Chapter 4
The copper bell chimed in the wind.
As I turned to leave, I heard Maya call out behind me, "Why don't you take a box of baked treats with you? Consider it our treat."
People around burst out laughing.
I went to Rodney's place.
The old house was covered in dust. A neighbor told me Rodney had a stroke half a year ago, and his daughter had moved him to a nursing home in the south of the city.
When I finally got to the nursing home, night had already fallen.
A caregiver blocked my way at the entrance.
"Sorry, visiting hours are over," she said.
I handed her my ID.
"I'm Jennifer Russell. Rodney used to own the café. He sold it to me. I need to ask him a couple of questions," I said.
The caregiver studied me for a long moment.
"Rodney can't really talk clearly anymore," she said.
"I can understand hie."
She led me to a room at the end of the hallway.
Rodney was lying in bed, much thinner than he'd been three years ago, his mouth drawn to one side.
When he saw me, his cloudy eyes flickered.
"Jennifer," Rodney rasped.
I crouched down by the bed.
"Rodney, No. 18 Willow Lane, did you ever sign it over to George?" I asked.
His hand fumbled on the blanket.
"No, no," Rodney whispered, barely audible.
I held his hand tightly.
"Then why does the transfer document have his name on it?" I asked.
Rodney grew anxious, his breathing becoming more strained.
The caregiver quickly said, "Don't upset him."
Rodney looked at me, struggling to get the words out.
"Fingerprint, tricked... Med... medicine" he rasped.
A chill ran down my spine.
"Who tricked you into putting your fingerprint on it?" I asked.
He couldn't get the words out, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.
There was an old photo album on the nightstand.
The caregiver said, "Whenever he's clear-headed, he's always flipping through this."
I opened the album and found a copy of a receipt tucked inside.
It was the receipt from three years ago, the very first payment I made.
And the one received was Rodney Everett.
There was a tiny note in small print at the bottom. [The café is reserved for Jennifer. No transfer allowed until all paperwork is completed.]
My tears fell onto the edge of the paper.
Rodney's hand trembled as he pointed to the album's inner pocket.
I reached in and found a small memory card tucked inside.
The caregiver lowered her voice.
"Rodney used to say that when they took down the old security cameras from the café, he saved a copy for himself. He was afraid that someday he wouldn't be able to explain what happened," she said.
I clutched the memory card in my hand.
My phone buzzed again.
It was a message from George. [You went way too far today. Maya's been crying all afternoon. When you get home, apologize to her, and that'll be the end of it.]
I stared at his message, wiping away my tears.
I typed out my reply. [Okay.]
When I got back to the apartment, George was sitting on the couch, waiting for me.
He was sitting there in the dark.
He didn't even turn on the lights. As soon as he heard me come in, he asked, "Where did you go?"
I slipped off my shoes.
"Just went for a walk," I said.
"Did you go see Rodney?" he asked.
I looked up.
He stood up, all the warmth gone from his face.
"Jennifer, have I been spoiling you too much?" he said.
"Did you have someone follow me?"
"I'm just trying to protect you," he said, stepping right up to me. "Rodney's not all there anymore. What's the point of asking him anything?"
"How do you know I asked him?"
He hesitated for a second.
He quickly added, "Oak Street's not that big. Someone saw you."
I set my bag down on the table. "He said he never signed it over to you."
George gave a bitter laugh. "You actually trust the words of an old man who's had a stroke?"
"So who am I supposed to believe? You? The one who claimed the café was collapsing?"
He stared at me.
"You went to Maple Yard Café today and caused a scene in front of all those customers. Do you even realize how much Maya has to cover because of you?" George said.
"Pay for what?"
"Customers are canceling, photoshoots have to be postponed, and our reputation's tanking. Just because you showed up and made trouble, we're losing at least ten thousand dollars."
"So you want me to pay for that too?"
He was silent for a moment.
"Of course you should."
I stared at him, and all at once, memories from three years ago flooded my mind.
Back then, my dad had just died. I was sitting outside the hospital, holding his urn, when George came over, wrapped his coat around me, and promised, "From now on, you've got me."
He went with me to see the café, telling me, "If we turn this place into a coffee shop, your dad will be smiling down on us."
Then he told me the beams had collapsed. I cried so hard I could barely breathe, and he hugged me tight, whispering, "It's alright. Money comes and goes. We'll make it back."
Three years had passed.
While I was back in the kitchen, wearing out three pairs of rubber boots scrubbing dishes, he was over in the café I bought with my dad's last dollars, fixing another woman's hairpin for her.
George pulled a piece of paper out of the drawer. "Sign it."
"What is this?" I asked.
"It's a loan confirmation," George said, sliding the pen across the table. "You admit the money was just a loan, and I'll pay you back over five years. That way, nobody has to look bad."
I picked up the paper.