"It's about my house," she said, her voice flat and dull. "It's from a lawyer. My father's filed papers with the court as a co-owner."
"Asking the court to do what?"
She met his eyes, hers full of hurt and confusion. "It's called a partition," she said. "And it means he's going to force a sale."
21
A painful coldness sweeps through me, leaving my skin prickly and everything just a little bit painful.
Numb. I've gone completely numb.
I force myself to swallow, then look at Lyle, who's looking right back at me, his face lined with such horror and confusion he could almost be a mirror.
"I can't lose my house," I say. "Not now. Not right after you paid it off."
"Not ever," he says firmly. He's right beside me now and he takes my shoulder, turning me so that I have no choice but to face him. "He's your father. Can't you call him? Ask him to put the brakes on? Figure out a way to stop this?"
I try to think. "I don't have his number. Hell, I don't even know where he lives."
"But this lawyer might. Call him. Tell him you want to meet with your dad. Ask why he's doing it."
"Okay." My voice sounds horribly small in my kitchen, and when Lyle holds out his arms, I'm ridiculously grateful for him to just hold me.
"What time are you supposed to meet Greg and Anderson?"
"Nine-thirty," I say, forcing myself to think like a businessperson.
Which, I realize with a sudden start, is what this is all about. I step back so that I can pace as I think. "He must have gotten some sort of notification that the equity loan was paid off. And maybe that gave him the idea."
"To partition?"
"To sell," I say. "After so many years and with property values so high in this neighborhood right now, this house is worth so much more than my parents paid for it. Real estate agents chat me up all the time. The last time I asked, the woman said she could get close to two million. And that was before I finished the renovation."
"And he'd get half," Lyle says. "That's how a partition works. Unless you two can work it out, the court orders the property sold and you split the proceeds."
"Unless we can work it out," I repeat, thinking that those really aren't pretty words.
"He's your dad," Lyle says. "It's worth a shot."
"I'll call, but it won't matter. He left when I was nine, and never wrote or called. Not even a birthday card. Not even after his son died. No," I add when he steps toward me, obviously intending to draw me into a hug. "I appreciate the thought, but I'm over being hurt by my dad. It was a long time ago. My point is that a man like that isn't going to care if he's hurting me or if he's stealing the memory of Mom and Andy right out from under me. He just wants his million.
"And that," I say, "is about a million more than I have."
* * *
"Thanks for the last-minute meet," I say to Joy forty minutes later, when we meet at the Java B's a few blocks from my house. "Especially since I can't even stay that long."
Lyle's been great, but this is a situation that calls for the kind of mass quantities of caffeine and sympathy that only a best friend can provide.
"Are you kidding? Anytime your asshole father comes out of the woodwork I am totally there for you."
I actually crack a smile, which feels really good.
I'd explained the whole thing earlier on the phone, and now she asks, "What are you going to do?"
That's the question that's been haunting me all morning, and the answer is that I don't know. An answer that Joy marks with a very definitive thumbs-down.
"You have to be proactive. Find out where he lives. Rat him out on social media."