Chapter 8 - THE LEDGER WITH THE MISSING PAGES
“How much?”
Grant stood beside the open apartment door, holding a cardboard box.
I could see the muscles working in his jaw.
“Grant, tell me the number.”
He set the box down.
“I don't know the exact balance.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
He exhaled.
“The last time I reviewed the shop accounts, outstanding customer obligations exceeded available funds by more than forty thousand dollars.”
Diane stopped turning the page of her book.
I stared at him.
“Forty thousand?”
“Forty-one or forty-two. Somewhere around there.”
I felt physically sick.
“How many families?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you tell Mom to disclose it?”
“Yes.”
“Did she?”
He looked away.
That was answer enough.
I opened the door wider.
“Leave.”
“Tess—”
“I don't need another explanation from you tonight.”
He picked up his box and walked out.
Diane came into the kitchen.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “You cannot become the person who pays everyone back.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at her.
She continued gently.
“Because that's exactly what your family is expecting.”
I sat down.
She was right.
Already, some frightened part of me had started calculating how much I could take from savings.
How many vendors I could call.
How many repayment plans I could arrange.
That was what I'd always done.
Find the problem.
Build the solution.
Keep everybody comfortable.
But this time, the problem had been created by people who had knowingly used me.
“I won't pay their debts,” I said.
Diane nodded.
“Good. You can insist they tell the truth. Those are different things.”
The following morning, I returned to Willow & Stem.
Mom was alone.
I placed a sheet of paper on the counter.
It contained every question I needed answered.
The total customer obligations.
The amount owed to suppliers.
The studio expenses.
The money taken from my accounts.
And the names of everyone who had authorized the transfers.
Mom read the list.
“You're treating me like a criminal.”
“I'm treating you like a business owner who owes people money.”
She sat down heavily.
“I don't have all the answers.”
“Then we need someone independent to review the records.”
She shook her head.
“I can't afford that.”
I looked around the shop.
At the flowers.
The shelves.
The photographs of Dad.
Then back at her.
“You couldn't afford the renovations either.”
She flinched.
For a long time, I thought she would refuse.
Instead, she opened the old filing cabinet.
“Your father used to reconcile every week,” she said.
“I remember.”
“He didn't trust computers.”
“He trusted them. He just wanted something he could check with his own eyes.”
She gave me a faint, unhappy smile.
Then pulled out a thick green ledger.
I recognized it immediately.
Dad's old handwritten account book.
After he died, Mom had continued using the same kind of numbered pages for major deposits and expenses, even though the everyday bookkeeping was digital.
The cover was worn at the corners.
A faded blue ribbon marked the current section.
I opened it.
The entries were dated.
Amounts carefully written.
Customer names.
Receipt numbers.
Transfers.
But when I reached the spring records, something was wrong.
Several pages had been removed.
Not accidentally torn.
Cleanly cut along the binding.
“Where are these?”
Mom looked at the ledger.
“I don't know.”
I studied the page numbers.
Four hundred seventeen.
Four hundred eighteen.
Four hundred nineteen.
All missing.
“Who uses this book?”
“Mostly me.”
“Does Layla?”
“Sometimes.”
“Grant?”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
I turned to the next complete page.
The first entry after the gap recorded a transfer associated with Sunday Table.
Beside it was a handwritten notation:
Temporary allocation. Replace following winter bookings.
I recognized Mom's handwriting.
I looked at her.
“When did you begin moving customer deposits to the studio?”
She stared at the ledger.
“I don't remember the exact date.”
I didn't believe her.
I asked whether she would agree to a meeting with an independent bookkeeper, Layla, and me.
She resisted.
Then finally agreed.
That afternoon, I contacted Mrs. Whitcomb.
Not to discuss anyone else's finances.
I simply asked whether she would be willing to provide her own receipts to the bookkeeper if necessary.
She agreed.
“I want the truth,” she said. “But I don't want your mother ruined if this can be fixed.”
Her kindness hurt.
Because even the woman whose money had been mishandled was showing more compassion than my own family had shown me.
Later, Layla came to my apartment.
She carried a small cardboard box.
Inside were the items I'd left at Sunday Table while planning the wedding.
A ribbon sample.
Two candleholders.
And Dad's old brass pruning shears, which Mom had lent her for the studio display.
I picked them up carefully.
The handles were worn smooth.
My father used to let me carry them when we worked together.
Layla watched me.
“I thought you might want those back.”
“Thank you.”
She looked at the banking records spread across my table.
“Mom says you're bringing in someone to examine the books.”
“Yes.”
Layla went pale.
“Tessa, before you do that, there's something you should know.”
I put down the shears.
“What?”
She took a slow breath.
“Mom didn't start moving money because my studio was failing.”
I frowned.
“Then why?”
Layla's eyes filled.
“She moved the first customer deposits before I even signed the lease.”
I stared at her.
She reached into the cardboard box and removed a folded photocopy.
It was a receipt.
Dated February 6.
Made out to Willow & Stem.
And beneath the total was a handwritten instruction.
Transfer to studio reserve. Approved by Mom.
I looked at the date again.
February 6.
Before the renovations.
Before the ribbon-cutting.
Before Grant's first transfer from my wedding account.
My mother hadn't been responding to a financial emergency.
May you like
She had started it.
And she had been preparing for it long before she claimed everything had simply gotten out of control.
