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He flipped through the papers, trying to make sense of them. The house should be paid off. Aunt Felicia had inherited it when her parents died, and that had probably been twenty-five years ago.
His head jerked up. “It says here you took out a home equity loan.”
“I didn’t,” she said miserably. “Murray must have. I trusted he knew best about money matters. When he’d tell me to sign something, I would.”
Michael didn’t need to ask why Murray needed money. Even as a teenager, he’d been aware of her late husband’s gambling problem. And the bastard had put up Aunt Felicia’s house as collateral to finance it.
“I didn’t know about the loan until I got the letter,” Aunt Felicia explained. “It says the mortgage statements were going to a post office box.”
“You’ve been doing business at this bank for years. Why didn’t somebody tell you about this sooner?”
“They’re all strangers now. Even Quincy retired about a year ago.” She hugged herself. “I don’t know what to do. I didn’t even know Murray had a post office box.”
Michael swallowed his anger. Railing about her no-good late husband wouldn’t do Aunt Felicia any good. If he was going to help her, he needed to keep a level head. “When did you get this notice?”
“Friday,” she said.
“It says the entire mortgage is due in thirty days and if you don’t pay the amount, you’re in default. Can you cover it?”
She shook her head, her expression strained. “I used my savings for funeral expenses.”
“Didn’t Murray have life insurance?”
“He cashed in the policy before he died.” She blinked as though to keep from crying. “I’m going to lose my home, aren’t I?”
Michael wished he could pay off the money his aunt owed, but the Peace Corps didn’t pay a salary, just a stipend covering basic necessities. His meager bank balance reflected that reality. But lose her house? Not if he could help it.
“You should go to the bank Monday morning and try to straighten this out,” he advised.
“I already called the bank.” She sniffled. “They said I waited too long for them to help me.”
“Then you can hire a lawyer who knows foreclosure law.” He dredged up the name of the attorney who’d once threatened to file a civil suit against him on behalf of Quincy Coleman. “Doesn’t Larry Donatelli go to your church?”
“He had a heart attack last year and moved to Florida,” his aunt said.
That explained why Sara Brenneman felt as though there was room in town for another lawyer.
Sara. Who’d told him at the wedding that she counted foreclosures as one of her specialties.
“I might know someone,” he said.
“Really?” His aunt’s blue eyes, so like his own, filled with hope that extinguished almost as soon as it appeared. “But lawyers are expensive.”
“I’ll help with the fees.” Michael could swing that much.
“Oh, no,” his aunt said instantly, her back straightening. “I can’t let you do that.”
“You don’t even know what she’ll charge. She hasn’t opened her practice yet so you’d probably get a good rate.” Michael could possibly get Sara to quote his aunt a low hourly fee and let him make up the difference. “It can’t hurt to ask.”
She worked her bottom lip, deep worry lines appearing on her face and making her look older. “Will you call her for me?”
Too late he remembered Sara was having problems getting her phone service hooked up.
“Her phones aren’t working, and she mentioned she’d be out of town today,” he said, remembering her shopping trip. “I’ll show you where her office is and you can stop by Monday.”
He saw her throat constrict as she swallowed. “Will you come with me?”
Self-preservation told him to refuse, but in truth he’d decided to help her as soon as he’d seen the foreclosure notice. She hadn’t stopped her husband from kicking him out when he turned eighteen, but she had housed and fed him for almost three years. He couldn’t let her lose the house.
Even if it meant seeing Sara again and being reminded of what he couldn’t have.
“I’ll be by tomorrow morning at about nine.” He lifted the box from the table.
“Wait.” The relief on her face mixed with confusion. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the hotel.”
“You can stay here,” she said. “In your old room.”
Trying to figure out whether the invitation was sincere, he shifted the box in his arms. It wasn’t heavy, but it was an awkward shape. “I’ll still help you if I stay in a hotel tonight.”
“But it makes no sense for you to go to a hotel.”
Yet she hadn’t even opened the door to him Friday night. He didn’t voice his reservation, but it must have been obvious.
“I can explain about Friday night.” Her lower lip trembled. “I would have asked you in, but my bridge group was here.”
“I understand,” he said, his voice monotone.
“No, you don’t,” she said. “Jill Coleman’s in my group.”
Jill Coleman. Quincy’s wife. Chrissy’s mother.
“I thought it would be…” She stopped, searched for a word. “…awkward.”
He almost asked her awkward for whom, but he wouldn’t like the answer. He started to refuse her invitation, but the prospect of another night in a hotel depressed him.
Besides, there was plenty at his aunt’s house to keep him occupied. The loose handle on the cabinet door, for starters.
“I’ll put this box in the car and be back with my bag,” he said. “You don’t need to show me the room. I remember where it is.”
CHAPTER FOUR
B ECAUSE OF a cardboard bakery box, Laurie Grieb decided returning to Indigo Springs might have been a mistake.
Not because of the apple turnover that was surely inside the small container, but because her resolve to refuse the delicious treat was wavering.
“C’mon, Laurie,” drawled the man holding out the dessert. Like Adam extending the apple to Eve, Laurie thought. It was after nine o’clock Monday morning and they were in the driveway of her mother’s house, which Laurie had moved back into a week ago. “We both know you love apple turnovers.”
He spoke in the same cajoling tone he’d once used to get her to make love with him when she was a teenager. Even though her resulting pregnancy had taught her how important it was to resist him, she grabbed the box.
“Okay, fine.” Her mouth watered at the sugary-sweet smell drifting up from the box. “But I’m only taking it because I skipped breakfast. It doesn’t mean I want you coming around, Kenny.”
“You’re welcome.” He managed to inject a touch of vulnerability in his slight smile.
She felt about two feet tall until she remembered the reasons she couldn’t let Kenny Grieb back into her life. His dark sunglasses illustrated one of them. She guessed he wore them more to conceal bloodshot eyes than as a shield from the sun. The Kenny she’d known wasn’t so much a big drinker as a reckless one, but then irresponsibility was the theme of his life. Too bad she hadn’t figured that out until she’d married him.
“You’re hungover.”
“You’re right. Say the word, and I’ll stop drinking. I’ve done it for you before.”
She closed her eyes at the pain that pierced through her at his casual remark. He’d stopped drinking when she was pregnant. Though her pregnancy, the reason he’d married her, had only lasted four months.
“I don’t want you to do anything for me.” She kept her tone clipped so he wouldn’t know she was touched by his gesture. “I mean it, Kenny. Leave me alone. No more turnovers. No more flowers. No more phone calls.”
“Now is that any way to talk to your husband?”
“Ex-husband,” she corrected sharply. “We’ve been divorced for seven years.”
They’d gotten married straight out of high-school almost nine years ago and hadn’t even managed to make their marriage last two years.
“A mistake.” He’d gained weight since they’d been together, but not enough to keep him from looking good. His brown hair was the length she liked, long enough that the ends curled and clipped the collar of the green T-shirt he wore with khaki shorts. “I never should have let you go.”
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