Chapter 5 - My Father's Handwriting
The photograph had been taken in my father's kitchen.
I knew because the yellow clock above the refrigerator was visible behind his shoulder.
He stood beside Adrian, holding a small handwritten card.
Whatever makes the kids happy.
Dad was smiling.
Adrian had one arm around him.
The picture might have looked harmless to anyone who didn't know what had happened.
But attached to a statement claiming my father approved the double wedding, it became something else.
“When was this taken?” I asked Naomi.
“I don't know.”
I enlarged the photograph on my phone.
Dad wore the navy sweater I had bought him for Christmas.
On the counter was a plate of oatmeal cookies.
I remembered those cookies.
Adrian had visited Dad in late April to help move an old dresser out of the spare bedroom.
My father had called afterward to say Adrian was a good man.
The memory hurt.
“I'm taking this to him,” I told Naomi.
“That's fine. Keep the copy.”
She closed the folder.
“And Julia? I'm freezing the transfer request until we understand who authorized what.”
For the first time since Tuesday, I felt that someone besides me was taking the word no seriously.
Dad was in the garage when I arrived.
His suit hung from a hook beside the door, still inside its plastic covering.
He had been trying it on again that morning.
I held up the photograph.
“Do you remember this?”
He put down a box of screws.
“Sure.”
“What was the card for?”
He looked surprised.
“Adrian asked me to write something for a family picture. Said they might put little messages from the parents near the guest book.”
My stomach sank.
“Did he explain that Kelsey and Wes were getting married with us?”
“No.”
“Did he ask whether your money could pay for their wedding?”
Dad stared at me.
Then his expression changed.
“No.”
I handed him the document.
He read the paragraph about family contributions.
His jaw tightened.
“I never agreed to that.”
“I know.”
He looked at the photograph again.
“He used my picture to make it look like I did.”
I nodded.
Dad set the paper down carefully.
For a moment, he seemed older than he had that morning.
Then he said, “I should have talked to you directly.”
“Dad, Adrian told you I was handling it.”
“And I accepted that.”
“He was supposed to be someone we could trust.”
Dad rubbed his eyes.
“I liked that young man.”
“So did I.”
We stood quietly in the garage.
Then he reached for his suit.
“I'd better take this back.”
“Why?”
“The wedding's canceled.”
I looked at the dry-cleaning bag.
He had bought the suit in March.
He'd spent an entire Saturday debating whether the shoulders fit properly.
“Don't return it,” I said.
“What am I going to do with a suit like this?”
“I don't know. Wear it to dinner.”
He gave me a tired smile.
“At my age, dinner usually means the diner on Alpine Avenue.”
“Then you'll be the best-dressed man there.”
He laughed.
It was a small sound, but I needed it.
Later that afternoon, I returned to Adrian's townhouse with my friend Rachel.
Rachel was a physical therapist I'd known since community college. She had offered to help me pack without asking for explanations.
We brought boxes from a grocery store and began in the bedroom.
Adrian was at work.
The house was strangely tidy.
His shoes were lined beneath the bench.
The kitchen counters were clean.
The bananas from Sunday's argument sat in a brown-spotted bunch beside the microwave.
I almost laughed.
Our last ordinary disagreement had outlived our engagement.
Rachel folded sweaters while I removed my books from the nightstand.
Halfway through the closet, I found a garment bag behind Adrian's winter coats.
Inside was his wedding suit.
I had helped him choose it.
A charcoal jacket, pale blue tie, and white shirt.
Pinned to the garment bag was a small envelope.
I assumed it contained the alterations receipt.
Instead, I found a handwritten note.
Thank you for making June 20 possible. I know you're taking a lot of heat for us. I won't forget it.
It was signed by Wes.
Dated May twenty-ninth.
Three days before the walkthrough.
I showed Rachel.
“That's strange,” she said.
“Why?”
“He wrote it like Adrian was doing something difficult for them.”
“He was.”
Rachel examined the envelope.
“Maybe. But read this again.”
I did.
I know you're taking a lot of heat for us.
Wes had known there was a conflict.
He had known somebody was objecting.
Yet at the walkthrough, he acted as though Adrian had assured him everything was settled.
I placed the note in my bag.
When we reached the dresser, Rachel picked up a framed photograph.
It showed Adrian and me standing beside Lake Michigan two summers earlier.
My hair was windblown.
He had wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
I remembered being cold and laughing because he kept insisting we'd catch the sunset if we walked faster.
“Do you want this?” Rachel asked.
I looked at the picture.
“Yes.”
She placed it carefully between two folded towels.
I didn't need to erase every good memory to acknowledge what had happened.
At six, Adrian came home.
He stopped in the doorway when he saw the boxes.
“You're really doing this.”
Rachel continued packing without speaking.
I closed the dresser drawer.
“Yes.”
He looked at the nearly empty bookshelf.
“Can we talk alone?”
Rachel glanced at me.
“I'll be in the kitchen,” she said.
When she left, Adrian sat on the edge of the bed.
“I know I handled things badly.”
It was the first time he had admitted even that much.
I waited.
“I shouldn't have changed the schedule without telling you.”
“No.”
“I thought once you saw how it would work, you'd understand.”
“You thought I'd be too embarrassed to refuse.”
He looked away.
His silence was answer enough.
I took Wes's note from my bag.
“Why did he write this?”
Adrian read it.
Then he rubbed his forehead.
“Because he knew Kelsey was upset.”
“About what?”
“The wedding. The money. Everything.”
“Why did he mention you taking heat?”
“Because I was trying to keep everyone happy.”
I shook my head.
“That isn't an answer.”
Adrian stood.
For a moment, he looked almost frightened.
“You don't understand how bad things were getting for them.”
“Then tell me.”
He walked toward the window.
Finally, he said, “Wes had a problem at work.”
“What kind of problem?”
Adrian didn't turn around.
“He thought he might lose his job. Their wedding savings were nearly gone, and I told him I would help.”
“How much?”
He remained silent.
“Adrian. How much money did you give them?”
He looked at me.
Then he said, “I didn't give them money.”
I stared at him.
“I guaranteed something.”
My heart began beating faster.
“What did you guarantee?”
He reached into his desk drawer and removed a folded agreement.
At the top were the words Private Loan Acknowledgment.
Below them was an amount.
Twelve thousand dollars.
May you like
And in the section describing the source of repayment, I saw four words that made my blood run cold.
Proceeds from wedding contributions.
