Chapter 8 - The Notice to Cure
On Thursday morning, Arthur Vance called my office.
"The certified letters were delivered at nine-fifteen this morning, Nora," Arthur said, his voice deep, dry, and thoroughly professional. "One copy to Elmwood Terrace via courier with signed receipt by Greg Miller, and one copy sent to your parents’ residence as interested guarantors."
"Did Greg sign it himself?" I asked, looking over a financial spread sheet on my monitor.
"He did," Arthur confirmed. "The courier noted that Mrs. Miller was present and attempted to refuse delivery, but Greg signed the acknowledgment. They now have twenty-six days remaining to either tender the full market rent adjustment of twenty-four hundred dollars retroactive to the first of the month, or surrender the keys by May first. If they fail to do either, we file the formal eviction petition in district court on May second."
"And the promissory note?"
"Demand letter for the full outstanding balance of forty-two thousand dollars has been issued. Per the terms of the original settlement agreement, any default under the lease accelerates the maturity date of the promissory note immediately. They have thirty days to settle that debt, or we begin wage garnishments and asset attachments against Greg’s commercial accounts."
I took a slow, deep breath. "Thank you, Arthur."
"Nora," Arthur said gently, stepping out of his attorney persona for a brief second. "You know how these things go. When the golden child gets cut off, the family dynamic turns nuclear. Be prepared for your parents to throw everything they have at you to get you to back down."
"They don't have anything left to throw, Arthur," I said. "They already spent it all on Melissa."
Ten minutes after I hung up with Arthur, my father called.
Dad rarely called me. In the family hierarchy, Mom was the minister of communication, the one who wielded guilt like a butcher’s cleaver. Dad was the quiet background presence, retreating to his garage workshop whenever voices were raised in the living room.
"Nora?" his voice was rough, trembling with age and tension.
"Hi, Dad."
"I got a letter from a law firm today," he said. He sounded completely broken. "Arthur Vance. It says Greg owes forty-two thousand dollars by the end of the month, and if he doesn't pay, they're coming after me as the co-signer."
My heart gave a painful, familiar ache. "Dad, you co-signed that note four years ago so the suppliers wouldn't put a lien on your house. Greg was supposed to be paying down the principal every quarter. Did you know he hasn't made a single principal payment in fourteen months?"
Dad was silent on the other end of the line. The heavy ticking of the grandfather clock in his living room leaked through the receiver.
"I didn't know," he whispered finally. "Greg told me everything was under control. Melissa told your mother they were doing well."
May you like
"They're not doing well, Dad. They’re drowning, and they’ve been using me as an anchor while spitting in my face. We’re having dinner tomorrow night at your house. Just you, Mom, Greg, Melissa, and me. No kids. We’re going to lay the papers out on the table once and for all."
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