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously.
“Later.”
“Is it ruined?”
“I don’t know.”
“Grandma ruined my cake.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
I looked at Hester.
“I don’t know yet.”
That was the first honest answer.
Police took photographs.
Hester wanted to make a complaint about the slap.
Fine.
I wanted her conduct documented too.
Fine.
No theatrical arrests.
Officer Brooks said prosecutors would review both reports.
Then the soaked package.
The shipping label survived.
Sender:
ASHFORD FIDUCIARY SERVICES.
I had heard the name.
Barely.
Something from when Baxter was born.
I looked at Calhoun.
“What is Ashford?”
“Trust company.”
“For what?”
“My dad’s estate.”
Calhoun’s father, Everett, had died three years earlier.
Cancer.
No mystery.
No suspicious death.
He had adored Baxter.
The last birthday gift Everett personally gave him was a wooden train when Baxter turned three.
“Why is a trust company sending Baxter birthday presents?”
Calhoun rubbed the back of his neck.
“I don’t know.”
Hester snapped:
“It’s administrative nonsense.”
Officer Brooks looked over.
“Hester, please stay with the other officer.”
She did not.
“That package belongs to the Whitaker family.”
My surname.
My husband’s.
Hester’s.
Our son’s.
I said:
“It belongs to Baxter.”
She laughed bitterly.
“He wouldn’t have any of it without us.”
There.
Again.
Deserve.
Belong.
Without us.
I stared.
“What exactly does Baxter have?”
Calhoun said:
“Tressa.”
“What?”
“Not here.”
My body chilled.
Why not here?
Why had my husband spent six years deciding what I should know?
We left the party early.
Baxter came with me.
Calhoun wanted to come.
I told him no.
Not forever.
Tonight.
He had watched his mother shove our son and needed more than one car ride to explain it.
At home, after Baxter showered and changed into pajamas, we opened the wet outer packaging together.
Inside was a sealed waterproof case.
Blue.
Hard plastic.
Ashford logo.
Still intact.
Baxter bounced.
“Is it a toy?”
“I don’t know.”
I checked for instructions.
A small card on the outside read:
TO BE OPENED WITH BAXTER’S PARENT OR LEGAL GUARDIAN ON OR AFTER HIS SIXTH BIRTHDAY.
My pulse changed.
Not Hester.
Not Calhoun specifically.
Parent or legal guardian.
Me.
I opened the latches.
Inside lay three things.
A small wooden model of an old delivery truck.
A sealed cream envelope addressed to Baxter.
And a second envelope.
Addressed to:
TRESSA WHITAKER — PARENT REPRESENTATIVE.
I stared at my own name.
Calhoun had never told me I represented anything.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Answered.
“Mrs. Whitaker?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Evelyn Price. I’m senior fiduciary counsel at Ashford.”
I looked at the waterproof case.
“How did you get my number?”
“Your designation file.”
My skin went cold.
“What designation?”
Pause.
“Mrs. Whitaker, has no one explained your role in Baxter’s trust?”
I sat down slowly.
“No.”
The silence on the other end lasted just long enough to frighten me.
Then Evelyn said:
“Please do not sign anything the Whitaker family gives you until we speak with your counsel.”
I stared toward the door.
Calhoun was outside.
I could see his car headlights through the curtains.
He had followed us.
Then Evelyn added:
“We tried to contact you four times this month.”
“I never received anything.”
Another silence.
“Then we have a second problem.”
I looked at the envelope bearing my name.
The birthday party had ended.
May you like
Whatever Hester tried to throw into the pool had survived.
And it had arrived carrying a role I did not know I possessed.
