Chapter 2 - Two Hundred Chairs on My Property
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the catering tent.
Workers had stopped carrying chairs.
Even the generator seemed suddenly too loud.
I took the page from Laura.
The signature looked almost convincing.
Almost.
Whoever had copied it knew I made the R in Rebecca with a long descending stroke.
They knew my last name tilted slightly upward.
They had even imitated the short line I sometimes drew beneath my signature on contracts.
But they had missed one thing.
I never used my middle initial on legal documents involving the lake house.
This signature read:
Rebecca E. Patterson.
I looked at Samantha.
“Did you sign this?”
“No.”
Too fast.
“You didn’t even look at it.”
“I don’t need to.”
Olivia, the wedding planner, took one step backward.
Laura remained composed.
“The document was submitted through the planner’s vendor portal nine days ago.”
Olivia’s head snapped toward Samantha.
“Your account uploaded that.”
“I sent dozens of documents.”
“You sent me this consent form.”
“I may have forwarded it.”
“From whom?”
Samantha looked toward the house.
I followed her gaze.
Mom’s car was parked behind the detached garage.
Of course.
Margaret Patterson stepped onto the back porch a few seconds later carrying an umbrella.
Her expression told me she had been watching.
“Rebecca,” she said.
I held up the form.
“Did you sign my name?”
Her eyes widened.
“What? No.”
“Did you make this?”
“Absolutely not.”
Samantha crossed her arms.
“This is getting ridiculous.”
Laura spoke calmly.
“This is not a minor discrepancy. The insurance application relies on property-owner authorization.”
Samantha stared at her.
“So fix it.”
Laura blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Rebecca is here. She can sign it now.”
I almost admired the confidence.
Almost.
“No.”
Samantha turned.
“Rebecca.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You haven’t even heard the plan.”
“I don’t need the plan.”
“Two hundred people have arranged flights, hotels, childcare—”
“Because you invited them to property you don’t own.”
“It’s our family’s lake house.”
“No. It’s my lake house.”
“You always say that when you’re angry.”
“I say it because it’s legally true.”
Mom walked toward us.
“Girls.”
We both turned.
She hated confrontation unless she was controlling it.
“Let’s go inside.”
“No,” I said.
Samantha laughed bitterly.
“Of course not. Rebecca wants an audience.”
I looked at the workers.
“They’re here because of you.”
Olivia stepped between us carefully.
“I need clarity because vendors are scheduled through Friday. If authorization is disputed, I’m required to suspend installation.”
“Then suspend it,” I said.
Samantha’s face drained.
“You can’t.”
“I just did.”
Olivia touched her tablet.
“Rebecca is the recorded owner?”
“Yes,” Laura answered.
Olivia began making calls.
Samantha stared at me as if I had slapped her.
“You are actually canceling my wedding.”
“I’m stopping an unauthorized event.”
“Same thing.”
“No. They only feel the same because you built your wedding around the assumption that I wouldn’t say no.”
That landed.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Mom moved beside her.
“Rebecca, listen to yourself.”
“I am.”
“Your sister’s wedding is in four days.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?”
“What would you like me to call it?”
Mom lowered her voice.
“A family emergency.”
I laughed.
“No. A venue emergency.”
Samantha’s eyes filled.
For one second I saw the little sister who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
Then she said, “You’ve always needed to win.”
And the sympathy vanished.
“This isn’t a competition.”
“It always is with you.”
“How?”
“You bought this place and suddenly acted like you were better than everyone.”
“I bought a house.”
“You bought the place Dad always wanted.”
That stopped me.
Our father had died eight years earlier.
He had loved lakes.
He had once dreamed aloud about retiring somewhere near water.
But he had never seen this house.
I bought it two years after his death.
“You think that makes it yours?” I asked.
“I think it means something to the family.”
“It does.”
“Then why are you acting like we’re strangers?”
“Because family does not forge signatures.”
Silence again.
Mom looked away.
I noticed.
“Who made the form?”
Nobody answered.
Laura said, “Our fraud unit can trace submission metadata.”
Samantha’s head turned sharply.
That reaction was small.
But I saw it.
So did Laura.
Olivia ended her phone call.
“All installations are suspended.”
“No,” Samantha said.
“I’m contractually required.”
“I paid you.”
“You paid for planning services contingent on legal venue access.”
“I have legal access.”
Olivia glanced at me.
“No. You apparently have familial access.”
For the first time, Samantha seemed frightened.
Not angry.
Frightened.
I looked toward the house.
“Does she have a key?”
Mom answered.
“We all have keys.”
“No. You had emergency keys.”
Samantha muttered, “Same difference.”
I turned toward her.
“No, Samantha. That sentence is the entire problem.”
I walked to the porch.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, furniture had been moved.
My dining table was gone.
The living room was full of boxes marked LINENS, GLASSWARE, CANDLES, TABLE NUMBERS.
A rack of bridesmaid dresses stood near the fireplace.
My home had become backstage storage.
Then I saw blue painter’s tape across the hardwood floor.
Names had been written on strips.
BRIDAL PARTY.
CATERER.
DJ.
BAR.
I walked upstairs.
The guest rooms had luggage inside.
Samantha had already moved people in.
I opened the master bedroom.
A white garment bag hung from my closet door.
BRIDE.
Something inside me hardened.
Mom appeared behind me.
“She needed the largest room.”
“This is my bedroom.”
“You aren’t sleeping here this week.”
“I was not asked.”
“She assumed you’d stay in Seattle until Saturday.”
“And then what? Arrive as a guest?”
Mom rubbed her forehead.
“This has gotten out of control.”
“It was out of control before I arrived.”
“I know.”
The admission surprised me.
I turned.
Mom looked suddenly older.
“Samantha panicked when the hotel canceled,” she said.
“So you helped her take over my house?”
“I thought you would eventually agree.”
“Eventually?”
“She said if everything was already arranged, you wouldn’t want to ruin it.”
There it was.
The strategy.
Not misunderstanding.
Not assumption.
Leverage.
Build everything first.
Force Rebecca to say no after money had been spent.
Turn my boundary into cruelty.
I walked downstairs.
Samantha stood near the fireplace talking furiously into her phone.
When she saw me, she hung up.
“You happy?”
“No.”
“Caterer paused service. Rentals stopped installation. Eric’s parents are freaking out.”
“Where is Eric?”
“Driving here.”
“Does he know you don’t own the house?”
Her jaw tightened.
“He knows it’s family property.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She looked away.
That answered it.
I sat at the kitchen island.
“Call every vendor. Tell them the truth.”
“No.”
“Samantha.”
“I am not destroying my wedding because you’re on some ownership power trip.”
I stared at her.
“You submitted my signature.”
“I said I didn’t.”
“Then help identify who did.”
“I don’t know.”
Laura entered.
“I may.”
She held her phone.
“Our office pulled the upload logs.”
Samantha’s face changed again.
“Already?”
Laura nodded.
“The consent form came from an IP address associated with this property.”
Mom frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means it was uploaded using the internet connection here.”
Samantha folded her arms.
“Dozens of people have been here.”
“Not nine days ago,” I said.
She glanced at me.
I remembered exactly where I had been nine days earlier.
Chicago.
Business conference.
The house had been empty.
Or it should have been.
I opened the security app on my phone.
The exterior cameras had been offline for nearly two weeks.
I had assumed a storm disrupted the router.
I looked at Samantha.
“You disconnected my cameras.”
“No.”
“Someone did.”
“I don’t know anything about your cameras.”
I checked the smart-lock history.
There were entries.
Mom’s emergency code.
Samantha’s old guest code.
And one code I didn’t recognize.
Used nine days earlier at 10:42 p.m.
Then again at 11:18.
I showed Laura.
She photographed the screen.
“What code is that?”
“I don’t know.”
Samantha was staring at the numbers.
Her face had gone completely still.
“You recognize it,” I said.
“No.”
“Samantha.”
She shook her head.
Then headlights swept through the front windows.
A pickup truck pulled into the driveway.
Eric.
Samantha ran outside before anyone could stop her.
I followed more slowly.
Eric climbed out wearing work boots and a rain jacket.
He hugged Samantha.
She whispered something rapidly.
His expression changed.
He looked at me.
Then at Laura.
Then at the deputy vehicle that had just appeared behind him.
A county deputy stepped out.
Laura had called him before coming.
Eric walked toward me.
“Rebecca, can we talk privately?”
“After you answer one question.”
He stopped.
“Did you know Samantha wasn’t a co-owner?”
He looked at her.
That was enough.
I felt sick.
“Samantha told me the deed was technically in your name,” he said.
“Technically?”
“But she said you all contributed.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“She said your parents helped buy it.”
“No.”
“She said Andrew invested in renovations.”
“No.”
His eyes moved back to Samantha.
She started crying.
Real tears now.
“Eric, please.”
He looked stunned.
“How much of this was true?”
She wiped her face.
“It is our family place.”
“That isn’t what you told me.”
Mom stepped forward.
“This can wait.”
“No,” Eric said.
It was the first time anyone besides me had said it.
“No, Margaret. It can’t.”
The deputy approached.
Laura handed him copies of the documents.
He read them without expression.
Then he asked, “Who completed the property-owner consent?”
Nobody answered.
He looked at Samantha.
She whispered, “I don’t know.”
The deputy turned the page over.
Something had been printed on the reverse side by mistake.
A partial email header.
Most of it was cut off.
But one line remained.
FROM: A.PATTERSON
I stared at it.
Samantha stopped crying.
Mom’s hand flew to her mouth.
Andrew.
May you like
Our brother.
And his truck was turning into the driveway.
