Chapter 2: The Wedding Cake With My House on Top
By Monday morning, my son had called me seventeen times.
I counted because I had nothing better to do while my toast burned.
His first voicemail was angry.
“Mom, this isn't funny. Open the house. We're coming home in less than two weeks, and we need to know where we're supposed to go.””
The second was louder.
“You cannot just throw our stuff outside. Blythe's things are expensive. Do you understand that?””
The third began with a sigh.
“Mom, please. Let's be adults about this.””
I almost laughed at that one.
I had changed the locks on a house I owned. He had attempted to move into it without permission. Yet somehow I was the one being asked to behave like an adult.
At 8:15 a.m., Blythe finally sent a message.
*Eleanor, I really don't want this to become a family issue. We've already made arrangements based on what Cullen told us. Please don't put us in this position.*
I read it twice.
Then I typed:
*I agree that family matters should be discussed before arrangements are made. Unfortunately, that conversation never happened. Your belongings are protected from the weather. Please contact me before arranging to retrieve them.*
Her reply arrived almost instantly.
*You know Cullen has been under a lot of stress. This was supposed to be a happy time for us.*
I set the phone down.
There it was again.
Their happiness was apparently my responsibility.
Their decisions were my responsibility.
Their financial arrangements, their housing, their embarrassment, their future—somehow all of it was mine to manage.
But my feelings?
Those were an inconvenience.
I made another piece of toast and ate it slowly.
At eleven, I drove to the beach house to check on the boxes. The sky was a pale, cloudless blue, and the wind smelled of salt and damp sand. I brought a plastic tarp in case the forecasted rain arrived earlier than expected.
As I pulled into the driveway, my neighbor, Marlene, came hurrying over from her porch.
She was seventy-four, wore oversized sunglasses, and knew more about the neighborhood than the local newspaper.
“Eleanor,” she called.
“I've been trying to reach you.””
“Good morning, Marlene.””
She lowered her voice.
“Did you know your son is moving in?””
“I know he thinks he is.””
Marlene's mouth tightened.
“Well, his mother-in-law has been telling everyone it's a done deal.””
“His mother-in-law?””
“Laurelai. She came by yesterday with a woman from the neighborhood association. They were discussing where to put the welcome-home decorations.””
I stared at her.
“Decorations?””
“Apparently, they're planning some sort of gathering when Cullen and Blythe get back. I thought you were hosting it.””
“I haven't heard anything about a gathering.””
Marlene took off her sunglasses.
“Then I think you should see this.””
She pulled a folded piece of paper from her handbag.
It was an invitation printed on thick ivory cardstock, with gold lettering and a tiny drawing of a seashell in the corner.
*WELCOME HOME, CULLEN & BLYTHE*
*September 26 — 4:00 p.m.*
*The Point Beach House*
*Hosted by Laurelai and Miles Whitcomb*
I read the card again.
At the bottom, in smaller letters, was a line that made my stomach tighten.
*Join us as the newlyweds begin their next chapter in their beautiful new home.*
“Where did you get this?”” I asked.
“Miles gave it to my husband at the marina. He said they were expecting thirty-four guests.””
“Thirty-four?””
“That's what he told him. Cocktails on the porch, dinner catered, the whole thing.””
I looked toward the house.
The blue door stood closed. My husband's photograph was back on the mantel, where I had carefully placed it that morning.
For a moment, I imagined thirty-four people walking into my living room while I stood in the kitchen trying to understand why nobody had asked my permission.
Then I folded the invitation and slipped it into my purse.
“Thank you, Marlene.””
She touched my arm.
“Eleanor, are you all right?””
“Yes.””
“You don't have to pretend with me.””
I looked at the house Nile and I had rebuilt.
“No,” I said softly.
“I suppose I don't.””
That evening, I sat at my dining table and opened my laptop.
The wedding photographs had begun appearing online.
Blythe had posted them in an album titled *THE MOST BEAUTIFUL DAY OF OUR LIVES*.
I hesitated before clicking.
I had spent fourteen years avoiding the temptation to search for photographs of people who had hurt me. It was a habit I had learned after Nile died. Looking at what I had lost rarely brought it back.
But this was different.
I needed to understand what Cullen had told people.
The first photograph showed the bride and groom beneath an arch of white roses. Blythe wore an ivory gown with a long veil. Cullen looked handsome in a charcoal suit.
They were smiling.
Behind them stood a group of elegantly dressed guests, champagne glasses raised.
I recognized Laurelai immediately.
She wore a pale gold dress and a necklace that looked as though it had cost more than my first car. Her arm was wrapped around Miles, who had one hand resting on Cullen's shoulder.
I scrolled.
A photograph of the reception.
A photograph of Blythe laughing beside her bridesmaids.
A photograph of the cake.
I stopped.
The cake had three tiers, decorated with tiny white shells and sugar flowers. The bottom tier was painted pale blue. The middle tier had gray shingles, miniature windows, and a wraparound porch.
At the very top sat a tiny replica of a beach house.
My beach house.
I leaned closer to the screen.
The model had the same gray shingles. The same white porch railings. The same blue front door Nile had painted with his own hands.
Someone had recreated my home in sugar and fondant.
They had made my house the centerpiece of their wedding.
I zoomed in.
The miniature front door was even the correct shade of blue.
A bitter laugh escaped me.
They had remembered every detail of the property.
They had remembered the porch, the windows, the shingles, the door.
But they hadn't remembered to invite me.
I kept scrolling.
Under a photograph of Cullen and Blythe cutting the cake, a guest had written:
*So sorry your mom couldn't make it, Cullen. Hope she's feeling better!*
Cullen had replied:
*Thank you! She's been dealing with some health issues, but we're grateful everyone could be here.*
I stared at the screen.
Health issues?
I had been at the grocery store on Friday, at the library on Saturday, and at my doctor's office two weeks earlier for a routine checkup.
My doctor had told me my blood pressure was excellent.
I had never been healthier.
I opened the comments beneath another photograph.
Someone had asked why the groom's mother wasn't there.
Blythe's reply read:
*We wanted Eleanor to attend, of course, but travel has been difficult for her lately. We didn't want her to feel pressured.*
I sat back in my chair.
There was something almost impressive about the audacity of it.
They had excluded me, then invented an illness to explain my absence.
They had turned my absence into a story that made them look thoughtful and compassionate.
And the wedding cake had been modeled after a home they hadn't been given.
I closed the laptop.
The house was quiet except for the ticking clock in the hallway.
For years, I'd told myself Cullen was simply busy. That he was stressed. That his sharp remarks were the result of work pressure or a difficult relationship or the ordinary growing pains of adulthood.
Every time he disappointed me, I found a reason to forgive him.
When he forgot my birthday, I said he was traveling.
When he canceled Christmas dinner, I said his boss needed him.
When he stopped visiting the beach house, I told myself he had his own life.
I had built a thousand small excuses around the boy I remembered.
Perhaps that was why I had failed to recognize the man he had become.
At 8:42 p.m., the phone rang.
Laurelai Whitcomb.
I answered.
“Hello, Laurelai.””
“Eleanor.”” Her voice was sweet enough to make my teeth ache.
“I'm glad you picked up. We need to clear up a misunderstanding.””
“What misunderstanding?””
“The house.””
I waited.
“Cullen told us you were happy for them to move in,” she continued.
“He said the arrangement had been discussed for months.””
“Then Cullen misunderstood.””
“Oh, come now. These things happen in families. It's perfectly normal for parents to help their children get established.””
“I'm happy to help my son when he asks me for help. He didn't ask.””
Laurelai gave a little laugh.
“I'm sure he thought it was understood.””
“Then he was wrong.””
Silence.
When she spoke again, the sweetness had vanished.
“Eleanor, I don't think you appreciate how much planning has gone into this. Blythe gave up her apartment. Miles and I have made commitments. We've invited people to celebrate the newlyweds.””
“You've invited people to celebrate in my home.””
“Your home will be their home.””
“No.””
One word.
It seemed to surprise her more than a shouted argument would have.
“Excuse me?””
“I said no.””
Laurelai's voice dropped.
“You're going to embarrass your son over a house?””
“I'm not embarrassing anyone. I'm declining to give away my property.””
“It's a family house.””
“It is a house I own.””
“But surely you don't expect to live there forever.””
I looked at the photograph of Nile on the mantel.
“No,” I said.
“I don't expect to live forever. But I expect to decide what happens to my home while I'm alive.””
Laurelai inhaled sharply.
“Blythe has always dreamed of living by the ocean. This is an opportunity for her.””
“Then she should buy a house.””
“You know perfectly well how expensive the coast has become.””
“Yes. I do.””
“Eleanor, please don't make this ugly. We're trying to welcome your son and his wife into their new life.””
“Then welcome them into a home that belongs to you.””
She went quiet.
For a moment, I thought she might apologize.
Instead, she said, “I would hate for people to get the wrong impression of you.””
I nearly smiled.
“People already seem to have an impression of me, Laurelai. Apparently, I'm too ill to attend my own son's wedding.””
She didn't answer.
I could hear a faint rustling, as though she were covering the phone with her hand.
Then she said, “That was meant to protect your privacy.””
“My health is excellent.””
“Well, Cullen thought—”
“Good night, Laurelai.””
I hung up.
My hands were trembling, but my voice had remained steady.
That mattered more than I expected.
For years, I had feared being the difficult mother. The demanding mother. The woman who made everything uncomfortable by insisting that her feelings mattered.
Now I understood something.
People who benefit from your silence often call your first honest sentence an act of aggression.
I was still sitting at the table when another message arrived.
This one was from an unfamiliar number.
**Mrs. Mercer, this is Miles Whitcomb. We need to discuss the deed to the beach property.
Cullen told me back in June that the paperwork was completed and signed. Is there some kind of problem with the documents?**
I read the message once.
Then again.
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
The deed.
Signed.
Completed.
I looked toward the study, where I kept the documents Nile and I had accumulated over forty years of marriage.
Months earlier, I had asked my attorney to prepare an important document. I had intended to give it to Cullen as a wedding gift, provided he and Blythe chose to build a future together with honesty and respect.
It had been my idea.
My decision.
My gift to make.
But I had never signed anything transferring the beach house to my son.
Not the deed.
Not a gift deed.
Not a single document that could make the property his.
I typed a reply to Miles.
*I have not transferred ownership of my property to Cullen. Please tell me exactly what he showed you.*
The message remained unread.
I walked into the study and unlocked the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet.
The folder marked BEACH PROPERTY was exactly where I had left it.
Inside were the original deed, insurance documents, tax records, and correspondence from my attorney.
I took everything out and checked each page.
Nothing had been removed.
Nothing had been signed.
Then I opened the envelope that contained the document I had intended to give Cullen.
It was a long, cream-colored envelope, sealed with a narrow strip of adhesive.
The flap had been lifted.
And then pressed back down with transparent tape.
I held it beneath the desk lamp.
The tape was crooked.
Someone had opened the envelope and resealed it.
I pulled out the papers.
The document was still inside.
But on the last page, beneath the typed legal language, someone had written a small note in blue ink.
Five words.
*He believes it is already his.*
I recognized the handwriting.
It wasn't mine.
And it wasn't my attorney's.
Before I could examine it more closely, my phone rang again.
This time, it was Miles.
May you like
His first words made my blood run cold.
“Eleanor, I think you need to know what Cullen told us about your signature.””
