Chapter 22 - Rachel Comes Back to the Kitchen
At seventy-six, I invited Rachel to my cottage for lunch.
First time she had been inside a home of mine since the assault.
She stood at doorway.
“Do I take shoes off?”
I laughed.
“No.”
She looked toward pantry.
Saw camera.
Her face changed.
“You kept one.”
“Yes.”
“Does it stream?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
That answer surprised.
We cooked soup together.
Not maid and daughter.
Two adults.
Rachel had stayed employed.
Paid restitution.
Sold no fantasy recovery story.
She completed bankruptcy payment plan and lived within means.
She never rebuilt the luxury image.
At one point she spilled flour.
Immediately grabbed towel.
Then laughed.
“See? I can clean.”
The joke could have hurt.
Instead, I laughed too.
Later she said:
“I’ve wanted to ask something.”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you cut me out completely?”
I considered.
“Because I didn’t want money making my decisions either.”
She cried quietly.
“No promises.”
“I know.”
“I may spend everything before I die.”
May you like
“I hope you do.”
That was the right answer.
