Chapter 4 - The Account in Idaho
I walked out of the dining room,
my heels clicking sharply against the polished hardwood floor of the entryway.
My heart was pounding in my ears,
a storm of anger,
grief,
and strange,
sudden relief crashing inside me.
Behind me,
I heard footsteps following.
"Myra,"
a voice called out.
It wasn't my mother.
It wasn't Aunt Linda.
It was my father.
He came into the foyer,
his gait slow and uneven,
one arm held stiffly against his side as his tremors grew worse.
"Please,"
he said,
leaning against the archway for support.
"Don't leave yet."
"There is one more thing you need to see."
I stopped near the front door,
my coat still hanging on the wooden rack beside me.
"I've seen enough,
Dad,"
I said,
not turning around.
"I've spent four years building a life out west where none of these lies exist."
"I came back here tonight because I thought you were dying,"
"and because I thought,"
"deep down,"
"that maybe there was some small piece of real love left in this house."
"There is,"
my father said quietly.
"It just wasn't where you were looking for it."
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out an old,
faded leather checkbook.
He opened it with trembling fingers and held out a slip of paper toward me.
"Look at it,"
he begged softly.
I turned around slowly,
looking at the document in his shaking hand.
It was a bank deposit slip from a small community bank in Sandpoint,
Idaho,
dated three years ago.
The amount deposited was fifty thousand dollars.
The account holder listed on the slip was Rosa’s Huckleberry Cafe.
My breath caught in my throat.
"Where did you get this?"
I demanded,
stepping toward him.
"Three years ago,"
my father explained,
his eyes swimming with tears,
"Rosa was going to sell the cafe to a commercial developer."
"You didn't have enough money in your savings envelope to make a competitive offer."
"You were going to lose the place you loved,"
"the life you had built."
"I found out through the private investigator."
"So I transferred fifty thousand dollars from my personal,
private savings account—money your mother never knew existed—and sent it to Rosa."
"I told her to use it as a private business grant,"
"to match whatever you had saved,"
"so you could buy the building."
I stood motionless,
staring at the slip of paper.
"Rosa told me..."
I swallowed hard,
remembering the afternoon Rosa handed me the deed to the building.
"Rosa told me an anonymous investor believed in my baking."
"An anonymous investor did,"
my father said,
a tear finally dropping down his lined cheek.
"I believed in you,
Myra."
"I was a coward for twenty-five years,"
he continued,
his voice breaking completely.
"I let Helen control this house because I was afraid of the conflict,"
"afraid of losing my family,"
"afraid of the secrets coming out."
"I failed you as a father every single day you lived under this roof."
"I couldn't stop her from sending you to Michigan,"
"and I couldn't stop her from treating you like a stranger in your own home."
"But when you ran away that morning four years ago,"
"I realized you were the only one in this family who was brave enough to survive."
"I didn't want to bring you back,"
"Myra."
"When the detective found you in Idaho,"
"I told him to close the file and never show the address to Helen."
"I only came to the cafe two weeks ago because I knew my time was short,"
"and because Helen found the magazine article on her own."
"I couldn't stop her from coming to Idaho,"
"so I came with her to make sure she didn't destroy what you built."
I looked at my father,
really looked at him.
I saw the deep lines of pain etched around his mouth,
the exhaustion in his frame,
and the fierce,
belated love burning in his eyes.
He had been a coward,
yes.
He had allowed my childhood to be stolen.
But in the darkness of my quiet departure,
he had tried to forge a shield for me from afar.
Behind us,
the dining room door opened.
Danny walked out,
holding his young daughter in his arms.
His wife followed close behind,
her face pale and angry.
"We're leaving,"
Danny said,
looking at our father.
"I'm taking my family to a hotel."
Danny turned his gaze toward me,
his eyes filled with an overwhelming emotion that looked like profound regret.
"Myra,"
Danny said,
his voice rough.
"I'm so sorry."
"I didn't know."
"I swear to God,"
"I never knew."
"I know you didn't,
Danny,"
I said gently,
looking at my young niece who was resting her head on his shoulder.
"None of this was your fault either."
"We were both children playing roles she assigned to us."
"I don't know what to do now,"
Danny admitted,
glancing back toward the dining room where our mother was still weeping loudly.
"You go home,"
I told him firmly.
"You raise your daughter to know the truth,"
"and you never let anyone tell her that her worth depends on a trust fund or a family name."
Danny nodded slowly,
a heavy tear falling onto his daughter's jacket.
"Will you... will you call me?"
Danny asked.
"Sometime?"
I looked at my brother,
the Golden Boy who had finally seen through the foil,
and for the first time in my life,
I felt no resentment toward him.
"Yes,"
May you like
I said softly.
"I will call you."
