Chapter 3: Call dad
Isabel woke to the sound of a muffled voice. It was low, urgent, cutting through the dreamless fog of her sleep. Early sunlight, thick and honeyed, pressed against her eyelids. She lay still for a moment, listening. Joseph. Downstairs.
She pushed back the sheet and pulled on a pair of soft shorts and an old t-shirt that smelled faintly of coconut sunscreen. The floorboards were cool under her bare feet as she crept out into the hall.
The voice became clearer as she descended, each step a creaking betrayal.
“…I know. But you’re sure there’s no way to access it without him?”
She paused on the bottom step, hidden by the angle of the wall. Through the doorway to the kitchen, she saw Joseph’s back. He was leaned against the counter, his shoulders rigid, one hand gripping the edge of the sink. His black hair was sleep-mussed.
“No, I haven’t talked to him about it just yet.” A beat. “But it won’t be a problem. He’s calling soon. I’ll get him to sign off.”
A weight settled in Isabel’s stomach. She heard a soft shuffle behind her. Jeremiah. He stood at the top of the stairs, having just emerged from his room. He’d heard it too. His face was still puffy with sleep, but his eyes were sharp, fixed on the scene below. He came down slowly, stopping beside her in the shadow of the hallway.
“Okay. Thank you,” Joseph said, his voice drained of all its earlier force. He ended the call and tossed his phone onto the counter. It skidded and clattered against a ceramic canister. He braced both hands on the edge of the sink and dropped his head, his entire body slumping in a wave of exhaustion so profound it was visible from across the room.
Jeremiah moved then. He stepped out of the shadows and into the kitchen’s bright morning flood. The sound of his footsteps on the old linoleum made Joseph stiffen, but he didn’t turn around.
“You wanna talk about a plan B?” Jeremiah’s voice was flat.
Joseph slowly straightened up. He didn’t turn around. His knuckles were white where they gripped the sink. “There’s no time for a plan B, Jere.”
Isabel walked into the kitchen then, the scene too charged to observe from the shadows. She rested her arms against the cool countertop, putting herself in his line of sight. “There’s no time? Come on, is your ego really that big or—”
Joseph cut him off, finally turning. His blue eyes were glacial, all the exhaustion burned away by a cold, singular focus. “Aunt Helen is already here.”
Jeremiah’s playful smirk died. “What?”
“Yeah. She got in last night. She’s at Ocean Harbour.” Joseph’s voice was scraped raw. He picked up his phone again, as if to confirm it was real.
“You saw her?” Jeremiah took a step forward, his body coiling.
“I mean we talked on the phone for about thirty seconds.” A hard, mirthless sound escaped Joseph’s throat. “She couldn’t be bothered to come to Mom’s funeral, but she’ll hop on the first flight to sell this place.”
“I don’t get it.” Jeremiah ran a hand through his blond hair, frustration twisting his features. “Why? What’s the big rush?”
“It doesn’t matter why!” Joseph’s control snapped. He took a step toward his brother, the space between them crackling. “This isn’t a game. This is serious. Just go back to bed and let me deal with it.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He shoved his phone into his pocket and walked out, his footsteps heavy and final on the porch steps. The screen door sighed shut behind him.
Silence pooled in the kitchen, thick and suffocating. The coffee machine let out a final, steaming drip.
“Well,” Isabel said, her voice barely above a whisper. “That went well.”
Jeremiah stared at the empty doorway. He let out a long, shaky breath, all the fight draining out of him, leaving behind a hollowed-out worry. “I keep telling myself he’s gonna figure things out.”
He shook his head, looking at Isabel with a helplessness that felt alien on him. “He hasn’t figured out shit. Can you talk some sense into him? You are the only person that can get through to Joseph.”
Isabel’s chest tightened. The weight of that history, that old responsibility, settled on her like a damp coat. She looked away, toward the fridge. “You hungry?” she asked, deflecting.
A slow, understanding dawned in Jeremiah’s eyes. He recognized the evasion. But he followed her lead, a tactical retreat. “There’s a grocery store next to Ocean Harbour,” he said, his tone shifting.
She met his gaze then, a new resolve straightening her spine. “We’re gonna go find Aunt Helen.”
A ghost of his usual grin touched his lips, but it was all edge, no warmth. “Yes,” he said.
They moved quickly, a silent agreement passing between them. Upstairs, they dressed in practical clothes—shorts, t-shirts, sunglasses.
The morning was already heating up, the air in the hallway thick and still. Jeremiah grabbed the keys from the hook by the door, the metal warm from the sun.
They got in the car. The interior was an oven, the vinyl seats burning the backs of their thighs. Jeremiah turned the key and the engine coughed to life, the AC blasting stale, warm air.
“So what’s our game plan with Helen? Sneak attack? Bribery? Murder?” she asked, buckling her seatbelt.
He reversed out of the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. “Wow. I was thinking that we just play with my strengths.”
She looked at him. He kept his eyes on the road, a faint, strategic smile on his lips. She saw the grocery store bouquet on the backseat, wrapped in crinkly cellophane. “So charm offence. Hence the flowers,” she said.
“Exactly.” He merged onto the coastal road, the ocean a dazzling blue to their right. “I wish I had more to go on, but she and my mom weren’t exactly close. The last I saw her I was like seven or eight.”
“That’s a long time,” Isabel said, watching the beach houses blur past. “I remember Susan telling me that it was her big sister who convinced her she could be an artist.” She said it softly, smiling at the memory of Joseph’s mother at her kitchen table, charcoal smudged on her fingers.
He looked at her, his expression shifting from performative confidence to something genuinely surprised. “Really?” he said.
She nodded. The fact sat between them, a small, fragile key to a door they couldn’t yet see.
They arrived at the Ocean Harbour Motel. It was a low, L-shaped building painted a faded seafoam green, its cracked parking lot shimmering with heat. Room 114 was around the back, its door a hollow-core slab that looked flimsy.
Jeremiah knocked. The sound was too loud in the quiet. He held the flowers behind his back.
The door opened a few inches, stopped by a security chain. A woman’s face appeared in the gap. She was in her early fifties, with short, steel-grey hair and Susan’s piercing blue eyes, but without any of their warmth. “Can I help you?”
Jeremiah turned the charm up to a blinding wattage, his whole body leaning into the performance. “Aunt Helen? Oh my god! Joseph told me you were here.” The chain rattled and he surged forward, hugging her quickly before she could react.
She stiffened, her arms pinned to her sides. “Jeremiah.” Her voice was flat. She extricated herself and her eyes landed on Isabel, assessing, wary.
Isabel stepped forward, offering a careful smile. “I’m Isabel. Laurel Coleman’s daughter. Susan’s best friend.”
Helen’s gaze lingered, cataloging. “Right. Sorry, it’s been so long.” She didn’t sound sorry. She sounded tired.
“I got these for you,” Jeremiah said, taking the flowers from behind his back and presenting them. The bright gerbera daisies looked absurd against the motel’s dreary backdrop. Helen took them automatically, her fingers brushing the plastic wrap.
She didn’t invite them in. She stood in the doorway, a human barricade. The room behind her was a dim cave, a single suitcase open on the bed.
Jeremiah’s smile held, but it was starting to strain at the corners. “I’m just wondering if we could talk.”
Helen’s expression didn’t change. She held the flowers limply at her side. “Is this about the house?” she asked.
Jeremiah’s performative smile finally faded, replaced by a weary honesty. “Yeah,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve decided to move ahead with the sale.” Helen’s voice was precise, a scalpel making a clean incision. “Actually, we’re having an open house tomorrow.”
The words hung in the humid motel air. Isabel felt them like a physical blow. Tomorrow. It was an obscene acceleration.
“You have to know how much the house means to Joseph and Jeremiah and me and my family,” Isabel said, stepping forward. The concrete was hot through her sandals. “You spent summers there as a kid, right?”
Helen’s eyes flickered, a faint disturbance in their glacial blue. “A few, yeah.”
“Well then why would you want to let go of such a magical place?” Isabel asked, pushing the word Susan had used into the space between them.
“I remember Susan calling it that.” Helen said it quietly, almost to herself. Then she refocused, her gaze hardening again. “Look, the market is favorable right now. It’s a practical decision.”
Jeremiah let out a sharp breath, a half-laugh with no humor in it. “You know, I don’t understand how you can get rid of something your sister loved so much.”
“It’s not personal,” Helen said, her jaw tightening.
“Yeah, I bet,” he shot back, the cordiality now utterly shredded.
Helen’s eyes narrowed. She looked from Jeremiah’s furious face to Isabel’s pleading one. “Are you suggesting that I gift the house to you and Joseph?”
Jeremiah faltered for a second, the legal reality a bucket of cold water. “Well, I mean, we have a share,” he said, the protest sounding weaker than he intended.
“I think you and your brother should sort this out with someone else.” Helen shifted her weight, one hand going to the doorframe as if to close it. “I mean, you have the resources. But I can’t put off a sale while I wait. I have to be at work in a week. I barely got time off as it is.”
Jeremiah stared at her. A new, colder understanding dawned in his eyes, sharpening his anger into something more lethal. “So that’s why you didn’t make it to the funeral?”
Helen looked at him. For a fraction of a second, something raw flickered behind her practiced detachment. Then it was gone, sealed over. “Something like that,” she said, her voice flat and final. “But thanks for stopping by.”
She didn’t wait for a response. The door closed in their faces, the click of the lock a small, definitive sound. The cheap floral bouquet, forgotten, lay propped against the peeling green paint.
They stood there for a moment, stunned into silence by the sheer velocity of the rejection. The sun beat down on the back of Jeremiah’s neck.
“Of course,” he said to the closed door, his voice dangerously quiet.
He turned on his heel, the gravel crunching loudly under his sneakers. Isabel followed, her mind racing. Tomorrow. An open house. It felt like a violation.
They walked back to his car. The silence between them was thick, swollen with failed strategy and Helen’s icy words.
Jeremiah pulled the car out of the motel lot, the tires spitting gravel. He drove. It was quiet for a moment, the only sound the hum of the engine and the stale blast of the air conditioner.
“I was stupid to think I could change her mind,” he said, his hands tight on the wheel.
“Hey, you had to try.” Isabel reached over, putting her hand on his arm. His skin was warm, the muscle tense under her palm.
He let out a long, slow breath, some of the rigidity leaving his shoulders. “It’s all up to Joseph now. And whether he can convince Dad to dip into his trust.” He shook his head, a dry laugh escaping. “That’s gonna go over well.”
“Still bad between them?” she asked, withdrawing her hand.
He gave her a knowing look, one that said everything about silent dinners and curt phone calls. “You and Joseph should talk to him together,” she suggested.
“I’m sick of fighting with him.” The weariness in his voice was total.
“Then don’t. With Helen here, you need to be on the same team.” Her voice was firm, pragmatic. It was the tone she used with athletes who were in their own heads.
He was quiet for a block, staring at the road. “I’ll give it a shot,” he said, the concession sounding like a physical effort.
They stopped at the grocery store, a bright, fluorescent-lit reprieve from the emotional carnage. They moved through the aisles in a functional silence, grabbing bread, coffee, fruit—supplies for a siege.
They pulled back up at the house, the tires crunching on the shell driveway. The late morning sun was high and fierce. They got out of the car with the grocery bags, the plastic handles cutting into their fingers.
Joseph was coming up from the beach path, his clothes soaked and clinging. Sand dusted his ankles and his hair was a wild, wet tangle.
“You guys went to the store?” he asked, his voice rough from the salt air.
“We thought about leaving,” Isabel said, hefting a bag, “but we decided not to listen to you.” She managed a small, tired smile.
Joseph’s gaze shifted to his brother. “We didn’t just get groceries,” Jeremiah said, shutting the car door with his hip. “We went to see Aunt Helen.”
Joseph went very still. The ocean roared faintly behind him. “How did that go?”
“Not great.” Jeremiah’s expression was flat, all the earlier charm scorched away. “Open house is tomorrow.”
Joseph absorbed this. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He just nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less.
“Talk to Dad yet?” Jeremiah asked, the question hanging in the humid air between them.
“No.” Joseph’s reply was a single, hard syllable. He looked down, scraping sand from his foot on the porch step.
“I’m gonna take these inside,” Isabel said, grabbing the remaining bags. The need to escape the building pressure between them was sudden and acute.
As she passed, Jeremiah called after Joseph, his tone shifting into something deliberately casual, an attempt to bridge the gap. “How were the waves?”
Joseph looked up, meeting his brother’s eyes. For a second, something flickered there—the ghost of a thousand shared summers asking that same question. “Uh, breaks were a bit choppy,” he said.
“Maybe you should go when it’s smooth out,” Jere said, leaning against the car.
Joseph looked at him, really looked, searching for the joke or the barb. He found neither. “Alright.”
“Listen, um.” Jeremiah pushed off the car, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I wanna be there when you talk to Dad. I’m better with him lately. And once he sees how passionate we are about this, he’ll have to let us use our trusts.”
Joseph’s brow furrowed. “Our trusts?”
“No more doing this alone,” Jeremiah said, his voice low but solid.
Joseph held his gaze. The ocean wind whipped between them, carrying the scent of warm salt and damp sand. He gave a single, slow nod. “Alright.”
“Cool.” Jeremiah reached out and tapped Joseph’s shoulder, a quick, firm contact, then turned and walked inside, letting the screen door swing shut behind him.
Joseph stood there for another minute, the weight of the alliance settling on him. He looked down at his soaked clothes, the fabric clinging and cold. He headed upstairs, the steps groaning under his weight.
In his old room, he peeled off the wet layers, letting them fall in a damp heap on the floor. The dry clothes—a faded grey t-shirt and jeans—felt like a new skin. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead.
He went downstairs and sat at the broad wooden coffee table, placing his phone in the centre. He stared at the dark screen, his reflection a blurred impression of anxiety.
He heard Jeremiah come down. He didn’t speak, just moved to the living room and picked up a paperback, thumbing through it without reading. The silence was different now, charged but not hostile.
Isabel came down shortly after, her hair freshly brushed. She paused, sensing the focussed quiet.
“Dad should be calling soon,” Joseph said, not looking up from the phone.
“Yeah,” Jeremiah said from the couch, closing his book.
“Do you guys wanna talk to him alone? I can wait upstairs,” she said, hovering near the staircase.
Jeremiah got up and took the chair opposite Joseph at the table.
Joseph finally looked at her. “No, stay. You helped me and Jere get this far.” He paused, his blue eyes earnest. “Plus this house is yours as much as it’s ours.”
She held his gaze for a beat, then nodded. She took the seat next to Joseph, the old cushion sighing under her weight. The three of them formed a tense triangle around the silent phone.
It rang.
The electronic trill was violently loud in the quiet room. Joseph’s finger hovered over the screen. He took a sharp breath and answered, immediately tapping the speaker icon. He set the phone back down on the table between them.
“Joseph?” Their father’s voice came through, slightly tinny, layered with the faint static of distance.
”Hey Dad,” Joseph said, his voice tighter than he intended.
“I only got a few minutes,” Adam said, the words clipped, efficient. Background noise of an office—a distant printer, muffled voices—leaked through the speaker.
“Hey Dad,” Jeremiah said, leaning closer to the phone on the table.
A pause. “Jere? You’re in Cousins too?” Adam asked, surprise momentarily cutting through his business tone.
“Yeah, just got here the other day,” Jeremiah said.
Another beat of static-filled silence. Adam’s sigh was a long, distorted rush of air. “Okay. I got a heads up from the bank telling me you’re both trying to access your trusts. That’s not gonna happen.”
Jeremiah looked at Joseph, his earlier confidence wavering. Joseph’s face had shut down, his expression hardening into something impassive and cold.
“So you already made up your mind?” Joseph said, the question flat.
“Yeah, I mean that money’s for your future. I’m not gonna let you blow it on a beach house.” Adam’s tone was final, the voice of a man used to ending discussions.
“It’s not just a house, Dad,” Jeremiah cut in, his voice rising.
“You can’t be serious,” Joseph said, a dangerous quiet creeping into his words.
“Guys, I had my lawyers look into any possible loopholes. There’s none. The house is legally hers.” Adam’s delivery was calm, factual, which made it all the more devastating.
Joseph’s hands, which had been resting flat on the table, slowly curled into fists. The knuckles strained against his skin. “So you’ve known we’re losing the house?”
Isabel watched him, saw the tremble start in his wrist.
“Joe, I’m not your evil father trying to ruin your life. Believe it or not, I’m just as upset as you are.”
“That’s such bullshit,” Jeremiah spat, his mediation attempt crumbling.
Joseph leaned into the phone’s speaker, his blue eyes blazing with a hurt so deep it had turned corrosive. “You never cared about the house. You never cared about it ‘cause you never cared about Mom.”
The air in the room vanished. Jeremiah went rigid.
“You know that’s not true.” Adam’s voice finally cracked, a fissure of raw emotion breaking through. “Jere, you get it, don’t you?”
Jeremiah looked from the phone to his brother’s shattered expression. He swallowed, his throat working. “I don’t get why we can’t just use our trusts to buy it. We can sell it later if we need the money.”