Chapter 9 - The House of Paper Collapses
Arthur Pendelton looked at the agreement. Then he looked at Constance’s face, which had collapsed into a mask of grey, withered defeat.
"Constance," Arthur said softly, his voice stripped of all legal bluster. "Sign them. Martin has the Carver affidavit. If this goes to a judge, you will not win. You will lose the house, you will lose the condo, and you may very well spend your seventy-second year in a state correctional facility. Sign the papers."
Constance’s hand shook so violently that she could barely hold the pen.
She signed the first document: the deed reconveying the East Broad Street commercial plaza. Her signature was a jagged, broken line that looked nothing like the sweeping, theatrical script she had used on the stolen checks.
She signed the quitclaim for the Fort Myers condo.
She signed the corporate resignations.
She signed the promissory note pledging her house on Roxbury Road as collateral for the half-million dollars she had stolen from Daniel’s workers.
When she reached the final page—the lifetime non-disparagement agreement and civil restraining order—she stopped. She looked up at me, her eyes hollow, burning with an impotent, dying rage.
"You ruined my family," she whispered.
"No, Constance," I said, leaning across the table and taking the executed deeds before the ink was even dry. "Your family was built on paper that didn't match. I simply examined the title."
Martin Vance gathered the documents, checked each signature with the cold eye of an executioner verifying a death certificate, and slid them into his leather briefcase. He stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and gave Arthur a curt nod.
"We will record the deeds this afternoon, Arthur. The first payment on the promissory note is due on the first of next month. If it is forty-eight hours late, we file the foreclosure action immediately."
Martin turned and walked out of the room.
Daniel stood up. He looked down at Constance one last time. She sat alone at the end of the long mahogany table, her camel-hair coat draped over the back of her chair like a discarded skin, her hands resting flat on the polished wood.
"Goodbye, Mom," Daniel said.
He didn't wait for her to answer. He turned, took my hand in his, and we walked out of the Founders’ Room together.
As we walked down the grand carpeted hallway toward the club entrance, Patty Lindquist was walking toward the ladies’ locker room carrying a tennis racket. When she saw Daniel and me, she stopped dead, her face freezing into an awkward, guilty mask.
"Oh! Nora... Daniel," Patty stammered, clutching the racket to her chest. "I... we were so sorry about Saturday. It was just... Constance said it was an old joke, and—"
"Good afternoon, Patty," I said, my voice pleasant, polite, and completely indifferent.
May you like
I didn't stop. I didn't lower my eyes. I walked past her with Daniel at my side, our footsteps steady and synchronized against the patterned wool carpet, out through the brass doors and into the bright, cold November sunshine.
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