Chapter 3 - The House Beneath Our Feet
“You thought I'd never find out?”
My voice carried farther than I intended.
A woman two tables away stopped lifting her wineglass.
Greg looked at me, his face drained of color.
“Laura, that isn't what I meant.”
“Then tell me what you meant.”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Elaine stood so abruptly that her chair scraped against the floor.
“This has gone far enough.”
Dad reached for his coffee.
“I agree.”
For one hopeful moment, I thought she might apologize.
Instead, she pointed at the documents.
“You have no idea how many families depend on this business, Walter. Twenty-seven employees. Some have worked for us since my husband was alive.”
“And that makes my daughter's signature available to borrow?”
“It wasn't supposed to hurt her.”
I looked at Elaine.
“Wasn't supposed to?”
She realized her mistake.
Greg stood.
“Mom. Stop.”
Brent picked up his jacket but made no attempt to defend her.
That frightened me.
Brent usually defended Elaine even when she was wrong.
I gathered the papers and slipped them back into the envelope.
“Dad, I'm leaving.”
Greg stepped toward me.
“Let me drive you.”
“No.”
“Laura, please.”
I looked directly at him.
“Did you know I hadn't signed?”
He stared at the floor.
“Yes.”
There it was.
Not a misunderstanding.
Not paperwork misplaced in a busy office.
A decision.
My husband had watched somebody put my name on a mortgage and had helped make it look legitimate.
I walked out before I could ask anything else.
Dad followed me into the cold Massachusetts night.
His old pickup was parked near the far end of the lot.
For years, Greg had complained about that truck.
He said it embarrassed him whenever my father parked it beside the luxury cars outside our house.
That night, I had never been happier to see it.
Dad opened the passenger door.
I climbed in.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked the question that had been burning through me.
“Did Mom really leave me land?”
Dad gripped the steering wheel.
“She left you an interest in something she believed mattered.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because after she died, you were barely getting through each day. Then Greg's business started growing, and I didn't want money becoming another argument in your marriage.”
“You should have trusted me.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
His admission made me cry harder than another excuse would have.
We drove through the quiet streets toward my house on Walnut Street.
I had helped choose its yellow kitchen curtains.
I'd planted roses beside the porch.
I'd painted the upstairs guest bedroom myself.
I had always called it our home.
Now I wondered whether the bank called it something else.
Dad parked beside the curb.
The porch light was on.
“Before you go inside,” he said, “there's something you need to understand.”
I turned toward him.
“Millbrook never authorized the sale of the entire parcel.”
“Greg said a buyer was waiting.”
“There is a buyer. But the original development proposal requires something I haven't agreed to.”
“What?”
Dad looked down at the envelope.
“The land has a drainage easement along its eastern edge. Your mother insisted on protecting it.”
I frowned.
“A drainage easement?”
“Water from the Cedar Court neighborhood crosses that property through an old channel. If someone blocks it without proper engineering, dozens of homes could flood.”
“And Greg knows?”
“His company received the survey.”
I remembered hearing Brent complain about survey costs.
“Then why would the buyer want to build there?”
“That's what I'm trying to find out.”
Headlights appeared behind us.
Greg's black SUV pulled into the driveway.
Dad stayed where he was.
“Do you want me to come inside?”
I looked at the house.
Then at my husband's vehicle.
“No. I need to hear him answer without hiding behind anyone.”
Dad squeezed my hand.
“I'll be here if you need me.”
Inside, Greg had already placed his keys on the kitchen counter.
The house smelled faintly of the cinnamon candle I'd lit before dinner.
Everything looked normal.
That made it worse.
I set the envelope beside the fruit bowl.
“Start talking.”
Greg stood beside the refrigerator.
“Last summer, the company had a terrible quarter. Two contractors went bankrupt owing us money. We had payroll, equipment payments, and suppliers threatening to stop deliveries.”
“You could have told me.”
“I didn't want you worrying.”
“You've said that twice tonight. Stop pretending silence was a gift.”
He lowered his head.
“The bridge loan was supposed to last ninety days. We expected to sell the Route 17 property before it matured.”
“Then why did you need our house?”
“The bank wanted additional security because the property was jointly owned.”
“And I refused?”
He swallowed.
“You never had the chance.”
I stared at him.
He continued.
“Mom said the paperwork was temporary. She said the company could cover it before anyone would notice.”
“Your mother arranged this?”
“Mom found the notary. Brent handled the site documents.”
“And you signed as a witness.”
Greg nodded.
I leaned against the counter.
“How long have you known my signature was forged?”
“Since January.”
Ten months.
For ten months, he had kissed me goodbye in the mornings and asked what I wanted for dinner.
He had watched me pay extra toward our mortgage.
He had let me believe those payments were protecting our future.
I thought of every ordinary kindness between us and felt suddenly uncertain which ones had been real.
“Do you love me?” I asked.
His eyes filled.
“Of course I do.”
“Then why was losing your mother's approval more frightening than losing my trust?”
He had no answer.
I went upstairs and pulled an overnight bag from the closet.
Greg followed me.
“Where are you going?”
“Dad's.”
“Please don't make a decision tonight.”
“I made one when I walked out of that restaurant.”
As I folded my clothes, Greg stood silently in the doorway.
Then I opened the small drawer where we kept our house papers.
Something was missing.
The blue folder containing our original deed, insurance documents, and mortgage statements wasn't there.
“Greg?”
He looked up.
“Where's the blue folder?”
His face changed.
“It's at the office.”
“Why?”
“The bank requested copies.”
I stared at him.
“And when exactly were you planning to tell me?”
He stepped into the bedroom.
“Laura, listen. There's something else about the loan.”
I didn't move.
“The bank didn't just take the house as additional collateral.”
My fingers tightened around the drawer handle.
May you like
Greg's voice dropped.
“Mom used the money from our house to pay a debt she never told Brent about.”
