Chapter 12 - The Cousin Who Remembered Me Too Late
Grant called the following morning.
He began with laughter.
Not happy laughter.
The kind men sometimes use when they want you to believe a conversation is casual even though they have already decided what you should do.
“Aunt Tatum.”
He had never called me that before.
When Daniel was alive, I had simply been Tatum.
At family gatherings, Grant barely spoke to me unless he needed somebody to pass a plate.
Now I was Aunt Tatum.
Money makes family trees grow new branches overnight.
“Hello, Grant.”
“I hear you got some confusing paperwork.”
“I got paperwork.”
“The lawyers make these things sound more complicated than they are.”
“I have a lawyer.”
Silence.
A small one.
But enough.
Then he laughed again.
“Of course you do.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“What do you want, Grant?”
“I want to save everybody time.”
“How?”
“The land was sorted years ago. Uncle Daniel’s interest came through Dad, and after Daniel died, you signed it over.”
“No.”
“You may not remember.”
There it was.
Not yet thirty seconds into the conversation.
My memory.
Again.
I looked at the clay bowl on my coffee table.
It was blue, uneven, and mine.
“I remember what I signed after my husband died.”
“Grief does strange things.”
“So does forgery.”
The laughter stopped.
Grant’s voice lowered.
“You should be careful using words like that.”
“So should the person who signs someone else’s name.”
“You’re seventy-one, Tatum.”
“Yes.”
“You really want to spend the next two years in court?”
“I spent thirty-eight years raising Cedric. Court doesn’t scare me.”
He hung up.
I called Ruth.
She told me not to speak with him again unless she approved the conversation.
Then she arranged for a document examiner.
By afternoon, Cedric had sent everything he possessed.
Grant’s text messages were especially useful.
One read:
You know how older people get stubborn when they think someone is taking something from them. Make her understand this saves everyone trouble.
Another:
You get yours when she signs.
I read that message twice.
Then I looked at Cedric.
We were sitting in my apartment, papers spread across the dining table.
He looked sick.
“He thought I’d do it.”
“Yes.”
“He thought I’d pressure you for money.”
“Yes.”
Cedric stood and walked toward the balcony.
“I gave him a reason.”
I let that sentence remain where he put it.
Two years earlier, I would have rushed after him.
No, sweetheart.
You changed.
You’re wonderful now.
Please don’t feel bad.
That would have been another rescue.
Instead I said, “You gave him an outdated reason.”
He turned.
“That’s not the same thing?”
“No.”
His face tightened.
“You did those things, Cedric. Pretending you didn’t won’t help. But you also chose differently this time.”
He nodded slowly.
“Grant said something else.”
“What?”
“He said Dad never wanted you involved with the land.”
That hurt.
More than it should have.
Daniel and I had loved each other, but our marriage had not been a storybook.
He avoided conflict.
Especially with his brothers.
If Raymond said he would handle something, Daniel let him.
If his family criticized me, Daniel sometimes changed the subject instead of defending me.
I had forgiven many things after he died because dead people are easy to improve in memory.
“What exactly did Grant say?”
“That Dad told Raymond the property should stay with the Tatum bloodline.”
I almost laughed.
“I was married to a Tatum for forty-one years. Apparently I was good enough to cook Christmas dinner but not enough blood for the dirt.”
Cedric winced.
“Sorry.”
“So am I.”
Ruth arrived at four with another discovery.
The quitclaim deed had supposedly been notarized by a woman named Pamela Keene.
She had worked for Raymond’s insurance agency.
She was also dead.
“That complicates things,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
“Also yes.”
But there was something else.
The deed had been recorded only six months earlier.
Not ten years ago when it was allegedly signed.
That mattered.
If the family truly believed the property had been transferred long ago, why wait almost a decade to record it?
Ruth believed the answer was simple.
The land had not been worth enough to fight over before.
Then a developer arrived.
Suddenly, somebody needed paperwork.
Cedric stared at the deed.
“Could Raymond have done this?”
“Maybe,” Ruth said. “Could be Grant. Could be someone else. We follow evidence.”
Raymond had died three years earlier.
That left his widow, Claudia, and Grant.
Daniel’s youngest brother, Stephen, still owned the remaining third.
I had not spoken with Stephen in years.
Ruth asked whether I had his number.
I did.
I almost wished I didn’t.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Tatum?”
“Hello, Stephen.”
A long pause.
Then:
“You got the letter.”
Not a question.
“You knew?”
“I knew there was an offer.”
“Did you know about the deed?”
Another pause.
My stomach tightened.
“Stephen?”
“I knew Grant said Daniel’s share had been handled.”
“Did you see my signature?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
Cowardice had a familiar sound in that family.
Stephen spoke again.
“Tatum, this could get ugly.”
“It already did.”
“We can work something out privately.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there’s enough money here that nobody has to walk away unhappy.”
I looked at Cedric across the table.
He heard the sentence.
So did Ruth.
“Stephen,” I said, “I am already unhappy.”
Then I ended the call.
That evening, somebody slid an envelope under my apartment door.
No stamp.
No return address.
Inside was a photocopy of the forged deed.
Across it, in thick black marker, someone had written:
May you like
TAKE THE OFFER.
NEXT TIME IT WON’T BE PAPER.
