The Long Road Home. Mary Monroe Alice

      “What do you mean, personally liable?” Nora asked, reality taking hold. She was fighting to maintain her composure. Suddenly she loathed the alcoholic nose that Bellows peered over.

      “Mr. MacKenzie put up his personal estate as collateral for loans,” contributed a young clean-shaven accountant. His voice shook and he fingered his papers nervously. “The family’s seventy-five percent stake in MacCorp., personal property—he pledged it all. Mike was so deep in hock he was unable to make the repayment schedule.”

      Nora did not acknowledge him. The family’s stock? What family? There was only her. She had a name. Nora remained rigid in her chair and continued to stare at Bellows.

      “Ralph, what does this mean to me?”

      Bellows’s features softened as he laced his fingers together and rested them on the stack of papers before him. Nora wasn’t fooled for a moment. Bellows had nothing to lose by offering kindness now.

      “What this means, Nora, is that Mike left you with nothing. Worse than nothing, actually. We have paid back as many of the loans as possible, but you still owe a great deal of money. You will have to sell everything—and even then you may still owe.”

      “Owe? If everything is gone, how will I pay it?” Her voice was a whisper.

      “The company is in receivership. Your goods will be auctioned off in October by a reputable house. Fortunately, your antiques and art collections are quite rare. Properly managed, the auction should bring in a satisfactory amount.”

      “Enough to pay off the debts?”

      “Hopefully. With enough left over to give you a start. These are estimates,” he said, opening up the collection of papers in front of him. Immediately, the dozen other people opened their packets. With dread, Nora followed suit.

      “If you direct your attention to the bottom of page three,” Bellows continued, “you will see the amount I believe we can salvage for you from the estate.”

      Nora quickly flipped to the third page and read, then reread the dollar figure they had allotted for her. It was less than she had imagined, and she had imagined a scant amount. Surely there was an error somewhere. She scanned the other fourteen pages of notes carefully, ignoring the impatient sighs and tapping fingers. The report listed, with astonishing accuracy, her personal possessions and their estimated worth: houses, cars, jewels, furniture, art.

      “You even list the few personal possessions that I brought to the marriage.” She indicated the report with an exasperated flip of her hand. “My grandmother’s jewelry, for example. It may not be worth much monetarily, but to me—” her voice almost cracked and she swallowed hard “—to me, they are priceless.”

      “I’m sorry, Nora.” Bellows shrugged, running his fingers down the columns. “Maybe we could take out a few…less valuable items.” He seemed embarrassed now.

      “This is wrong,” Nora said, deeply feeling the injustice.

      “It was Mike’s doing.”

      A familiar ache gripped Nora’s heart. Her feelings lay somewhere between anguish and anger. They made her breath come short. Calm yourself, she told herself. Get through this last step and you will be free from the lot of them forever.

      “I don’t blame Mike,” she lied. “What I don’t understand is how he could appear so successful and suddenly I learn he is bankrupt. How did it get this bad?”

      Bellows’s look implied all that he did not say, all that everyone already knew. That she had left Mike. How, their eyes accused, could she expect to know about Mike’s finances after she walked out on him? Left him in his hour of need? Nora knew they saw her as the New York socialite who collected antiques and art. A pretty blonde who couldn’t be bothered with bank balances.

      Nora looked at the accusing eyes and despite her vow, shrank inward. Guilt was an unwelcome shroud for a widow to bear. It kept one mourning without resolved grief. Deserved or not, it was a heavy burden. If Mike had died naturally, perhaps she could have escaped it. He had chosen suicide, however, and with that final act he had completed his seven-year campaign of verbal abuse. Nora’s hand moved to rub her brow, but she arrested the gesture in her lap. She tightened her fists and raised her chin.

      “He took a new direction in his last year,” Bellows explained.

      “This ‘new direction’ is not detailed in the report,” she replied icily.

      Bellows raised his brows. “Quite right. The purpose of today’s meeting is only to explain the status of your estate prior to settlement.”

      “Since my money seems to have been lost as well, I should think I am entitled to a full disclosure.”

      Mumbles sounded at the table. Nora still focused on Bellows. Always work at the top, Mike had said.

      She sensed a new appreciation in Bellows’s eyes. Up until now, her encounters with him had been purely social. Despite his gentlemanly facade, his hand always seemed to find a way to her waist. In what might have appeared a mindless motion, the broad expanse of his palm would caress her ribs while his long thumb would nudge upward toward her breast. Beneath his fastidious apparel, Nora always found him dirty.

      “I’d be happy to set up a private meeting to outline Mike’s past projects, Nora.” Bellows’s voice projected the cooperating attorney. His rheumy eyes spoke of another project he had in mind, and to emphasize his intent, he presented her with a magnanimous smile. Be good to me, the smile said, and I’ll be good to you.

      “That won’t be necessary,” she replied firmly. “A report in the mail should suffice. I plan to leave town as soon as possible.”

      Thirteen pairs of brows rose in unison.

      “Leave? To where, my dear?” Bellows asked.

      Truth was, she didn’t know. Anywhere but here, Nora thought, her gaze traveling across the impassive faces surrounding her. She’d had enough of false friendship. She’d had her fill of dismissal and rejection, of sympathy with strings attached. Somewhere along the line, she’d lost sight of her values. Looking back, she couldn’t remember what it was she had hoped to achieve by thirty.

      This was a turning point. Nora wanted to go somewhere she could work hard, earn her own living, and reevaluate her values. Somewhere, she wanted to build a life that mattered.

      Nora’s hand stilled in her lap. An entry from the report came to mind with a flash. Such a place existed, she realized, a smile escaping from her rigid control. Excitement bubbled. She knew exactly where that place was.

      Leaving Bellows’s question hanging, Nora dove into the report and began flipping quickly through the pages.

      “I assure you we went through everything thoroughly,” an attractive woman lawyer commented.

      “I’m sure you have,” Nora replied tersely. She remembered the blonde from the “attack” team. Nora ran her finger along the listed property, unconsciously holding her breath. When she spotted what she was looking for, her breath exhaled with a satisfying gasp. The estimated value was fairly low.

      “Looking for anything in particular?” asked Bellows, his interest clearly piqued.

      “Just one moment, please,” Nora replied without looking up. Grabbing a pencil she made notations, referring back to page three. Always facile with numbers, Nora reviewed the estimated values, made a few more notations, and calculated an alternative plan.

      When she looked up again, the twelve lawyers and accountants were slouched in their chairs in exaggerated poses of boredom. Their noses seemed to have grown inches, the way they peered down at her from behind them. Nora coughed back a laugh. Only Bellows viewed her with intense interest.

      “I’ll take the Vermont farm instead of the cash,” she announced.

      Twelve chairs creaked as the men and women snapped to attention and shuffled through their papers.