Used phrases like “great bones.”
I made coffee and watched him.
The whole time, I had the feeling that I was observing an inspection disguised as a social visit.
But after thirty-one years as a judge, I knew better than to confuse suspicion with proof.
An impression is not evidence.
So I told myself I was probably overthinking it.
I continued planning the wedding.
I had agreed early on to cover most of the expenses.
Derek was my only child.
I could afford it.
And I saw no reason for two young professionals to begin their marriage under unnecessary financial pressure.
I paid for the winery venue.
The catering.
The flowers.
The rehearsal dinner.
The ceremony setup.
The photographer.
The band.
Altogether, the wedding cost approximately seventy-two thousand dollars.
And I had planned another gift.
A much larger one.
Quietly, with my estate attorney, I had prepared a deed transferring the house to Derek.
All it needed was my signature.
My intention was to give it to him at the wedding.
I believed Richard would have wanted that.
The house had always seemed destined to pass to our son.
So I placed the unsigned deed in a manila envelope and carried it inside my blazer to the rehearsal dinner.
The dinner took place at the winery.
I had chosen the menu.
Approved the flowers.
Selected the wine.
Paid the deposits months earlier.
When I arrived, I discovered that my assigned seat was at a table near the restroom.
I noticed.
I said nothing.
I told myself it was probably an oversight.
After the first few speeches, Morgan found me alone in a hallway near the back of the venue.
She looked unusually composed.
I knew that kind of composure.
I had watched thousands of witnesses testify.
There is a difference between someone calmly speaking from emotion and someone delivering words they have practiced.
Morgan had practiced.
She looked at me and said that the greatest wedding gift I could give them would be to disappear from their lives.
Then she told me Derek didn’t need me anymore.
“He has me now.”
Her voice never shook.
I reached inside my blazer and touched the envelope containing the deed.
And suddenly I thought about everything attached to that piece of paper.
Richard laying oak floors board by board.
Richard rebuilding a window because the morning light was wrong.
Richard in the workshop with Derek.
The bookshelf leaning left.
Dad and me burned into its back.
I looked at Morgan.
“I heard you.”
She nodded as if the matter had been settled.
Then she went back to the dinner.
I finished my glass of water.
Thanked the catering staff.
And drove home.
That night, I went into Richard’s workshop.
The fluorescent light overhead still buzzed exactly as it had for years.
I sat at his workbench.
Placed the deed on the perfectly level surface he had built himself.
And stared at the line where my signature was supposed to go.
Then I picked up a pen.
Instead of signing my name, I wrote one word.
Denied.
