Chapter 8 - The Truth in the Dining Room
The drawing room was a picture of Southern aristocratic elegance.
A fire crackled in the fieldstone hearth. Beatrice Pemberton was seated on the floral brocade sofa, sipping coffee from my mother’s Royal Albert cups, while Arthur stood with his back to the mantel, holding an unlit cigar, pontificating to Brooks about the commercial real estate trends in Mecklenburg County.
My mother was hovering near the sideboard, desperately offering silver dishes of store-bought mints to distract from the complete absence of dessert.
When the heavy double doors of the drawing room swung open with a resounding bang, all five heads turned in unison.
I walked into the center of the room.
Behind me, my father staggered through the doorway, his tie completely undone, his face the color of wet dough. Ainsley followed, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes wild, looking like a woman marching toward an execution wall.
"Wesley?" my mother gasped, dropping a silver sugar tong onto the parquet floor with a sharp *clatter*. "What is the meaning of this? We were having coffee!"
"I apologize for the interruption, Mrs. Pemberton, Mr. Pemberton," I said, my voice ringing out with calm, clinical authority. "Brooks. I know you were planning to attend the nine o'clock service at All Souls, but there is an urgent matter of property disclosure that requires your attention before you leave."
Arthur Pemberton took the cigar from his mouth, his bushy grey eyebrows drawing together in immediate irritation. "Young man, whatever family squabble you have regarding your shifts or your holidays, this is hardly the appropriate venue—"
"Arthur," I interrupted, cutting him off with a tone so flat and authoritative that the older man actually stepped back half an inch. "This isn't a squabble. This is a title notice regarding 424 Kimberly Avenue."
Brooks stood up from his armchair, his brow furrowing as he looked between Ainsley and me. "Ainsley? What’s he talking about? What property notice?"
"Nothing, Brooks!" Ainsley cried, rushing to his side, grabbing his lapels with manic urgency. "He’s having a nervous breakdown! He’s jealous! He’s always been jealous of me, ever since we were kids! Brooks, tell him to leave! Dad, call the police!"
"Call the police, Dad," I agreed, looking straight at Richard Carter. "Please do. Let's have the Buncombe County Sheriff come over. We can show them the pre-stamped notary acknowledgment page sitting on your desk from Old Man Higgins. Marcus Vance tells me that’s a direct violation of North Carolina General Statute § 10B-60. It carries automatic revocation of commission and criminal misdemeanor charges for everyone involved in the procurement."
My mother let out a small, strangled squeak and collapsed onto the edge of an armchair, clutching her chest.
"What is he talking about?" Beatrice Pemberton demanded, her aristocratic composure dissolving into sharp, aristocratic outrage. She set her teacup down with a violent rattle. "Richard? Eleanor? What is this man saying about fraudulent deeds?"
"I’ll tell you exactly what I’m saying, Mrs. Pemberton," I said, stepping toward Arthur and handing him the top document from my portfolio.
Arthur looked down at the blue-backed legal filing. His eyes scanned the header:
*IN THE GENERAL COURT OF JUSTICE, SUPERIOR COURT DIVISION: NOTICE OF LIS PENDENS AND COMPLAINT FOR PARTITION BY SALE.*
"This house," I said, speaking clearly so every person in the room could hear every syllable, "does not belong to Richard and Eleanor Carter. It has not belonged to them exclusively since October of 2019, when I used seventy-six thousand dollars of my late wife’s life insurance to stop the public foreclosure sale."
Brooks’s jaw went completely slack. He looked at Ainsley, whose head was bowed, her shoulders shaking with silent, terrified sobs. "Foreclosure? Ainsley... you told me your family owned this house free and clear. You told me it was ancestral property."
"I am the fifty-percent owner of this property," I continued, turning to Brooks. "And for the past four years, I have paid every single monthly mortgage payment of fourteen hundred and twelve dollars from my hospital salary because my father’s business has been functionally bankrupt since 2018."
"Richard!" Beatrice gasped, turning on my father with look of utter revulsion. "You told Arthur at the club that you were underwriting commercial logistics bonds!"
Dad didn't speak. He couldn't. He stood by the doorway, staring at the floorboards, completely broken.
"And tonight," I said, turning my gaze back to Brooks, "your charming fiancée and my father attempted to commit grand fraud. They drafted a quitclaim deed to strip my fifty-percent ownership and assign it to you and Ainsley as an executory wedding gift, while leaving me legally responsible for the three-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage balance."
"That’s a lie!" Ainsley shrieked, though her voice had no power left. It was the desperate, dying squeal of a cornered rat. "He’s making it up! Brooks, don't listen to him!"
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the Bluetooth speaker, and hit play.
Once again, Ainsley’s voice filled the high-ceilinged drawing room:
*"Brooks’s family owns three dealerships in Charlotte. They think we belong here. If Brooks finds out we’re barely holding onto this place because my brother pays the note from his hospital salary, the wedding is off. I am not losing this life because Wesley wants to hold a mortgage over our heads forever..."*
Brooks took two distinct steps back, physically peeling Ainsley’s fingers off his jacket lapels as if she were covered in grease.
"Brooks..." she sobbed, reaching for him. "Brooks, baby, please... I did it for us. I did it so we’d have a home—"
"Don't touch me," Brooks whispered. His face was scarlet with mortification. He looked at his father, whose expression had hardened into an impenetrable wall of granite.
Arthur Pemberton handed the legal filing back to me. His hands were completely steady, but his eyes were burning with icy, venomous contempt as he looked at my parents.
"Richard," Arthur said, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register used by powerful men when they are severing a business connection forever. "You brought us into this house under the guise of an alliance. You allowed my wife and me to sit at your table, eat your food—terrible as it was—while you were orchestrating a criminal conspiracy to rob your own son?"
"Arthur... please," Dad whispered, tears finally leaking down his mottled cheeks. "We were desperate... Ainsley loves Brooks so much..."
"My son," Arthur said, looking at Ainsley with unvarnished disgust, "will not be marrying a common swindler. Nor will our family name be dragged through a Buncombe County fraud investigation."
Arthur turned to his wife. "Beatrice. Get your coat."
"Brooks!" Ainsley wailed, falling to her knees on the Persian rug, clutching at the hem of his trousers. "Brooks, please! Don't leave! We can fix this! We don't need the house! We can get an apartment! Brooks!"
Brooks didn't even look down at her. He pulled his leg away, turned on his heel, and followed his parents toward the foyer.
"The wedding is off, Ainsley," Brooks said, his voice trembling with humiliated rage. "Do not contact me. Do not contact my office. If you come near my family in Charlotte, I will have our attorneys file an immediate restraining order."
The front door of the mansion opened. The cold mountain wind swept through the hallway, fluttering the silk curtains. A moment later, the heavy door slammed shut.
May you like
The Mercedes engine roared to life in the driveway, its headlights sweeping across the drawing room windows like searchlights over a prison yard, before fading down Kimberly Avenue into the winter night.
***