The fall wind off the Mississippi brought a chill to the Garden District where my house stood. I had inherited the old building with its veranda and openwork wrought‑iron railings from my husband, Raymond. Fifteen years had passed since a heart attack took him at the age of fifty‑five.
To this day, I sometimes wake up in the morning and, for a moment, think I hear him rattling cups in the kitchen, making his signature chicory coffee. My name is Abigail Cuttingham, but everyone calls me Abby. I’m sixty years old, and I don’t feel my age.
After thirty years as an auditor for Gulf Energy Oil Company, I’m retired, but I can’t sit idle. Three times a week, I counsel clients on tax issues. My reputation in New Orleans is impeccable, so there’s no shortage of work.
I opened the window and let in the fresh air. Outside, the vibrant colors of autumn mixed with the usual humidity of our city. The magnolia in the yard had long since bloomed, but the leaves were still hanging on, shiny and dark green.
It was Thursday, and I didn’t have a client meeting until the afternoon, so the morning was free. I planned to visit my granddaughter—the one person I still make peace with my son for. The phone rang as I was finishing my second cup of coffee.
Austin’s name popped up on the screen. I suppressed a sigh. “Good morning, Mom.” His voice sounded unusually cheerful.
Not a good sign. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” I answered, preparing myself for what was to follow. “Listen, uh, here’s the thing.
Harper’s school bill came in for next semester. They raised the fees again. Twelve thousand a semester.
It’s daylight robbery. And Payton and I are a little strapped for cash right now. You know that.”
Do I know that?
Of course I do. For the last fifteen years, they’ve always been tight, but somehow they find the money for a new car. Two weeks ago, I saw Payton’s flashy SUV in their driveway.
“I understand, Austin. Of course, I’ll help with the school fees.”
“You’re the best, Mom,” he said, getting even more excited. “Why don’t you transfer today?
The deadline’s tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll do it this afternoon.”
“Thank you. By the way, you’re coming to Thanksgiving, right? Payton wants to know how many of us are coming.”
“Of course I’ll be there.
What do you want me to make?”
“Uh, you don’t need anything. We’ll do it ourselves. Just show up at four.” He hung up without saying goodbye.
I put the phone away and looked out the window. In all these years, I’d never been able to get through to my son. Austin had changed completely since Raymond’s death.
He’d gone from a sweet, albeit spoiled, boy to someone for whom I was just a source of funding. First it was small payday loans, then the down payment on their house in Metairie, then private school for Harper. The list grew each year.
I opened the bank app on my phone. The amount in the account was impressive. Years of working for an oil company and prudent investments had ensured me a trouble‑free old age.
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