Chapter 6 - Forty-Six Thousand Reasons to Lie
The first person I wanted to call was my mother. The second was the supplier's attorney. Mara told me to call neither.
"Send me the request," she said. "Your father should give it to his own lawyer. A discovery request isn't a ruling, and somebody else's description of a transfer doesn't make it true."
I sat in our office with the loan agreement spread beside my laptop. Ethan brought me coffee. Lily was downstairs drawing animals for a pretend zoo, unaware that a stranger might soon scrutinize the money we had used to build her new bedroom.
"Can the supplier take our house?" I asked Mara.
"On what you've shown me, your house isn't pledged for this debt. A creditor can seek information about transactions involving a guarantor. That doesn't mean it can simply seize a different person's property. Your documentation matters. We'll respond through the proper channels if you're contacted."
I let that answer stay precise. Reassurance wasn't worth much if it had to be exaggerated to work.
Dad hired an attorney, Victor Chen, and agreed to provide the original bank records. He also told Ruth and his accountant about the potential exposure. Ruth called me afterward, not to thank me, but to ask whether my father had a practical plan for keeping the shop operating.
"He said he wants a meeting Friday," I told her.
"Good. He should have called it six months ago."
"I know."
"Emily, I like your dad. I have also watched him say yes to Diane when the answer should've been no. Those things can both be true."
Her words stayed with me as I drove to the grocery store. I'd always believed the difficult part of standing up for myself would be hearing my family say I was selfish. I hadn't expected the harder part: acknowledging that people I loved really had made costly choices, and I couldn't undo them without repeating the pattern.
At the store, I ran into Aunt Carla, my mother's younger sister. She greeted me uncertainly near the frozen vegetables.
"Your mom says there was an awful argument at Christmas," she said.
"There was."
"She says your husband won't let you talk to her."
I almost smiled. Ethan had spent the morning asking whether I wanted to take Lily to the skating rink. He'd never tried to decide which relative I could contact.
"I talk to her when I choose," I said. "Right now, I've asked her to leave our family alone."
Carla hesitated. "She told us Dad gave you money intended for Lauren's business."
"He repaid money he'd borrowed from me. We have a signed loan agreement and the bank records."
"Then why would Diane tell everyone the opposite?"
"That's a question for Diane."
Carla looked suddenly tired. "I'm sorry. She told me Lily was the reason you only work part-time. As though that's something you need to apologize for."
"Lily isn't a debt," I said.
"I know. I should have said so when she called."
Carla put the vegetables in her cart. I didn't ask her to choose a side. It was enough that she'd stopped pretending the story couldn't be checked.
That evening, Ethan and I went through the event documents again. It was hard to tell how much money Lauren had collected because the published package prices changed month by month. We made a list of people who'd contacted us: Serena, Monica, the florist, the guitarist. Each had a different piece of the same story. I sent them a short factual notice that Hawthorne Lane was not a venue and that Lauren had no authority to offer it. Mara reviewed the wording before I sent it.
Serena replied: Thank you. You may want to see this.
She attached a screenshot from an investor brochure. It showed our house under the heading FAMILY-CONTRIBUTED HOST PROPERTY. The text claimed that an extended Mercer family real-estate portfolio would support temporary events while renovations finished at the Juniper Room. Another page showed photographs of Dad's woodworking shop and called it a committed equity partner.
"Dad guaranteed the equipment," I told Ethan. "He didn't invest a building."
"We need to ask him what he signed before we assume that."
That was Ethan's gift: he didn't confuse suspicion with proof, even when suspicion would have been emotionally satisfying.
Dad answered from his lawyer's office. He'd seen the brochure, he admitted, but only a draft that mentioned the workshop. He said he'd told Diane and Lauren to remove his building from it. He had no knowledge of the house photograph.
"Can you send me that draft?" I asked.
"Victor has it. He can send Mara a copy."
"And will you tell investors the house isn't available?"
"Yes. I'll put it in writing."
He did it the same day. It should have happened earlier. It was still a real action, and I allowed myself to notice that.
Wednesday's meeting at the shop was tense. Dad's accountant projected a cash-flow forecast onto the conference-room wall. The core cabinetry business was profitable, but not enough to absorb a sudden six-figure personal judgment without major consequences if Dad liquidated his assets carelessly. Ruth proposed delaying new equipment and renegotiating supply terms. Dad agreed. No miracle check materialized. They kept taking measurements and finishing cabinets because customers still needed work done.
As the meeting ended, Ruth pulled me aside.
"Your mom called the shop yesterday," she said. "She told me you were refusing to repay your father. I told her I had the original loan paperwork in front of me."
"What did she say?"
"She hung up."
I almost laughed. Then Ruth's face grew serious.
"That wasn't the part that worried me," she said. "She asked which of our employees had access to the Bright Table Pantry's delivery van. Why would she need to know that?"
I didn't know. The pantry's volunteers had always picked up holiday food in a truck donated by a grocer. Its own van was used for senior deliveries. Mom had never asked me about the route schedule before.
May you like
An hour later, a neighbor sent me a screenshot of Diane's public post. It showed the photograph of our new home, our street name, and a paragraph accusing me of accepting family money while local families went hungry.
Below it was a sentence in bold: Ask Emily Mercer where your Christmas donations went.
