Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE THAT WASN'T MINE
“Don't open that door, Erica.”
Lauren's voice had changed.
Thirty seconds earlier, she had been screaming at me in front of twenty relatives. Now her fingers were shaking against my shoulder.
I looked at her hand.
“Take it off.”
“Please. You don't understand what this could do to us.”
“Then you should have explained it before you used my name.”
I opened the door.
A silver-haired gentleman stood on the porch, holding a leather portfolio. Beside him was a younger woman carrying a tablet.
“Mrs. Erica Knight?”
“Yes.”
The gentleman offered his hand.
“Thomas Whitaker. I'm the executive director of Heritage Hospitality Group. This is my colleague, Dana Brooks.”
I recognized the company name.
Heritage managed corporate dining programs throughout Ohio.
“I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding,” Lauren interrupted, appearing beside me with a smile so stiff it looked painful.
Thomas glanced between us.
“That's precisely why we're here.”
He opened his portfolio.
“Mrs. Knight, we've received conflicting information concerning your agreement to provide catering services for our executive appreciation dinner next Saturday.”
“I haven't agreed to anything.”
Thomas stopped turning pages.
“I'm sorry?”
“I haven't catered professionally since I sold my restaurant.”
He studied me for a moment.
“Then perhaps you can explain this.”
He handed me a contract.
At the top were the words:
KNIGHT FAMILY KITCHEN — PREMIUM CATERING SERVICES.
Below that was a detailed menu.
Herb-roasted chicken.
Slow-cooked beef brisket.
Buttermilk biscuits.
My famous maple-glazed carrots.
Even my late husband's sweet potato casserole.
At the bottom was a signature.
Erica M. Knight.
My stomach tightened.
“That isn't my signature.”
Behind me, Lauren made a small choking sound.
Thomas turned to Dana.
“Document that statement.”
I kept reading.
The total contract value was $24,000.
A deposit of $12,000 had already been paid.
And according to the agreement, I was responsible for eighty guests, all food preparation, staffing, delivery, and cleanup.
If I failed to perform, the contract listed penalties that could exceed the remaining balance.
I looked at Lauren.
“You signed my name to a twenty-four-thousand-dollar agreement?”
She folded her arms.
“Ryan said you would help.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Ryan stepped forward from the dining room.
“Mom, I didn't know she'd actually signed anything.”
Lauren turned sharply.
“You knew about the dinner!”
“I knew you wanted Mom to cook. I didn't know you were pretending to be her.”
Thomas cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Knight, we also need to address the certification.”
“What certification?”
Dana turned her tablet toward me.
A photograph appeared.
It showed a framed certificate bearing my former restaurant's name.
KNIGHT'S TABLE.
Underneath was an old photograph of me and my husband, Walter, standing outside our restaurant on opening day.
I hadn't seen that picture in years.
“Where did you get this?” I whispered.
Thomas frowned.
“It was included in your company's promotional materials.”
I shook my head.
“That photograph belonged to my husband.”
Lauren looked toward the staircase.
For the first time, I noticed how frightened she appeared.
Not embarrassed.
Frightened.
Thomas lowered his voice.
“Mrs. Knight, Heritage selected this proposal because of your restaurant's reputation. Several executives remember eating there.”
“Then they remember that I worked beside my husband.”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “In fact, there's someone in our organization who remembers him very well.”
He reached into his portfolio and removed another photograph.
This one was older.
Walter stood behind our restaurant counter beside a younger Thomas Whitaker.
Between them was a silver pocket watch.
My breath caught.
Walter's watch.
The one he wore every day for thirty-two years.
The one that disappeared after his funeral.
“Where did you get that picture?”
Thomas studied my expression.
“Your husband gave it to me in 1998. He helped me through a difficult time.”
I looked down at the photograph.
Walter had written something on the back.
Good food fills a stomach. Good people save a life.
His handwriting.
His words.
I felt tears gathering.
Then Thomas said something that made the entire room go quiet.
“Mrs. Knight, we didn't originally approach your daughter-in-law about this contract.”
I raised my eyes.
“Who did?”
He hesitated.
“Someone contacted our company three months ago, claiming to represent your late husband's business interests.”
Lauren moved toward him.
“Thomas, I think you've said enough.”
He ignored her.
“That person provided private records concerning Knight's Table. Records that were never publicly available.”
I looked at Ryan.
He looked completely lost.
Then Thomas turned another page.
Attached to the proposal was a photograph of an old yellow recipe notebook.
Walter's notebook.
The one I kept locked inside a wooden box in my bedroom.
Under the photograph was a handwritten note.
The original owner does not know the full value of what she sold.
I stopped breathing.
Because the handwriting wasn't Lauren's.
It was my son's.
May you like
And beneath it was a second sentence.
Ask Ryan Knight about the missing appendix.
