Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN FROM MY FATHER’S OFFICEHer name was Diane Foster.
She had worked as my father’s controller for eleven years.
I remembered her vaguely from Christmas parties.
Quiet woman.
Dark hair.
Always carrying folders.
The sort of person my father barely noticed unless a number was wrong.
She met Nora and me the next morning at a coffee shop in Cambridge.
She refused to come to the law office.
“Richard has people watching who goes in there.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds paranoid.”
Diane looked at me.
“Your father is paranoid.”
Fair enough.
She sat with both hands wrapped around a paper coffee cup she never drank from.
“I want to be clear. I’m not doing this to hurt your father.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because twenty-seven people could lose their jobs.”
That changed the tone immediately.
She opened her bag.
“I started seeing irregular transfers eight months ago.”
Nora asked, “Illegal transfers?”
“I didn’t say illegal.”
“You’re being careful.”
“I have to be.”
Diane removed several printed spreadsheets.
“Richard began shifting operating cash between subsidiaries to cover shortfalls. Again, not necessarily improper. But eventually he started delaying vendor payments.”
“How badly?”
“Some over ninety days.”
My father had always lectured me about paying bills immediately.
Diane continued.
“Then he began negotiating the Providence deal through Carter.”
“Why Carter?”
“Fresh entity. Clean balance sheet. No history.”
Nora nodded.
“And the inherited assets?”
Diane looked at me.
“Your father started talking about them after Thomas got sick.”
My chest tightened.
“Before Grandpa died?”
“Yes.”
“How early?”
“Four months before.”
The betrayal deepened.
Grandpa had still been alive, and Dad was already planning how to access money that hadn’t become mine yet.
“Did Grandpa know?”
“I think he suspected.”
That explained his warning.
Diane pulled out an email.
Richard Mercer to Diane Foster.
Subject: Evelyn Funds.
I read one line.
Upon her 18th, these should effectively be treated as family-controlled assets. Prepare liquidity schedules accordingly.
I stared at it.
Family-controlled.
I was seventeen when he wrote that.
Nobody had asked me anything.
“There’s more,” Diane said.
Of course there was.
There was always more.
“Plan A was a private bridge loan.”
“How much?”
“Four million.”
“What collateral?”
“The family residence and two hotel properties.”
“What happened?”
“The lender backed out.”
“Why?”
“They discovered one hotel had a pending environmental remediation issue.”
I blinked.
“So my inheritance became Plan B.”
“Yes.”
Nora asked, “And Plan C?”
Diane looked directly at me.
“The Mercer house.”
My stomach dropped.
“What about it?”
“Your father is considering selling it.”
I thought of the suitcase.
My bedroom.
My childhood photographs.
Mom standing in the kitchen.
“He told Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could he sell it without her?”
“Depends how it’s titled.”
Nora was already making notes.
Diane continued.
“He also discussed filing for restructuring if lenders accelerate.”
“Bankruptcy?”
“Potentially.”
My mind raced.
“So what do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
I frowned.
“You contacted me.”
“I want you to understand that giving him three million dollars won’t solve this.”
Those words mattered.
Because somewhere in the deepest part of me, despite everything, I had been wondering.
What if I could save everyone?
What if releasing the money saved the house, Mom, Carter, the employees?
Would protecting myself make me selfish?
Diane seemed to read my face.
“Three million dollars would buy time. Maybe six months. Maybe a year. But without restructuring, he’ll burn through it.”
Nora nodded.
“That’s my assessment too.”
Diane leaned forward.
“If you give him the money, you may lose the money and the family business.”
That settled something inside me.
Not because money mattered more than my family.
Because throwing money into a collapsing structure wasn’t saving anyone.
It was feeding the collapse.
After the meeting, Nora and I walked along the sidewalk.
“I feel guilty,” I admitted.
“Why?”
“Because people could lose jobs.”
“You didn’t create the debt.”
“But I could help.”
“Helping is not always handing someone money.”
I looked at her.
“What else could I do?”
She stopped walking.
“That is a much better question.”
By afternoon, she had arranged a meeting with a restructuring attorney and a financial advisor.
Not to rescue Dad.
To understand options.
We learned the business might actually survive if Dad sold two underperforming properties, negotiated with lenders, reduced expansion, and brought in independent management.
It would hurt.
He would lose control.
But employees might keep their jobs.
The healthy properties could remain open.
The company might continue.
There was only one problem.
Dad would have to agree.
He didn’t.
At four thirty, he showed up at Nora’s office without an appointment.
The receptionist barely finished saying his name before he walked into the conference room.
He looked exhausted.
But still expensive.
Still controlled.
Still my father.
“You met with Diane Foster.”
It wasn’t a question.
Nora stood.
“Richard, you need to leave.”
“I’m speaking to my daughter.”
“She decides whether—”
“I’ll talk to him.”
Nora hesitated, then sat down.
Dad looked at me.
“You’ve been busy.”
“So have you.”
His jaw tightened.
“Diane stole confidential business information.”
“She told me the company is collapsing.”
“The company is experiencing temporary liquidity pressure.”
“She said three million dollars won’t fix it.”
“Diane is an accountant. She doesn’t understand strategy.”
I almost laughed.
“She’s your controller.”
“Exactly.”
That sentence told me everything about my father.
People were experts when they agreed with him.
Idiots when they didn’t.
I slid the restructuring proposal across the table.
“I found another option.”
He didn’t touch it.
“What is that?”
“Sell the Vermont property and Harbor House. Renegotiate the senior debt. Cancel Providence. Bring in a restructuring officer for eighteen months.”
His face darkened.
“Who prepared this?”
“Professionals.”
“You’ve been eighteen for two days and now you’re restructuring my company?”
“No. I’m offering an alternative to taking my inheritance.”
“I’m not taking anything.”
“You forged my authorization.”
He flinched.
Barely.
But I saw it.
“Your mother handled that paperwork.”
For the first time, I felt genuine disgust.
“You’re blaming Mom?”
“I’m stating a fact.”
“You told her to sign it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Then tell me you didn’t.”
He stared at me.
He couldn’t.
I pushed the proposal closer.
“This can save part of the company.”
“At the cost of everything I built.”
“No. It saves what you built from what you borrowed.”
That landed.
His face went red.
“You sound exactly like Thomas.”
For the first time, I took it as a compliment.
“Good.”
He stood.
“You think you’ve won.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“It became one when you chose outsiders over your family.”
“Nora didn’t fake my signature.”
Dad picked up the proposal.
For one hopeful second, I thought he might read it.
Instead, he tore it in half.
Then again.
He dropped the pieces onto the table.
“I would rather lose everything than hand my company to strangers.”
I looked at the paper pieces.
Then at him.
“Then you might.”
He walked toward the door.
Before leaving, he turned.
“If that happens, remember you could have prevented it.”
I waited until the door closed.
Then I cried.
Not because I believed him.
Because a small part of me still wanted a father who wouldn’t say things like that.
Nora let me cry.
Then she gathered the torn proposal.
“We print another copy.”
Three days later, my father fired Diane.
Five days later, the Providence deal officially collapsed.
Nine days later, one of Mercer Hospitality’s lenders issued a default notice.
And two weeks after my birthday, my mother called me at 2:13 in the morning.
May you like
“Evelyn,” she whispered.
“Your father is gone.”
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