My Husband Left Me Out of the Christmas I Paid For, So I Left novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Collecting for the Family

Clinton sends a photo of the 'lease', a typed note with no landlord and his own name as the one collecting the money; Stian reads it aloud and asks which family it means.

"Insisted on what?" I asked.

"On paying for everything," Kendra said. "He said you like being the one who covers it. He said it makes you feel important."

Ellie's pen stopped on the napkin.

"Who told you that part?" I said.

"Clinton did, years ago. Don't act shocked, Dawn. You never argued."

"I never knew there was anything to argue about."

"Well, you're arguing now," Kendra said, and hung up.

The kitchen was quiet except for the oven timer.

Ellie pulled a tray of cinnamon rolls out and set it on the counter hard enough to rattle the cooling racks.

"Important," she said. "He told them you pay because it makes you feel important."

"He told me it was because we didn't have a choice."

"Then one of those is a lie."

"Maybe both."

I ate a roll standing up, because sitting felt like too much.

By noon the snow had stopped, and the lake outside the front window was a flat white sheet with a dark seam where the ice ended.

My phone, which Ellie had finally let out of the drawer, rang while I was rinsing the plates.

Clinton's name came up on the screen.

I looked at the clock.

"It's twelve-oh-four," Ellie said, drying her hands. "Technically before nine at night. Technically."

I answered.

"Dawn, thank God." His voice was soft and tired, the voice he used when he had already decided to be forgiven. "I'm so sorry. I've been up all night. Mom's a wreck. Can we please just talk?"

"I'll talk about one thing."

"Anything."

"The lease. Send me a picture of the cabin lease."

He did not say anything for a moment.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I have paid it for seven years and I have never seen it."

"It's an informal arrangement. It's between the families."

"You told me it was the rent. Rent has a page."

"Dawn, this isn't the time."

"Then it isn't the time for the propane card either."

I heard him breathe.

"Fine," he said. "Hold on."

The line went quiet, and a drawer rattled in the background.

Then a single photo arrived in my messages.

It was a typed page, creased in thirds, lying on a desk I recognized as Marjorie's.

I carried the phone to the table and spread two fingers over the picture.

Ellie leaned over my shoulder.

The page had a date at the top, seven years old.

Under it were three lines.

Cabin use for the family. Monthly contribution, $2,100, payable to Clinton Nordquist, collecting for the family. Reviewed yearly.

Nobody had signed it.

"There it is," Clinton said in my ear. "Happy?"

"Who wrote this?"

"My mother, a long time ago. You know how she is. She likes things in writing."

"There's no landlord on it. There's no name for who owns the cabin."

"It's the family. Everyone knows who it is."

"I don't."

"Dawn." His voice sharpened. "You've always been fine with this."

The front door opened.

Stian came in stamping snow off his boots, with a paper cup in each hand.

He set one down in front of me without speaking and then stopped, because Ellie was holding her hand up.

"Read that," she said, and tipped the phone toward him.

He picked it up and looked at it for a long moment.

His dry face did not change, but he read it twice.

"Is that the lease?" he asked.

"Clinton says it is."

I put the call on speaker and laid the phone flat between the cups.

"That isn't a lease," Stian said.

On the line, Clinton went silent.

"Who's that?" he said.

"A man who's done a few of them," Stian said. "A lease says who owns the place and who signs. This says nothing about either. It's a note, and there's no landlord on it."

"This is a private family matter."

"Then it's strange you needed her card for the propane."

I covered my mouth.

Ellie grinned at the ceiling.

"Dawn," Clinton said, tight now. "Who's in that kitchen with you?"

"My friend's brother."

"I'm coming up there."

"Don't," I said.

He hung up on me, and the screen went dark.

I stared at the page he had sent, at the creased thirds and the number I had paid eighty-four times.

"Collecting for the family," I said.

Stian took a slow sip of his coffee.

"Which family?" he asked.

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