There was typing.
A pause.
Then:
“One moment, Mrs. Reynolds.”
My heart hammered.
A man came on.
“Mrs. Reynolds? This is Thomas Cole.”
“Hello.”
There was hesitation.
“Has Mark spoken with you?”
Every instinct told me to lie.
“Somewhat.”
Another pause.
“Then you understand we’ll need your signature Monday.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“My signature?”
“Yes.”
“Remind me what it’s for.”
Silence.
Then the attorney said carefully, “The property transfer.”
I stopped breathing.
“What property?”
A longer silence.
“Mrs. Reynolds, I think you should speak with your husband.”
“I am speaking with you.”
“I’m
afraid I may have misunderstood—”
“What property?”
He exhaled.
“The lake property.”
My mind raced.
Lake property?
We didn’t own lake property.
Then I remembered.
My father.
The cabin.
Not Ruth’s.
The other one.
A wooded parcel three counties north my father had left to me when he died.
Forty-two acres with an abandoned hunting lodge.
Mark hated it.
Always had.
He called it worthless.
“What about it?” I asked.
“The transfer documents identify the property as collateral.”
“Collateral for what?”
The attorney stopped.
Then his voice became formal.
“I apologize, Mrs. Reynolds. I shouldn’t discuss this further without Mark present.”
I hung up.
My hands were shaking.
I called Daniel.
He answered immediately.
“Mom?”
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
“Your father is trying to use Grandpa’s land.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can he?”
“No. It’s mine.”
There was silence.
Then Daniel said, “Mom.”
