Chapter 5 - The New Trust
A month after the earthquake, the temporary housing grid at Oakridge was fully operational, its small, neat white units standing in orderly rows beneath the old willow trees.
The neighborhood association had tried to sue, of course. They had hired expensive lawyers to file injunctions against the "aesthetic degradation" of their community, but every single lawsuit had been summarily dismissed by the state supreme court under the emergency powers act. The Sterling Trust had provided the land for free, which meant the city was saving hundreds of thousands of dollars a week in shelter costs.
I sat in my new office in the downtown commercial plaza—a beautiful, sunlit space that had previously been used by my father as his private "cigar room" before I converted it into the administrative headquarters of the Arthur Sterling Community Land Trust.
Lily was sitting on a small, colorful rug near my desk, building a massive tower out of wooden blocks. She was wearing a clean, bright yellow dress, her face full of that easy, bubbling joy that only a safe, warm home can provide.
The door to the office opened, and Arthur Pendelton, the family’s longtime trust attorney, walked in, holding a leather briefcase. He looked older, his face lined with the stress of the past month’s audits, but his eyes were bright with a quiet, professional respect.
"Clara," he said, sitting down in the chair opposite my desk. "The audit of your father's accounts is complete."
"And?" I asked.
"It’s worse than we thought," Arthur sighed, pulling out a thick stack of ledger pages. "Richard has been borrowing against the commercial leases on Harrison Street to fund his personal brokerage accounts. He’s down nearly six hundred thousand dollars. If the state hadn't stepped in to freeze the assets when you filed that emergency block, the entire trust would have been insolvent by the end of the year."
I looked at the numbers. "What about Vanessa?"
"The Tudor house on Elm Street is being returned to the trust's commercial inventory," Arthur said, a small, grim smile playing on his lips. "She was served her thirty-day notice last Tuesday. She’s currently looking for a two-bedroom apartment in the lower valley. Her Range Rover was repossessed by the bank yesterday morning."
I didn't feel a sense of triumph. I didn't feel the burning, satisfying heat of revenge. I just felt a deep, quiet sense of order. The scales had finally been balanced.
"And my parents?" I asked.
"Under the terms of the revised trust charter I drafted for you," Arthur said, "Richard and Carol will be allowed to remain in the Crestview property. However, their monthly stipend has been reduced to the state-standard minimum pension of fifteen hundred dollars a month. They will no longer have access to the trust’s credit lines, and they will be personally responsible for the maintenance of the house."
"They won't be able to afford the utilities," I said.
"Then they will have to downsize," Arthur said flatly. "Just like every other family in this valley."
The phone on my desk rang.
I picked it up. "Dr. Sterling."
"Clara..." my mother’s voice came through the line. It was no longer the sharp, commanding voice of the matriarch of Oakridge Estates. It was thin, trembling, and incredibly old. "The... the heating system in the east wing has stopped working. The repairman says it will cost four thousand dollars to replace the blower motor. We... we don't have that kind of money in the account."
I looked out the window of my office, down at the bustling, sunlit plaza where a group of children from the emergency housing grid were playing tag around the central fountain.
"I’m sorry to hear that, Carol," I said, my voice calm, steady, and entirely professional.
"Can't you... can't you authorize a maintenance release from the trust?" she pleaded, her voice cracking. "We’re your parents, Clara. Surely there’s some space in the budget for your family."
I looked down at Lily, who had just successfully placed the final, red block on top of her tower, looking up at me with a triumphant, beautiful smile.
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"I’m sorry, Carol," I said, my hand resting on the phone cradle. "But the budget is at maximum capacity. There’s simply no room."
And before she could answer, I quietly hung up the phone.
