Chapter 2 - THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT
Romy had a bruised cheek.
No fracture.
No concussion.
No eye injury.
The emergency physician checked twice because she had fallen near a pile of hard-edged presents.
“She’s physically okay,” he told me.
Physically.
That word became important.
Police documented the slap.
Then they documented what I had done.
I did not lie.
“I threw a large box into my brother.”
“Did it strike him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he fall?”
“Into the Christmas tree.”
“Was he attacking you at that moment?”
“No.”
“Your daughter?”
“No.”
I looked at the officer.
“I was angry.”
He nodded.
Possible misdemeanor assault.
Property damage for broken ornaments if my brother wanted to pursue it.
Fine.
My daughter being hit did not turn me into law enforcement.
I knew that.
I had known it even while I picked up the box.
That made the choice mine.
Romy sat on the examination bed holding the rocking horse.
A nurse had taped a piece of gauze over the cracked saddle like the toy had been admitted too.
The brass key was in an evidence envelope because the officer wanted it photographed before I carried it around.
Not seized.
Documented.
My brother had already called claiming the key belonged to Dad’s estate.
My attorney, Naomi Price, arrived before midnight.
She examined the photographs.
“Does number 214 mean anything?”
“No.”
“Safe-deposit box?”
“Maybe.”
“Locker?”
“Maybe.”
“Did your father ever mention hiding something in Romy’s horse?”
“No.”
“Did you know the horse opened?”
“No.”
Then she asked:
“What did your brother mean by inheritance?”
I laughed.
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
Dad’s estate had three main pieces as I understood them.
His home, sold after death.
Investment accounts.
Norwood Woodworks.
The company he started in a rented garage before either of us was born.
Handmade furniture.
Restoration work.
Custom cabinetry.
Historic millwork.
A small commercial division.
Not glamorous.
Profitable.
My brother ran sales and finance.
I ran production and project work until six years earlier, when a disagreement between us pushed me into launching my own smaller construction operation.
I still believed I owned a minority interest in Norwood Woodworks.
Twenty percent.
Dad owned sixty.
My brother twenty.
At least that was the structure years ago.
Then my brother told me Dad had “reorganized” during the years before his death.
I never received much detail.
Naomi stared.
“You believed your ownership disappeared?”
“He said the company redeemed my interest when I left day-to-day operations.”
“Did you sign a redemption?”
“I don’t remember one.”
“That is a very important sentence.”
I rubbed my face.
The door opened.
A police officer carried several items recovered from my brother’s destroyed Christmas package because some had my name on them.
One envelope.
A velvet watch box.
A leather folder.
The envelope said:
LARKIN NORWOOD — PERSONAL.
Inside was a proposed estate settlement.
Payment to me:
$240,000.
In exchange I would:
Accept final accounting.
Waive further objections to business valuation.
Acknowledge that I held no present ownership interest in Norwood Woodworks.
Release my brother as executor from specified claims.
Naomi read it twice.
“Did you know this was his Christmas present?”
“No.”
The velvet box held Dad’s old watch.
I stared.
My father wore that watch nearly every day for twenty years.
My brother had wrapped it with a legal release.
Something inside me turned cold.
Naomi pointed to the settlement.
“Your brother cannot make you sign this.”
“I know.”
“Your inheritance under a valid estate plan also does not become his property simply because you anger him.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at her.
Fair.
For fourteen months I had behaved as though my brother decided when I was entitled to information.
Maybe I did not know.
Then she tapped the line:
NO PRESENT OWNERSHIP INTEREST IN NORWOOD WOODWORKS.
“Before we worry about the key,” she said, “we find out whether this sentence is true.”
Romy stirred.
“Daddy?”
I went to her.
“Right here.”
“Can Grandpa’s horse come home?”
“Yes.”
“And key?”
“Yes.”
She touched her cheek.
“Uncle mad because horse cheap?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That was the truth.
But when I looked at the settlement again, I had my first suspicion.
May you like
My brother had not been angry because the rocking horse was worthless.
He had been angry because something Dad made by hand had just reopened a question he believed was already buried.
