Chapter 5 - The Florida Mirage
The restaurant on Lincoln Avenue was crowded, the warm glow of amber pendant lights reflecting off dark wood booths and polished wine glasses. An accordion player was performing quietly near the front window, creating a wall of pleasant noise that ensured our conversation wouldn't carry to the neighboring tables.
Walter was in high spirits, ordering a bottle of Chianti and insisting on toasting Mark.
“To our son,” Walter said, raising his glass. “A man who knows the value of family and property. Here’s to a solid roof over our heads.”
Mark picked up his wine glass with fingers that were visibly trembling. He took a long swallow, his eyes darting toward me every three seconds like an animal tracking the sights of a rifle. He hadn't said more than twenty words since we left the apartment. In the Uber, he had tried to grab my hand, whispering, “Ra, what did you find? Let’s talk about this at home,” but I had simply turned to look out the window at the autumn rain.
“So, Mark,” Diane said, breaking off a piece of garlic bread and dipping it in olive oil. “Tell us about the numbers. Did you manage to get that five percent interest rate on the Chicago place like you wanted?”
Mark cleared his throat. “Mom, this really isn't the place to discuss finances—”
“Why not?” I asked brightly, opening my tote bag and placing the four manila folders on the white tablecloth. “We’re all family here. Isn't that what you always say, Diane? What belongs to one belongs to all of us?”
Diane frowned, looking down at the folders. “What is this?”
“That’s the closing portfolio,” I said, sliding one folder to Walter, one to Diane, and keeping one in front of me. I slid the fourth directly across the table to Mark.
Walter put on his reading glasses and opened the folder. “Wait... what is Hartley Holdings LLC?”
Mark lunged across the table, his hand slamming down on Walter’s folder. “Dad, don't read that! It’s private business!”
“Take your hand off your father’s folder, Mark,” I said. My voice was neither loud nor angry; it carried the terrifying, cold authority of a judge handing down a sentence.
Two waiters carrying trays paused behind our booth, sensing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure. Mark looked around wildly, then pulled his hand back, slumping into his seat with sweat beading across his forehead.
“Walter,” I said, turning to the old man whose hands were beginning to shake. “Turn to page three. Do you recognize that carbon transfer receipt?”
Walter flipped the page. His eyes widened behind his bifocals. “That’s... that’s my check. The sixty thousand from my Rockford retirement fund. But... why does it say St. Petersburg, Florida?”
“Because your son didn't put a single penny into my apartment,” I said clearly.
Diane scoffed, though her voice lacked its usual bite. “Don't be ridiculous, Rachel! He told us he used it to pay down your mortgage!”
“My mortgage has been serviced through Chase Bank since 2018,” I said, looking Diane dead in the eye. “The principal balance hasn't changed by sixty thousand dollars. In fact, Mark hasn't contributed a dime to the mortgage principal since we got married—he only paid half the monthly interest, while I covered every single tax assessment, maintenance fee, and insurance premium.”
I pointed to page two of Diane’s folder.
“Your son took your sixty thousand dollars, combined it with twenty thousand dollars he stole from our joint savings account under the lie of a failed taproom investment, and bought himself a four-hundred-thousand-dollar home in St. Petersburg under an LLC registered solely in his name.”
Diane stared at the paper. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked at Mark, her face twisting with disbelief. “Mark? What is she talking about? Where is our Florida condo?”
“Mom, listen to me,” Mark pleaded, his voice breaking into a frantic whine. “The market in Tampa was booming! It was an investment! I was going to flip it after two years, double the money, and buy you an even bigger place!”
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“You told us our condo would be ready in six weeks!” Diane gasped, her voice rising in pitch. “You had us move our furniture into Rachel’s apartment! You told me it was your house!”
“It was never his house,” I said calmly, taking a sip of my water. “And it never will be.”
