Chapter 4 - The Workshop Below
The old workshop smelled of metal polish, wet wool, and coffee that had been burned on a hot plate. I hadn't entered it since my mother's memorial. Going there without speaking to the staff first felt like another kind of betrayal.
Esther unlocked the side entrance just after seven. She didn't accompany me downstairs.
“I won't participate in removing company property,” she warned. “Photograph what you see. Don't make something inadmissible by trying to be clever.”
A square of light fell across the basement stairs. On the landing, I found the pencil marks where Mother measured my height each birthday. The last mark stopped at seventeen. I pressed my thumb against it and went down.
Metal filing cabinets lined the room. Several drawers were labeled with supplier names; others held apprenticeship applications and old repair tickets. Behind an atlas of gemstone cuts stood a narrow cedar box.
Inside were canceled royalty checks addressed to Martin Vale, a man officially absent from our lives since I was eleven. The latest check was dated last winter.
I heard footsteps overhead. A man's voice asked whether the side door was supposed to be open.
“It's Emma,” I called.
Theo Brennan, the senior stone setter, appeared on the stairs. He had taught me to solder silver rings using pennies for practice. His beard was white.
“I was told you were barred from the premises,” he said.
“Apparently I can still get downstairs.”
He studied the envelope in my hand. “Those are your father's payments.”
“You knew?”
“I knew your mother sent money. I didn't know what story she'd told you.”
He sat heavily on the bottom step. Martin, he explained, had designed the distinctive hinged settings sold in the company's earliest collections. After an ugly dispute, he left. Mother continued paying royalties under a private settlement, not because he owned the company, but because she believed his work deserved compensation.
“Why did she say he died?”
Theo rubbed his face. “That's a question for her. Or him.”
I photographed the checks and returned them to their places. At the back of the box lay a copy of a letter bearing Mother's handwriting: Martin, the payments are not permission to approach Emma.
A sharp noise sounded above us. The building alarm, followed by Nathan's voice through the stairwell.
“Whoever's down there, come upstairs now.”
May you like
Theo rose before I did.
“There's something else you should know,” he said softly. “Your husband was asking about those checks six months before your wedding.”
