Chapter 4
David came to my house the next morning without Monica.
He stood in the doorway holding two cups of coffee.
I had not seen him bring coffee since Henry’s final hospital stay.
“I didn’t know what else to bring.”
“Yourself is enough.”
He sat at the kitchen table.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he took out his phone.
“Monica sent me documents about the garden last month. I thought they were ordinary funding proposals.”
He showed me a page listing redevelopment consulting services.
His company’s name appeared near the bottom.
DAVID HAYES DESIGN.
My son was an architect.
I felt a coldness move through me.
“Did you agree to work on this?”
“She asked for preliminary sketches. She said the foundation had approved exploring a community building.”
“What kind of building?”
“Ground-floor shops. Apartments above. A courtyard.”
“What happened to the garden?”
“She said it would move to a larger lot.”
“Which lot?”
“I never saw an address.”
He put the phone down.
“I should have asked you.”
“Yes.”
He looked up.
I loved him too much to make that easier than it was.
“You should have asked the people using it too,” I said.
His eyes filled.
“I believed my wife.”
“I understand.”
“That doesn’t excuse it.”
“No.”
We sat quietly.
Then he asked what he could do.
“Give Ada every document. Tell her what you were told. Do not change anything to make yourself look better.”
He nodded immediately.
I believed him.
That afternoon, the accountant met us at the foundation office.
Her name was Patrice Walker. She had worked with neighborhood organizations for twenty years and had no patience for vague explanations.
She asked where membership fees were deposited.
Ada showed her the account Monica listed on the letters.
Patrice frowned.
“That isn’t one of the foundation’s accounts.”
I looked at the letters again.
They used our emblem.
Our name.
Our return address.
But the payment instructions directed residents elsewhere.
Patrice began checking.
By evening, we learned the account belonged to a company Monica had formed six months earlier.
Community Growth Partners.
It sounded harmless.
I had seen that name on invoices and assumed it was a contractor.
Ada asked whether I had ever approved paying it.
“No.”
Several transfers had gone from the foundation to that company for consulting, event planning, and administrative work.
Monica received her salary separately.
She had been charging us twice.
Patrice would need to determine which expenses had real work behind them. She warned us not to call every payment fraudulent before reviewing it.
I appreciated her caution.
I wanted a true record, not simply an angry one.
We also contacted Lionel’s firm.
His attorney sent a letter claiming the land option was valid and his company had spent money relying on it.
Ada responded that I disputed the signature and the foundation had not authorized the transaction through its required procedures.
She advised me to obtain independent legal representation for the property dispute.
I agreed.
That evening, Beatrice called.
“Ruth, did I cause trouble by mentioning my fee?”
“No.”
“I don’t want Monica losing her job because I complained.”
“She is responsible for her actions. You are allowed to say what happened.”
Beatrice sighed.
“I’m seventy-four. You’d think I’d know that.”
“I’m sixty-eight. I still need reminding sometimes.”
She laughed softly.
I asked whether she had enough groceries.
She said yes too quickly.
The next morning, I took soup, bread, and vegetables to her house.
She let me in reluctantly.
On the kitchen table sat the registration letter and a pill organizer.
“I used the grocery money,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to lose my plot.”
I looked at the letter.
Monica had written that unpaid registrations could result in reassignment.
There was nothing voluntary about it.
I held Beatrice’s hand.
“You will get that money back.”
“What if you can’t recover it?”
“I will return it while the accountants work. You should not have to wait to eat.”
We would document every reimbursement properly. Ada insisted on that, and I agreed.
By Friday, the foundation had established a process to refund residents who paid the unauthorized charges.
Neighbors arrived with receipts, envelopes, and stories.
One man had paid in cash but kept a photograph of the receipt.
A woman brought a bank statement.
Another admitted she had stopped coming rather than tell anyone she couldn’t afford the fee.
I apologized to every one of them.
They kept saying I had not done it.
I knew that.
But I had promised them a garden.
I was going to make sure they had one.
That night, my granddaughter Tessa called.
She was seventeen, David’s daughter from his first marriage.
“Grandma, can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
May you like
Her voice shook.
“Monica asked me to delete the photos I took at the ceremony.”
