My sister Amanda married Brett eleven years ago.
Brett owns an Italian restaurant downtown. He drives a black BMW. He wears a watch that costs more than my first car. And he has never once let me forget that I drive a fifteen-year-old Honda.
I’m an accountant. I’ve been one for twenty-two years. I don’t spend money on things people can see. I never have.
Christmas dinner was at their house this year. Big tree, catered food, Brett’s friends from the restaurant business.
I parked my Honda on the street behind Brett’s BMW.
Brett saw it from the window. Before I’d even taken my coat off, he called out across the room:
“Grace! Still driving that tin can? You know, if you need a loan for a real car, I can help you out. Family discount.”
His friends laughed.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said.
He did it again at dinner. And again over dessert. “Seriously, Grace, at your age? You must be broke. It’s okay, you can tell us.”
Amanda kept giving me an apologetic look.
Then, over the wine, Brett started telling his friends about the restaurant. How well it was doing. How smart he’d been.
“You want to know the real secret?” he said, leaning back. “My landlord is an idiot.”
More laughter.
“Swear to God. Four years ago, the old owner tried to double my rent. I was about to close. Then the building got sold to some faceless company, and the new owner offered me half market rent. Half! And hasn’t raised it once in three years. I’ve never even met the guy. Total sucker.”
He raised his glass. “To my idiot landlord!”
Everyone toasted.
I didn’t. I set my glass down.
Amanda saw my face and frowned. “Grace? You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I reached into my bag.
I took out a white envelope and slid it across the table to Brett.
“Merry Christmas, Brett.”
He laughed. “What’s this, a gift card for gas money?”
Then he saw the address printed on the front.
It was his restaurant’s address.
And the return address underneath said: Maple & Fifth Holdings.
The name on every rent cheque he’d written for three years.
Brett’s face went white.
