Page 13 of A Night to Remember

“What’s wrong?” I ask, immediately anxious.

“I found this tucked inside a catalog. I didn’t see it until just now.” She hands it to me, not meeting my eyes. My hands shake as I realize what I’m seeing.

“I’ll go to the bank tomorrow,” I promise. “We can’t let this happen.”

7

Gabe

My first morningat the courthouse passes in a blur. The city attorney, Mark Pritchard, can hardly issue an instruction without launching into a long description of the related case, sprinkled liberally with local gossip.

“Now the Gernsheimers—you must know them, Gabe—they’re all worked up about this easement that connects their farm to the state park. People have been using that path for decades—including after dark, if you get my meaning, Gabe—without so much as a peep from the family, but now all of a sudden Pat Gernsheimer wants to build a fence on his property that would cut off access. Says he’s worried about coyotes attacking his calves, but you know what I think? I think his youngest girl—that’d be Chloe’s little sister, she must’ve graduated with you, Gabe—has become a little too friendly with a certain new park ranger. Says he’s hanging around near the Gernsheimer property to eradicate invasive autumn olive, but you know what I think?”

And so on. Meanwhile I’ve been poised with a telephone halfway to my ear, waiting to call the aforementioned Pat, for what seems like half an hour. Mark blocks the doorway of my closet-like office, one hand on a khaki-clad hip and the other occasionally stroking a walrusy mustache. He talks fast, bestowing stories on me in the ecstatic rush of a kid showing off what he got for Christmas. Meanwhile his receptionist, Nancy, pops her head in every five minutes, asking if I’d like coffee or tea and gushing about how thrilled they both are that I’m here. Either they are bored to tears with one another or they were in desperate need of a paralegal, but one thing’s for sure: they are happier to see me than anyone else in Kentwood, my own family included. I’m touched, but also a little relieved when it’s time to meet my dad for lunch.

I say goodbye to Mark and Nancy with promises to returnin exactly one hourand to have lunch with both of themsoonand head across the square to the bank. I take deep, cleansing breaths of the snow-scented air to brace myself for an hour of tension after a morning of effusive joy. I resolve to not instantly interpret everything Adam says as infuriatingly smug and not be hurt by the disappointment in my father’s eyes.

The town square is the pride of Kentwood. The courthouse sits in the center, surrounded by a lawn shaded by mature oaks and elms. All four sides of the square are lined by nineteenth-century shopfronts that have been lovingly restored over the decades. Each building boasts its own unique, ornate carvings, which sparkle above brightly-colored awnings in the winter sun. The businesses are a mixture of new boutiques and restaurants and establishments that have been handed down from parent to child for generations. I pass the barber shop where I got my first haircut and the bridal shop where I rented my tux for prom. Despite my initial reservations, there’s something comforting about feeling rooted in a place where you know every stone,every window arch. The Mark and Nancy Welcoming Committee has made me feel optimistic for the first time in months.

I walk into the bank like I own the place (after all, my family practically does) and head for my father’s office. The secretary, who I still call Mrs. Andrews, even though she now insists I call her Cathy, greets me with a smile.

“It’s so nice to see you again, hon! I’m sure your dad and Adam will be ready in a moment. But…”

I hear an uncertain note in her voice as her smile falters.

“What is it?”

“Well, a few minutes ago, a young woman stormed in here and went straight into your dad’s office. She didn’t have an appointment, but I couldn’t stop her. Your dad—bless his heart—is letting her speak her piece, I think.”

I look beyond her desk into the small hallway that connects my father’s office to the waiting area. I hear raised voices: my father, of course, and a woman who sounds vaguely familiar.

“If you don’t mind,” I say to Mrs. Andrews, “I’ll just go back there and see if I can help extricate him from the situation.”

“He’d probably appreciate that,” she says, her smile returning.

I walk down the hallway towards the open door of his office. As I step across the threshold, my heart stutters: the woman he’s talking to is none other than Kayla Johnson. She has her back to me, but there’s no mistaking her. Maybe it’s the confident way she stands, like she knows her place in the world and is ready to fight to defend it. Her bulky coat can’t hide her slim waist, the curve of her hips and her long, slender legs. Her brown hair, still flecked with flakes from the dusting of snow outside, shines in the garish overhead light of the office. The blood begins to pound in my ears; the bumblebee in my chest resumes its frantic dance. It feels like the only thing that would still me is to come up behind her, wrap my arms around her, and press her to me.I want to bury my face in her hair and breathe in her scent. I still remember the whiff of Ivory soap and floral shampoo that I caught at the graduation party. I wonder what she smells like now.

I’ve thought about our encounter in the café probably once a minute, on average, since it happened three days ago. And after cycling through various options, the emotion I’ve settled on isworry. The smartest, most beautiful woman I know is working at a dead-end job. The smartest, most beautiful woman I know can’t encounter a high school acquaintance without looking like she’s going to burst into tears. And now she’s charged into my father’s office unannounced, which seems both incredibly brave and incredibly desperate.

“And so,” she’s saying, in measured, yet urgent tones, “if you give us two more weeks, I’ll get you the money for the December payment, and then the January payment will only be three weeks late.”

My father is calm and not unsympathetic, but firm.

“Ms. Johnson, as I’ve been trying to tell you, decisions on foreclosures are handled by our Loan Servicing department.”

“I spent all morning on the phone with them! No one will talk to me!”

“Probably because you’re not the borrower. Please try to understand. I can’t intervene in the process. Just think about what kind of precedent that would set! No one would ever pay back their mortgages, and the entire system would collapse.”

“What do you mean, you can’t intervene? You’re the president of the bank, aren’t you? Doesn’t that mean you have some kind of power?”

“Once again, Ms. Johnson, while I sympathize with your position, I urge you to try to understand that this is not a personal matter. It’s business. And your mother already receivedan official Notice of Default two months ago. Frankly, she’s lucky that the house hasn’t been auctioned off already!”

I know I shouldn’t be listening to this, but the bumblebee and I are rooted to the spot. Something is off about this whole situation. Most of the time in this town, family homes don’t just get foreclosed on for a mortgage being two or even three months in arrears. My intuition is telling me that the Loan Servicing department is taking legal shortcuts, maybe to shore up its numbers. But that’s no way to do business, especially not in a small town like Kentwood.

I think back to my first year of law school and the course I took on Property Law. The procedures are etched in my mind from all the late nights of cramming for exams.

Without another thought about the possible consequences of my actions, I step up to stand at Kayla’s side. She gives a start like I’m about to hit her with my car all over again, but there’s no room in the office for her to move appreciably away from me. Her gaze darts between me and my father, who looks furious.

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