Chapter 3 - The Board's Discovery
The email from Eleanor Vance had been sent at 8:12 PM, right in the middle of what should have been the main dinner service.
> *Dear Ms. Mercer,*
>
> *I have received your correspondence, along with the forwarded communications dated December 10th. Thank you for bringing this matter directly to the steering committee.*
>
> *I must express my profound embarrassment on behalf of the Foundation. At no point was the executive board informed that your involvement was non-consensual, nor were we aware that you had already formally declined the supervisory position weeks ago. Mrs. Denise Mercer assured the committee in November that all youth programming had been fully arranged through your design studio as an in-kind corporate sponsorship.*
>
> *We have immediately adjusted the evening’s schedule, suspended the Family Activity Lounge, and apologized to our registered patrons. Furthermore, the committee will convene an executive session on Monday morning to review the misrepresentation of Foundation assets, promotional materials, and vendor declarations.*
>
> *I hope you enjoy your holiday. We deeply regret that our event was weaponized to place you in an intolerable position.*
>
> *Sincerely,*
> *Eleanor Vance, Chairwoman*
> *The Hearthlight Foundation*
I read it twice, my breath catching in my throat.
“Holy hell,” Avery whispered, leaning over my shoulder. “*‘Misrepresentation of vendor declarations.’* That’s lawyer-speak for: Denise lied to a room full of philanthropists to make her daughters look like an integrated high-society event-planning duo, and now she’s going to face an audit.”
“It’s worse than that,” I realized, the puzzle pieces snapping together with sickening clarity. “Brooke’s event company didn’t just volunteer to organize the benefit. She applied for an operational grant from Hearthlight to cover ‘coordination costs.’ On her portfolio submission, she must have listed my graphic design package and the children’s pavilion under her company’s deliverables.”
“Which means,” Avery said, her eyes widening, “Brooke took credit—and possibly money—for work that you did for free, while promising labor you never agreed to provide.”
Before I could reply, my phone lit up again. It wasn't my mother or Brooke this time.
It was Robert. My father.
I stared at the caller ID. Dad rarely called me directly. Usually, he relayed his instructions through Mom: *Tell Natalie to pick up the dry cleaning; tell Natalie to bring extra folding chairs.* When Robert Mercer called someone himself, it was because he intended to issue a verdict.
I hit accept and pressed speaker, setting the phone on the wooden table between Avery and me.
“Natalie,” his voice boomed, flat, heavy, and resonant with practiced civic authority. “I hope you are proud of yourself.”
“Good evening, Dad. Merry Christmas.”
“Cut the smug sarcasm,” he cut in sharply. “Do you have any idea what you have done tonight? Your mother is locked in the bathroom upstairs, weeping. Eleanor Vance confronted her at our table, in front of the county commissioner! She revoked Brooke’s credential badges for the remaining winter functions. People are whispering. They are asking why my daughter couldn't be bothered to manage twenty children for three hours to support our municipal community!”
“Dad, you knew I wasn't coming,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly measured. “I told Mom on December tenth.”
“A text message!” he roared. “You know how your mother is with her messages! You don't abandon your family over a misunderstanding!”
“It wasn't a misunderstanding,” I replied. “I heard you, Dad. In the living room two days ago. *‘Just hand her the kids when she walks in. What’s she going to do, leave in front of everybody?’* That was your strategy. You knew I said no. You just thought you could bully me with public shame.”
Silence fell over the line, thick and heavy.
For once in his life, Robert Mercer didn't have a rehearsed speech. He had been an attorney for thirty years and a councilman for ten; he knew what it meant when a defendant possessed ironclad corroboration.
“We are your parents,” he said finally, his voice dropping into a harsh, punitive register. “We raised you. We put a roof over your head. When your sister is launching an enterprise, you support her. You don't run an ambush on your own blood by sending emails to the board behind our backs. That was malicious, calculated, and disgraceful.”
“What’s disgraceful,” I said, feeling every drop of fear drain out of me, replaced by an astonishing, icy clarity, “is that you treated your younger daughter like an unpaid servant to prop up your older daughter’s vanity business. I am twenty-eight years old, Dad. I pay my own rent, my own insurance, and my own taxes. You don't own my calendar. And you will never, ever volunteer my labor again.”
“If that is how you feel,” he snarled, “then you can consider yourself uninvited from Christmas morning. Don't bother showing up at our door tomorrow. We don't want you here.”
“I’m in Vermont, Dad,” I said gently. “I was never planning on coming.”
I ended the call before he could spit another word.
Avery looked at me, her mouth slightly agape. Then, slowly, she reached for her mug, raised it high in the firelight, and tapped it against mine with a clear, sharp chime.
“To setting the whole damn house on fire,” she whispered.
May you like
“To watching it burn,” I replied.
***