“I’ll make coffee,” she said softly before disappearing into the kitchen.
She returned and placed cups before us without saying much.
Dessert plates still remained on the table when George finally leaned forward.
“So…”
Pete looked up.
Pete slowly nodded. “There is.”
He folded his napkin carefully.
Then he met George’s eyes.
“George… I’ve paid my debt.”
George blinked.
Then he laughed.
“I said I’ve finally paid my debt.”
Pete inhaled slowly.
“Paid in full.”
Silence filled the dining room.
Eventually, George shook his head.
“You haven’t paid back a single cent.”
“Then explain it.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
George frowned.
Pete lowered his gaze.
“I can’t.”
George pushed his chair away from the table.
“You invite us over, tell me something that makes absolutely no sense, and then expect me to wait?”
“I know how it sounds.”
“It sounds like another excuse.”
Pete looked genuinely wounded.
George laughed bitterly.
“Trust is exactly what you’ve spent 11 years destroying.”
Nancy placed one hand gently on her husband’s shoulder.
Pete covered it with his own but remained silent.
Tears gathered in Nancy’s eyes.
She quickly turned away.
Neither brother spoke again before we left.
The drive home was painfully quiet.
Eventually, I asked, “What do you think he meant?”
George kept his eyes fixed on the road.
“I have no idea.”
“You don’t believe him.”
“No.”
His grip tightened around the steering wheel.
“If he had proof, he’d have shown it.”
I could not disagree.
For the following week, neither of us mentioned the dinner.
We barely spoke about Pete at all.
Then one evening, my phone rang.
His voice sounded entirely different.
Broken.
“Angie…”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
A long silence followed.
I could not speak.
Only a week earlier, Nancy had been serving us coffee.
Now she was gone.
The funeral was arranged quickly.
Everyone who had known Nancy came to say goodbye.
After the service, Pete asked George and me to remain for a few minutes.
Once the others had left, he looked completely exhausted.
“I hate asking this.”
George said nothing.
“I don’t have enough money to pay for the funeral.”
Neither of us responded.
Pete named the amount.
It was larger than any sum he had requested before.
My stomach sank.
Part of me wanted to refuse.
Another part could not imagine denying a man on the day he buried his wife.
George closed his eyes.
Then he asked quietly, “When do you need it?”
He looked toward me.
I gave the smallest nod.
Neither of us wanted to lend Pete another dollar.
But how could we refuse someone who had just lost the person he loved?
So we gave him the money.
A week after the funeral, Pete called again.
The following afternoon, we drove to his house.
He had not returned yet.
“I have to meet with the solicitor,” he explained over the phone.
“The key’s under the flowerpot.”
We let ourselves inside.
I began collecting a few keepsakes for George.
Then he suddenly stopped in the hallway.
“That’s strange,” he murmured.
“What is?”
“I’ve never seen that room open before.”
One door stood slightly ajar.
Beyond it was a home office.
Designer furniture.
Floor-to-ceiling walnut shelves.
A massive mahogany desk.
Original artwork covering the walls.
I stared in disbelief.
How could someone who claimed he could not repay a debt maintain a room like this?
George’s jaw tightened.
Without speaking, he walked inside.
Most drawers contained ordinary records.
Bills.
