Chapter 7 - The Oak Brook Exodus
Two weeks after the showdown, the Oak Brook estate made a rare, unannounced appearance in our lives—not through a screaming phone call or an armed delegation, but through a moving truck.
It was a Saturday morning. Vance and I were sitting at our kitchen island, drinking coffee and reviewing our actual, independent household budget—which featured zero wire transfers to Loretta’s trust—when the front buzzer rang.
I opened the lobby feed on my iPad.
Parked outside my building was a large white van emblazoned with Oak Brook Courier & Freight. Standing on the sidewalk, looking miserable in a grey trench coat, was Harlan. Beside him stood Tatum, refusing to look at the security camera while scrolling furiously on her phone.
"Your family is downstairs," I told Vance, sliding the iPad across the counter.
Vance frowned, standing up quickly. "What are they doing here? Did my mom send them to serve divorce papers?"
"Let's find out."
We rode the elevator down to the lobby together. When the doors opened, Harlan looked older, smaller, and significantly less imposing than he had when he dropped his fake post-nuptial agreement on my marble counter.
He wasn't carrying a briefcase. He was holding a large, heavy cardboard box taped shut with packing tape.
"Vance," Harlan said, his voice flat and devoid of its usual country-club booming authority. "Sloane."
"Uncle Harlan," I said, crossing my arms. "Did you forget your golf clubs, or are you delivering another constitution?"
Harlan winced slightly at the reference. He didn't snap back. He just let out a heavy, tired sigh and set the heavy box down on the marble lobby floor.
"Your mother isn't coming," Harlan said, looking at Vance. "And she probably won't speak to either of you for the next six months. Or until she needs someone to fix her Wi-Fi."
"Good," Vance said, his voice firm. "That will give her time to reflect."
Harlan nodded slowly, acknowledging the boundary without arguing. Then he tapped the top of the cardboard box.
"This is your wedding gift from your mother and me," Harlan said quietly. "We weren't going to give it to you after... everything that happened. But Loretta decided she didn't want it sitting in the sunroom reminding her of what she called 'the great betrayal.'"
I raised an eyebrow. "Is it a bomb? Or just another seafood fork?"
Harlan offered a dry, humorless half-smile. "Antique silver tea set. Sterling silver. Passed down from my grandmother. Loretta wanted to throw it in the dumpster, but I figured you might as well have it to sell for scrap metal or whatever modern couples do with heirlooms."
Tatum finally looked up from her phone, her eyes red and puffy. She looked at me, opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something snarky, caught the look in her brother's eye, and snapped her mouth shut again. She turned and walked out toward the moving van without uttering a single word.
Progress.
"Thanks, Harlan," Vance said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Drive safe back to Oak Brook."
Harlan gave a short, stiff nod, turned around, and walked out the glass doors, climbing into the passenger seat of the van as it pulled away from the curb.
We were left standing in the lobby with a box of antique silver.
Vance looked down at the tape, then looked at me. "Do you want me to throw it out?"
"Heavens no," I said, kneeling down and popping the packing tape with my car key. "Sterling silver melts down into very nice cash. Or better yet, we can use it to serve coffee when your mother visits—if she ever passes a background check."
Vance laughed—a real, deep, unburdened laugh that echoed off the lobby walls.
He reached down, took my right hand in his, and gently traced his thumb across my knuckles, right over the faded, healed scar where Tatum’s fork had left its mark three weeks ago.
"Does it still hurt?" he asked softly.
I looked down at my hand, then up into my husband's eyes.
"No," I smiled, squeezing his fingers back. "It’s just a reminder of the rules."
May you like
"Whose rules?" he asked.
"Mine."
