Chapter 22 - Ron’s Last Visit to Lake Norman
Ron contacted me when he was seventy two.
Not at cabin.
Through Sarah.
He had been diagnosed with advanced lung disease.
Not dying tomorrow.
But limited.
He asked for one meeting.
I almost said no.
Then Linda wrote separately:
He wants to apologize where he did it.
I hated that.
I did not want my property turned into someone else’s redemption stage.
So I answered:
Not at the cabin.
We met at a diner halfway between Greensboro and Charlotte.
Ron looked frail.
No beer.
He sat.
“Tom.”
“Ron.”
Then:
“I’m sorry.”
“Okay.”
He frowned.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
He looked down.
Then:
“I thought about that porch.”
“So have I.”
“I pushed you.”
“Yes.”
“I was trying to make you feel old.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“Because Derek kept saying you were old.”
Then:
“He said you didn’t have energy to fight.”
I nodded.
“He was almost right.”
Ron looked up.
“What?”
“I didn’t have energy.”
Then:
“I fought anyway.”
He smiled weakly.
Then:
“I used to think you ruined our retirement.”
“Do you still?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
He sighed.
“Me.”
Then:
“Derek helped.”
Fair.
“And Linda?”
“She followed.”
“Too long.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“Do you forgive me?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
He cried.
“Can I see cabin once?”
“No.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Fair.”
That was boundary.
He died a year later.
Linda called Claire, not me.
Claire told me.
I felt sad.
Not deeply.
Enough.
Linda later moved into a senior community near her sister.
She and I exchanged one Christmas card annually for a few years.
Then stopped naturally.
No hatred.
No family.
Then Sarah retired.
Before leaving practice, she transferred trust file to a younger attorney, Benjamin Cole.
She asked:
“Tom, are you ever transferring that cabin while you’re alive?”
“Why?”
“Because you enjoy paperwork?”
“No.”
She smiled.
Then:
“You’ve been saying Claire gets it after your death for thirty years.”
“Margaret said probably.”
“Probably.”
Then I thought.
I was seventy six.
Claire and Noah used the cabin more than I did.
I disliked driving at night.
Dock maintenance annoyed me.
Property taxes did not.
But responsibility did.
Then one summer morning, Claire repaired a screen herself.
Poorly.
I watched.
“You know you can hire someone.”
“So can you.”
She looked at me.
Then:
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“If you ever want to sell, sell.”
Margaret’s letter.
If you sell it, sell it.
Claire had finally reached the point where she did not need cabin to prove the crime failed.
Neither did I.
That gave me an idea.
Not selling.
Something Derek had tried to force.
A transfer.
May you like
But this time there would be one difference that made all the difference.
I would ask.
