Fourteen Days
Chapter 06 - Fourteen Days
Miriam Gold arrived at the courthouse with two canvas bags, a thermos of coffee, and a dislike of men who mistook expensive shoes for evidence. Preston arrived with three lawyers and a silk pocket square the color of old wine. Matteo Rinaldi did not attend.
Adeline wore a navy dress Lucia had lent her. It pinched beneath the arms, but the hem fell below her knees, and she had ironed it three times. Marisol wore her one good blazer. Carmen sat between them, taking deep breaths through her nose as if she were getting ready to pull heavy bread from an oven.
Enzo waited near the courtroom door. He did not try to stand beside Adeline. During the two days since their first meeting, she had made it clear she would not be used as a prop in a family quarrel, even a quarrel she wanted him to win.
The hearing was supposed to be narrow. Miriam wanted a temporary order stopping any transfer or demolition while the ownership dispute was examined. The judge, a patient woman named Eleanor Price, listened to arguments about signatures, dates, legal standing, and whether the parties had moved quickly enough.
Preston's attorney described the women's claim as “an opportunistic reconstruction of a long-settled transaction.”
Lucia gripped her handbag until her knuckles turned white.
Miriam did not rise to the insult. She offered the death certificate, the deed dated thirteen months later, the original working agreement, and the bank records. She also asked that the county preserve all records relating to the 2013 transfer.
“Your Honor,” she said, “we are not asking the court to decide every question today. We are asking that nobody tear down the disputed property before those questions can be answered.”
The judge studied the death certificate. “Counsel, are you disputing that Ms. Vance was deceased at the time this document says she signed?”
Preston's lawyer cleared his throat. “We cannot verify the authenticity of every historical certification at this stage.”
“Neither can I,” the judge said. “Which is why I am not approving demolition.”
Adeline's breath caught. Marisol found her hand beneath the bench and held it.
The judge granted a fourteen-day temporary restraining order and set a further hearing. There was no victory speech. The bailiff called the next matter. Papers rustled, coats were buttoned, and the room returned to ordinary business.
Outside, Preston stood by the elevators and watched the women approach. “Two weeks,” he said. “And then what? You think a bakery and a file clerk can run a property worth millions?”
Carmen stopped. “We ran it before.”
“You lost it before.”
“And yet we're still here,” she replied.
His expression flickered. Only a little. Adeline noticed and stored it away.
They gathered at Carmen's bakery afterward. The back room had a worn pine table and a window facing an alley full of weeds. It was the opposite of Bellwether's glittering dining room, and nobody seemed eager to leave.
Miriam explained what fourteen days meant. She would seek bank records, witness statements, and the original trust filing. They needed Samuel Hart's testimony more than almost anything else. Without him, the surviving papers told only part of the story.
Adeline asked Enzo whether his brother knew she was there. “He knows,” Enzo said. “He knows about the injunction too. He's furious.”
“Does he know you helped us?”
“Yes.”
“Then don't pretend this doesn't cost you anything.”
Enzo looked down at his coffee. “I've spent too long pretending the cost was always paid by somebody else.”
That afternoon, Lucia admitted something she had avoided at the courthouse. She had signed a document in 2013, but not the deed displayed in court. Victor had come to her with a waiver and told her Matteo's creditors might come after the restaurant unless she signed. She was afraid of losing the building and afraid of what Victor might do if she refused.
“So you signed?” Marisol asked.
“Yes.”
“And afterward?”
“I found out they'd transferred everything anyway. I asked him about it. He said the matter was finished.”
Carmen stared at her. “You never told me.”
Lucia met her eyes. “I know.”
For a long time neither woman spoke. Their friendship had survived funerals, illnesses, marriages, and the slow retreat of children into adult lives. It had never been tested by a lie that large.
“You let me think Grace had agreed,” Carmen said.
“I wanted to think so myself.”
Lucia took off her wedding ring then, though Victor had been dead for years. She placed it on the table and looked at the pale line it left behind.
“I thought if I kept the marriage intact, I was protecting my sons,” she said. “Enzo was grown. Matteo was grown. But I kept acting as though my duty was to preserve the house.”
“Maybe you were protecting yourself,” Carmen said.
“Yes,” Lucia said after a while. “That too.”
No one asked her to put the ring back on. It lay between the cups, a small piece of metal that had managed to govern most of her life.
“That's a terrible thing to say.”
“Yes,” Lucia answered. “It is.”
Adeline watched them from the sink. She had always imagined that older women lived on the other side of uncertainty. Now she saw that they only carried their decisions longer.
She remembered Grace coming home from work with damp hair and hands smelling of onions. Adeline had thought grown-ups knew the correct answer to every question. She had not imagined the women arguing about loans, repairs, or what to do when a man with a title told them to sign.
“Could we have stopped it?” she asked Lucia.
“We might have,” Lucia said. “But not by ourselves. That was the lesson we were slowest to learn.”
Carmen touched the rim of her cup. “We can still learn it.”
Near dusk, Nico called. Someone had been inside the Ash Street storage building and cut the lock on unit 214. The boxes were gone. The locksmith had taken photographs during their visit, and Miriam had scanned the documents, but the originals had vanished.
Enzo went quiet. “Who had access?”
“The facility manager says a man presented a court order. It was forged. Security footage is missing.”
“What about Samuel?”
“Nothing yet.”
Adeline pictured her mother's letter in the pocket of her coat and was grateful she'd taken it. Then her phone rang from an unknown number. The caller breathed once and hung up.
A message appeared immediately afterward: Stop asking about Saint Agnes. If you want Samuel Hart alive, let the sale go through.
May you like
She showed it to Miriam, then to Enzo. He read it twice, his mouth set. Neither of them needed the message explained.
They had won fourteen days. Someone had decided Samuel Hart might not be allowed to live through them.
