But first, there were calls to make.
An hour later, I sat at my kitchen table, a mug of lukewarm tea forgotten at my elbow, while I scribbled notes on a legal pad as I spoke with Margaret.“We have everything we need,” she said, her voice calm and crisp on the line. I could picture her—steel-gray bob, wire-rim glasses, the kind of woman whose very presence made people sit up straighter. She’d been my mom’s lawyer, but also her friend; I remembered her bringing fresh-baked banana bread to the hospital, slipping me twenty-dollar bills for snacks when she thought Mom wasn’t looking.
“The trust was executed cleanly and with full capacity,” she continued. “Your father knew exactly what he was signing at the time. The beach house has been separate from his other assets since your mother’s passing. It is not marital property. Legally, it belongs to you and only you.”
“But Victoria says he transferred it,” I said, even though I knew the answer.
“Legally,” Margaret repeated, “he cannot transfer what he doesn’t own. Whatever paperwork he signed with her is invalid where the beach house is concerned. At best, she’s confused. At worst…” I could hear the faint clack of keyboard keys on her end. “At worst, she deliberately misled him.”
We walked through every step—who I should talk to, what to bring, what to say and, more importantly, what not to say. She’d already contacted the local authorities and sent them copies of the trust and deed.
“The local police have been notified,” Margaret said. “Officer Martinez is expecting you. He has copies of the documents and understands that you are the legal owner. If there’s any trouble, he’ll assist.”
I pictured Victoria’s face when a uniformed officer calmly informed her she’d banned the wrong person from the property. A tiny flare of satisfaction warmed my chest.
One more thing,” Margaret added. “I’ve documented all of Victoria’s attempts to access the trust over the years. The judge will be very interested if this ever goes to court.”
A memory surfaced: Victoria hovering near Mom’s desk after the funeral, her fingers brushing the locked drawer with my mother’s files. Or the time she’d asked an oddly casual question over dinner: “So, Alexandra, what ever happened with that old beach property paperwork? Your mother always hated dealing with that stuff.” I’d shrugged and said something noncommittal, watching her eyes narrow thoughtfully.