**Part 2**
I’d met Blythe’s parents at their engagement dinner the previous November.
Her father, Miles Havstock, owned a successful marine dealership.
Her mother, Laurelai, seemed intensely interested in social standing.
During dinner, she asked about my career.
“I was an actuary,” I explained.
She laughed.
“So you spent your life counting money for insurance companies?”
Several guests chuckled.
Cullen smiled along with them.
I pretended not to notice.
Later, Laurelai asked about my beach house.
“How many bedrooms?”
“Three.”
“Does it overlook the water?”
“Yes.”
“Is it in the exclusive part of Wicket Point?”
I answered politely, although her questions made me uncomfortable.
When I left, she inspected my aging Volvo station wagon with obvious curiosity.
I was beginning to understand what her family valued.
But I hadn’t realized they were already making plans for my property.
The next afternoon, Laurelai called.
“You’ve put Blythe in an impossible position,” she announced.
“Good afternoon to you too.”
“Those children were promised that house!”
“By whom?”
She hesitated.
Then her voice sharpened.
“Ask Cullen what he promised Miles.”
She ended the call.
Now I was certain something important had happened without my knowledge.
Two days later, a bridesmaid posted photographs from the wedding.
I looked through all sixty-three.
There were white flowers, beautiful table settings, an elaborate ceremony, and my son smiling beside his bride.
He looked happy.
I wished I could have been there to see it.
Then I noticed the wedding cake.
Instead of traditional figurines, the top featured a miniature cottage.
Gray shingles.
A wraparound porch.
A blue front door.
My house.
They’d placed my home on their wedding cake.
Two photographs later, I recognized my eighty-six-year-old neighbor, Anoria Endicott.
She’d attended Cullen’s wedding.
I hadn’t.
Then I saw a comment beneath one photograph.
So sorry Cullen’s mother was too sick to attend. Hope she’s feeling better!
I read it twice.
I hadn’t been sick.
They’d apparently told their guests I was unwell rather than admit I wasn’t invited.
My house was important enough to decorate their wedding cake.
But I wasn’t important enough to attend.
On Thursday, Miles called.
“Is there a problem with the paperwork, Saraphina?”
“What paperwork?”
“The house transfer. Cullen told me in June that everything was signed.”
I remained silent.
Miles continued.
“I made financial arrangements based on that understanding.”
“What arrangements?”
“Business matters. Cullen said the property was already his.”
I answered carefully.
“No transfer has been completed, Miles.”
The line went quiet.
Then he ended the call.
That evening, I remembered something from several months earlier.
In April, Cullen had visited me for dinner.
While I was on the telephone, he’d spent several minutes alone near the hall table where I kept important correspondence.
When I returned, he said he’d been searching for a pen.
At the time, I thought nothing of it.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
The following morning, I drove back to my Cranston house and opened that drawer.
A long cream envelope was still inside.
Printed across the front were the words:
Gift deed — 14 Wicket Point Road — for signature.
In March, I’d asked my longtime attorney, Mort Gilman, to prepare paperwork transferring the beach house to Cullen.
My plan had been to surprise him on his wedding day.
I’d even found a handwritten note Nile had left in his old toolbox.
For the boy when he marries. — N.
I wanted to present Cullen with the deed and his father’s note together.
It would have been the largest gift I’d ever given anyone.
But the deed remained unsigned.
And when I examined the envelope, I noticed something disturbing.
Its flap had been carefully opened and resealed with clear tape.
I had never taped it.
Suddenly, Cullen’s questions about the property’s value made sense.
So did Miles’s confidence.
My son had apparently discovered the paperwork and assumed the transfer was inevitable.
He’d made promises about an asset that wasn’t yet his.
And perhaps that explained why he hadn’t wanted me at the wedding.
That Saturday, Anoria visited carrying a formal invitation.
It was printed on heavy cream paper with gold lettering.
Welcome home, Blythe and Cullen! Join us for brunch at their beach house, September 26.
My address appeared underneath.
Laurelai had invited thirty-four guests to celebrate a house that still belonged entirely to me.
Anoria looked embarrassed.
“Laurelai told me in August that you’d already given them the property.”
I shook my head.
“I haven’t.”
She sighed.
“Then I’ve made a mistake.”
Anoria explained that she’d provided a sponsorship letter for Cullen and Blythe’s application to the exclusive local bathing association.
Membership required qualifying residency or property ownership.
My son had apparently allowed the committee to believe he owned the house.
Anoria promised to correct her statement.
Then she asked why I hadn’t attended the wedding.
“Laurelai told me you were ill,” she explained.
I looked toward the water.
“I wasn’t invited.”
My elderly neighbor’s face fell.
A few days later, a caterer arrived to inspect my lawn.
She was planning a large brunch with tents and outdoor seating.
When I identified myself as the owner, she explained that written authorization was required.
“I won’t be giving permission,” I said politely.
She nodded.
Then she called Laurelai.
That evening, Laurelai sent me a message demanding that I hand over the keys in front of her guests.
She seemed convinced that I wouldn’t contradict her publicly.
I didn’t respond.
Instead, I visited Mort Gilman.
He examined the unsigned deed and confirmed that it had not transferred ownership.
He also reviewed the circumstances of the house and the belongings.
Then he asked:
“Do you still intend to sign?”
I looked at Nile’s handwritten note.
“Not now.”
Mort nodded.
I placed the envelope back in my handbag.
I wasn’t planning an elaborate confrontation.
I simply intended to be sitting on my own porch when the guests arrived.
And if anyone asked a question, I would answer honestly.
