On Monday morning, I met with Arthur's estate attorney, Robert Ellison, in his office downtown.
I had known Robert for nearly fifteen years. He had prepared our wills, handled the paperwork when Arthur retired, and helped us settle a minor property dispute with a former tenant. He was a careful man who preferred reading a document twice to making a promise he couldn't keep.
I brought the original deed, the agreement concerning Eleanor, the money-order records, and copies of Arthur's letters.
Robert examined everything in silence. He wore reading glasses low on his nose and occasionally made a small pencil mark in the margins of his legal pad.
When he reached the agreement signed by Arthur and Evelyn, he stopped.
"This is important," he said.
"Does it mean Eleanor is entitled to half the value of the house?"
"It appears to establish an obligation, but I want to be cautious. The language is not as precise as it could be. We need to determine whether the agreement was legally binding, whether later documents modified it, and whether the estate has any additional records."
"Arthur never told me about it."
Robert looked up.
"Are you certain?"
"Absolutely."
He nodded and returned to the papers.
"Then I suggest we search the estate files thoroughly before making any decisions."
I told him about the notebook and Arthur's unsent letter. Robert listened carefully, then asked whether Arthur had maintained a separate account for the property.
"Not that I know of."
"Did he keep financial records in the workshop?"
"Yes. We've found several boxes of receipts and property statements."
Robert made another note.
"Those may help us establish what the property has earned and what expenses were paid over the years."
I felt a familiar heaviness settle over me. The yellow house had seemed like a simple piece of unfinished family business. Now it was becoming a legal and financial matter involving decades of records.
I wanted to resolve it fairly, but I also wanted to know what Arthur had intended.
Robert promised to review the documents and contact me when he had more information.
Before leaving, I asked him one final question.
"Did Arthur ever mention Eleanor to you?"
Robert paused.
"Not by name."
"Did he mention an obligation to someone in Maine?"
He looked toward the window.
"Yes. Several years ago, he asked me a hypothetical question about preserving a property for a child from a previous relationship. I assumed he was discussing an old investment arrangement."
My pulse quickened.
"What exactly did he ask?"
"He wanted to know whether he could place a property into a trust without immediately transferring ownership. I explained several options, including a trust arrangement that could protect a beneficiary's future interest."
"Did he ever establish one?"
Robert shook his head.
"Not through my office."
I sat back.
Arthur had apparently considered a more formal arrangement but never completed it. The information matched the pattern in the notebooks: he had repeatedly explored ways to resolve his obligation without taking the final step.
"Why didn't you ask more questions?" I said.
Robert removed his glasses.
"At the time, there was no reason to suspect the matter involved a family relationship. Clients ask hypothetical questions for many reasons. I couldn't force him to disclose details he didn't wish to share."
I understood. But I was beginning to see how easily Arthur's privacy had been preserved by people who had no reason to suspect what he was hiding.
When I returned home, Thomas was waiting at the kitchen table. Eleanor had driven back to Portland with Evelyn the previous evening, but she had promised to return later in the week.
I told Thomas what Robert had said.
"So Dad almost set up a trust?"
"Apparently."
"Then he knew the house wasn't just an investment."
"Yes."
Thomas rubbed his forehead.
"I keep thinking that if he had done one thing differently, none of this would have happened."
"Which thing?"
"Any of them. He could have told you. He could have told Eleanor. He could have signed the documents. He could have made the call."
I looked at the stack of papers.
"He had many opportunities."
Thomas stood and walked to the workshop door.
"Do you think he was trying to protect us, or himself?"
I took a long time to answer.
"At first, perhaps he thought he was protecting everyone. Eventually, I think he was protecting himself from the consequences of what he had already done."
Thomas nodded, though he looked unhappy with the distinction.
That afternoon, I returned to the workshop and began sorting the remaining financial records. I found receipts for roofing materials, plumbing repairs, property taxes, insurance, and several years of management fees. The figures were consistent with Daniel Mercer's reports.
Then I discovered a folder marked PORTLAND — PERSONAL.
Inside were bank statements from an account I didn't recognize.
The account had been opened more than thirty years earlier. It contained modest deposits and withdrawals, many corresponding to payments for the yellow house. The balance had fluctuated over time, but the account remained active until shortly before Arthur entered hospice.
The most recent statement showed a transfer of several thousand dollars to a legal services company in Maine.
I recognized neither the company nor the purpose of the payment.
At the bottom of the folder was a receipt for a document-preparation service. The description read: Beneficiary transfer consultation.
I called Robert.
He asked me to send him a copy and said he would investigate.
Two days later, he called back.
"The legal services company confirms that Arthur contacted them about preparing a deed and a separate beneficiary agreement," he said. "They found a draft document in their files."
My heart began beating faster.
"Was it completed?"
"No. It was prepared but never signed."
"What did it say?"
Robert explained that the draft would have transferred the yellow house into a trust after Arthur's death, with Eleanor named as the primary beneficiary of a portion of its value. The remaining interest would have stayed with the estate.
I closed my eyes.
It was close to what the old agreement required, but more specific.
"Why didn't he sign it?"
"The company doesn't have a record of his explanation. Their notes indicate that he wanted to review the arrangement with his family before finalizing it."
I almost laughed.
His family.
He had apparently intended to discuss the matter with us, but no such conversation had occurred.
Robert continued.
"There's another detail. The draft contains a handwritten amendment. It appears Arthur wanted the property sold rather than transferred directly to Eleanor. The amendment was never incorporated into the final document."
I stared at the wall.
"Why would he change his mind?"
"I can't tell from the paperwork."
The draft had been prepared approximately two years before Arthur's death. That meant he had still been considering the matter relatively late in life.
"Can you send me a copy?"
"Of course. I'll also have our office review the original agreement and determine the estate's obligations."
After the call, I sat in the kitchen for a long time.
The yellow house had become more than a symbol of Arthur's earlier life. It was the one tangible promise he had continued to maintain, even as he failed to complete the legal arrangements that would have fulfilled it.
That evening, I called Eleanor.
She listened quietly as I explained what Robert had found.
"So he was going to leave me something," she said.
"Yes."
"Did he ever finish the paperwork?"
"No."
She exhaled.
"Of course not."
I didn't try to soften the answer.
"Robert is reviewing the agreement. We'll make sure the estate handles it properly."
"Thank you."
There was a pause.
"Margaret, can I ask you something about the money orders?"
"Of course."
"Did he send money to my mother because he felt guilty, or because he wanted to support me?"
I thought about the receipts and the letters. There were payments for medical expenses, school costs, and repairs. Some had been sent directly to Evelyn, others had covered obligations connected with the house.
"I think it was both," I said. "He had responsibilities, and he knew he had been absent. Money may have been the one way he could contribute without having to face the relationship he had avoided."
"That's what I thought."
She was quiet for a moment.
"I don't want to sound ungrateful. The money helped us. Mom never struggled to keep a roof over our heads. But it doesn't replace a father."
"No," I said. "It doesn't."
After we hung up, I went into the bedroom and opened Arthur's bedside drawer.
I had already removed his medications and personal items, but I had left the small collection of notebooks and pens untouched. At the back of the drawer was a folded sheet of paper.
It was a handwritten list of names and telephone numbers.
Evelyn's number appeared near the top.
Below it was Eleanor's name.
Beside her name, Arthur had written a telephone number and a date. The date was only six months before his death.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
He had apparently obtained Eleanor's direct number. He could have called her. He could have written a letter and sent it. He could have asked Brenda to help him make contact.
Instead, the number had remained folded in a drawer.
I felt a deep, weary sadness.
For years, I had imagined that the truth would eventually reveal a single terrible event or a dramatic explanation. But the more I discovered, the more the story seemed to consist of small decisions repeated until they became a life.
Arthur had not needed a grand opportunity to change things.
He had needed the courage to pick up a telephone.
And he had never done it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: The Telephone Number in His Drawer Led to a Conversation That Arthur Had Avoided Until His Final Days
Sixteen Days After the Funeral, a Nurse Asked a Question That Made My Husband a Stranger
Part 11 of 20
