Chapter 3
I tied my apron strings, trying to ignore Dylan's figure lurking outside the coffee shop window. He'd been standing there for twenty minutes, looking like a lost puppy.
"You gonna talk to him?" Sarah asked, organizing the register drawer.
"Not if I can help it."
But Dylan clearly had no intention of leaving. Finally, he pushed through the door, the bell chiming his arrival.
"Hi, Mom."
"Dylan." I continued wiping down the counter without looking up. "Can I get you something?"
"I..." He looked genuinely surprised, as if he hadn't expected me to treat him like any other customer. "Can we talk?"
"I'm working."
"Please. Just five minutes."
The way he said 'please' reminded me of when he was five and wanted ice cream. But he's thirty-two now. Some things can't be fixed with please.
Sarah gave me an encouraging nod. "Take your break, Evie."
I untied my apron and led Dylan to the corner table, the one with the wobbly leg that nobody wanted.
"You look..." he started.
"Different?"
"Tired. And thin. Are you eating enough?"
Three days away from his demands and complaints, and I look tired. Maybe this is what freedom looks like.
"I'm fine, Dylan. What do you want?"
He leaned forward, using that voice he thought was charming. "Look, Mom, I think we all overreacted the other night. It was stressful, emotions were high..."
"You called Della a stray cat."
"I was angry about the painting—"
"You said she ruined your art."
"It was an accident, I know that now." He ran his hands through his unwashed hair. "The thing is, I need you guys to come home."
"Need us?"
"Well, want. I want you to come home." But his eyes didn't meet mine. "The house is a mess, I can't find anything, and Dad's not eating properly..."
There it is. Not because he misses us or loves us. Because the house is messy and nobody's cooking.
"Dylan, that's not our problem anymore."
"Come on, Mom. You can't be serious about this separation thing. Dad said you're just being dramatic."
My blood pressure spiked. "Did he now?"
"He said you'll be back by the end of the week. That you always come back."
"Always come back? When have I left before?"
Dylan shifted uncomfortably. "Well, you know... when you get upset about things."
"What things?"
"Like when Dad helps Becca with her medical bills, or when I need space to create..."
I stared at my son. "Dylan, how much do you know about these medical bills?"
"Not much. Just that she's sick and Dad's helping out. It's the right thing to do."
The right thing to do. With money he never discussed with me.
"I see. And what about Della? Is leaving her the 'right thing to do' too?"
"Della will be fine. She's tough." He waved his hand dismissively. "Besides, she knew what she was getting into when she married an artist."
I felt something cold settle in my chest. "What exactly did she know she was getting into?"
"You know, supporting my career, taking care of the house, being understanding when inspiration strikes..."
"Being your unpaid housekeeper, you mean."
"That's not fair—"
"Dylan." I stood up. "Your break is over."
When I got back to the cabin that evening, there were flowers by the door. White roses, my former favorite. The card read: "Evelyn - I realize we need to talk. These flowers can't fix everything, but maybe they can start a conversation. - Theo"
"Secret admirer?" Della asked, poking her head out of the kitchen.
"Theo."
She walked over and glanced at the card. "White roses. How... predictable."
Thirty years ago, these flowers would have made my heart race. Now they just reminded me how little he knew me. I preferred wildflowers now, colorful and unpredictable.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing," I said, setting the flowers on the counter. "Absolutely nothing."
But that night, I found myself staring at those roses, wondering if maybe Dylan was right. Maybe I was being dramatic. Maybe thirty years was worth something.
The next morning, a handwritten letter appeared under our door.
"My dearest Evelyn," I read aloud to Della. "I know I haven't been the husband you deserved. These past few days without you have made me realize how much I depend on your strength, your wisdom, your grace."
"Grace?" Della snorted. "Where was this appreciation for the past thirty years?"
I continued reading. "I understand you're upset about Becca, but I hope you'll let me explain. She's going through a difficult time with her health, and as an old friend, I felt morally obligated to help."
"Morally obligated," I repeated. "With our money."
"There's more," I said. "I know I haven't always shown you how much you mean to me, but you are the foundation of everything I've built. Please come home so we can work through this together. Your devoted husband, Theodore."
Devoted husband. Foundation of everything he built. Pretty words, but where were they when I was actually there?
"What do you think?" Della asked.
"I think he's scared," I said. "And maybe... maybe he does care about Becca. If she really has cancer..."
That afternoon, Della spread the bank statements across our small dining table.
"Okay," she said. "Let's figure out where our money went."
We'd already found several suspicious transactions:
-
$45,000 to Becca Sterling, March 15th
-
$12,000 to "Sterling Medical Fund," January 10th
-
$8,000 to "BSterling Personal Account," December 5th
"That's sixty-five thousand in four months," Della calculated. "All to this Becca person."
"There's more," I said, pointing to another statement. "Look at this."
$15,000 to Cedar Falls Memorial Hospital, Patient Services.
$23,000 to Dr. Patricia Wells, Plastic Surgery.
$18,000 to Renewal Medical Spa.
"Medical expenses?" Della frowned. "Is she sick?"
Maybe that explains everything. If Becca really is sick, Theo's guilt makes sense. But why didn't he ever tell me? Why were all these payments secrets?
I picked up my phone and dialed Cedar Falls Memorial.
"Hi, I'm calling about patient billing for Rebecca Sterling," I said, hoping I sounded official.
"Are you family?"
"I'm... handling her financial affairs." Technically not a lie, since apparently we'd been paying her bills.
"Let me transfer you to Patient Accounts."
A few minutes later: "Mrs. Sterling's account shows several recent payments. Cancer treatment, surgery, follow-up care. Is there a specific charge you're questioning?"
Cancer. My hands started trembling.
"No, no questions. Thank you."
I hung up and stared at Della.
"What is it?" she asked.
"She has cancer."
We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of this revelation settling between us.
"So Theo really was helping a sick friend," Della said quietly.
"Maybe." I picked up the bank statement again. "But why all the secrecy? Why not tell me?"
When I saw that $45,000 transfer labeled 'Emergency Medical Support,' my heart sank. Becca Sterling. I knew that name, of course.
Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow I'll find out the whole truth.