Chapter 9: The Counterattack
The next morning, I had one leg of the oak chair braced between my knees when someone knocked on the front door.
Not the quick, apologetic tap of a neighbor. Three measured knocks, spaced as neatly as nails in a new box.
I set down the sandpaper and opened the door.
Richard stood on my porch with a slim leather folder under one arm. His gaze traveled past me, into the cleared bedroom, where the chair sat on my workbench beneath the window.
“So this is what you’re doing now,” he said.
“I’m fixing a chair.”
He stepped inside without waiting to be invited. His polished shoes paused at the edge of the drop cloth.
“I came to offer a way out of this mess.”
“I thought you said you’d handle everything.”
“I can.” Richard opened his folder and took out a check. He placed it on my kitchen table, turning it so the amount faced me. “This should cover the inconvenience. More than cover it, really.”
I didn’t pick it up.
“What do you want in return?”
His expression softened, as if I’d asked him about the weather. “A short statement that you understood the guarantee and agreed to it. Then you stop calling people and stirring up trouble. The lender gets reassurance, Alexander keeps his firm, and everyone can move on.”
“I didn’t sign that guarantee.”
“Your signature is there.”
“Not my hand.”
The softness left his face. He slid the check closer to me.
“Teresa, this doesn’t have to become a public fight. You don’t want to be the reason a dozen people lose their jobs.”
I thought of Evan at the studio, trying to ask about Friday’s payroll while Alexander told him he was handling it. Richard knew exactly which part of the story to press. He wanted me to picture those employees standing outside an office with no paycheck—and to mistake his pressure for my responsibility.
“You’re asking me to say something untrue.”
“I’m asking you to be practical.”
“I spent my life being practical. It’s how I know this check comes with strings.”
He tapped the leather folder. “If you won’t accept a private solution, there are consequences.”
“Then put your offer in writing.”
For a moment, he watched me as if I were a stubborn piece of machinery that might work if he found the right wrench.
“Why make this harder than it needs to be?”
“Because you’re asking me to lie about my own name.”
He gathered the check and folder. Near the doorway, he glanced back at the chair.
“Your son is in a difficult position.”
“He put himself there.”
Richard’s mouth tightened. He left without another word.
I stood in the quiet after his car pulled away, unsettled by how easily he’d carried the threat into my home and set it beside the check. I went back to the chair, but the sandpaper dragged against the wood. My hand had begun to shake.
My phone rang.
Alexander.
“Did Richard come by?” he asked.
“Yes.”
A pause. Then, “He called two of our clients this morning. He told them you’re unstable, that you’ve been interfering with the firm because I stopped paying your bills.”
The words landed harder than Richard’s threat about payroll. For one foolish second, I pictured those clients turning away from the building my son had worked so hard to design. Then I pictured Richard telling strangers I couldn’t be trusted with my own thoughts.
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them the loan is being disputed and you didn’t cause the firm’s financial trouble.” His voice lowered. “I should have said more.”
“You said what was true.”
“I’m sorry he dragged you into this.”
I looked at the checkless table, then toward the closed folder of loan papers. “He didn’t drag me in, Alexander. He put my name on a guarantee. I’m trying to get it off.”
“I know.” This time, he didn’t ask me to soften it for him. “I’ll call if he contacts anyone else.”
When we hung up, I pressed my palms flat on the workbench until the trembling eased. Then I picked up the sandpaper again. The chair still needed work, and I was not going to let Richard decide what I could finish.
The phone rang before I’d made another pass along the chair leg. The number was unfamiliar, but the woman who introduced herself said she was calling from the lender.
“We received a written declaration from Richard,” she said. “He states that you authorized the guarantee and agreed to its terms.”
“I did not.”
“I understand that you dispute the document. But unless we receive a response, the lender may proceed on the basis that the guarantee is valid.”
I gripped the edge of the workbench.
“How long do I have?”
May you like
There was a brief silence on the line.
“Until five o’clock tomorrow.”
