Chapter 7 - WHAT MY SON DIDN'T SAY
Michael sat at my kitchen table, where I'd helped him study spelling words thirty years earlier. He wouldn't touch the roses.
“Why would you give that man my address?” I asked.
“He said he needed to send you paperwork. I thought it was about the refinance.”
“Did you know Jessica wanted to remove my lien?”
“I knew she wanted a clean title.”
“That's not an answer.”
He rubbed both hands over his face. “Yes. I knew. I told her to ask you. She said you were getting forgetful and would sign if she explained it gently.”
The words hurt more than the ruined picture. “And you believed her?”
“I didn't want to fight.”
“You let me become the fight instead.”
He stared at the worn tabletop. At seven he'd scratched his initials into it with a fork. I'd never sanded them away.
He finally told me the number: Jessica's business owed nearly $640,000 to suppliers, private lenders, and Grant's investment group. They had borrowed against everything they could. The house was the last valuable asset they could reach.
“Jessica says the debt will bury us,” he whispered.
“Debt can be negotiated. Fraud cannot be wished away.”
He nodded, then looked up sharply. “Did you really push glass against her face?”
“Yes. I lost my temper. I'll apologize for that act, not for asking what happened.”
“She's telling people you attacked her for no reason.”
“Then she's leaving out the reason, just as you are.”
Michael cried without making a sound. For one foolish second, I wanted to say I'd fix it, write a check, make everybody comfortable. Frank's note lay in front of me. I didn't.
My son's phone rang. Jessica. He answered on speaker by accident.
“Did she sign?” Jessica demanded, not bothering to say hello.
“No.”
“Then Grant says we move to the other option.”
“What other option?” I asked.
Jessica went silent. Then the line disconnected.
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