Finding Home by Marie Ferrarella Page A

was racing. He began crossing to the nearest phone. “I’ve got to call our accountant, have him look into that new IRA I saw—”
    He’d taken her completely by surprise. “What?”
    â€œThe new IRA—do you realize how far this will go toward financing our retirement? You’re not incorporated,” he allowed, “but I am and we could—”
    She had to stop this before he went any further. “No.”
    Lost in thought and calculations, Brad looked at her blankly. “What?”
    â€œNo,” Stacey repeated.
    The word didn’t compute. “No what?”
    â€œNo,” she said slowly, “we can’t put this money into an IRA.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? Of course we can. It’ll take some doing, some planning on our part—my part, I guess, but—”
    She needed him to understand. “Uncle Titus said that the money was mine.”
    â€œOf course it is. You can take a few hundred—maybe even a thousand—and do something frivolous, but the rest is going into the IRA,” he informed her. “Look, I’m not trying to take it away from you, Stacey. I’m trying to plan for your retirement.”
    She was so tired of him thinking of them as old before they had a chance to be young. “I’m forty-seven, Brad. I’m not retiring, I’m remodeling.”
    Flabbergasted, he stared at her. “What did you say?”
    â€œUncle Titus said I was to keep the money on the condition that I did with it what I wanted, not what anyone else wanted. You or the children,” she said, hoping that by including Julieand Jim, Brad wouldn’t feel as if she was singling him out. “And what I intend to do with the money is remodel the house.”
    The silence was deafening.

CHAPTER 13
    The silence grew, mushrooming and separating them like some vast, invisible wall.
    She was just about to urge him to say something when he did.
    â€œAnd who is going to know that you don’t want to put that inheritance money into an IRA? Titus?” he asked. “It isn’t as if you can just call him to tell him what your plans are.”
    I’ll know, Brad. I’ll know.
    The words remained lodged in her head, flashing in huge neon lights. Vivid, but unspoken.
    Finally, in self-defense, Stacey said, “I’ve already told Ian that I was going to use that money for the house.” It was a lie. She hadn’t said anything to anyone. She’d been too overwhelmed by the amount to be chatty. But she hoped that it would end the discussion that, even now, she sensed was threatening to get ugly.
    â€œIan?” Brad’s eyes narrowed into small, green slits. He squinted at her, as if that could make him absorb her words better. “Who the hell is Ian?”
    Her voice was as calm as his was agitated. As soft as his was loud. It was as if every time he became angry, Brad just assumed that everyone around him had grown deaf andcouldn’t hear him if he spoke in a regular voice. “Ian Bryanne. He is—was—Uncle Titus’s lawyer.”
    Frost formed in his eyes. He was shutting her out. Shutting her out because she wasn’t agreeing with him. “I see.”
    Oh, God, was he going to sulk again? “See what?”
    He said nothing. Instead, he walked past her to the kitchen. Once there, he bypassed the stove where she had a pot of chicken gumbo simmering and opened the refrigerator.
    Utterly ignoring her, Brad took out an already opened package of cold cuts, a head of partially used lettuce, a jar of mustard and what was left of a loaf of rye bread. Digging into the utensil drawer, he took out a knife and began to make himself a sandwich.
    Stacey held her tongue for as long as she could. She lasted half a minute. Men could be so infuriating. “Why are you making a sandwich?”
    He didn’t even bother looking her way. Rosie was between them, her attention