Now he was sitting at my birthday dinner, holding a contract for a building that belonged to the woman he’d spent half his life making fun of.
“That’s impossible,” he finally said.
I took a sip of water.
“Is it?”
He picked up the contract and read the seller’s name again.
Then he looked at Jessie.
“You’re telling me your aunt owns this building?”
Jessie didn’t sit down.
“I’m telling you she has owned it for nine years. The deed is recorded. The mortgage was paid in full this spring. You can look it up yourself.”
Rance turned toward me.
“Kace, what kind of game are you playing?”
I almost laughed.
A game?
I’d spent twenty-six years delivering mail in every kind of weather Pennsylvania could throw at me. I’d spent nine years paying a mortgage on a building while working overtime and skipping vacations.
I’d missed Christmas mornings because somebody had to deliver packages.
I’d worn out three pairs of walking shoes.
And he’d called that a game?
“I’m not playing anything,” I said. “You made an offer. I declined it.”
He leaned forward.
“You can’t just refuse a signed contract.”
“Actually, I can. You made an offer. I didn’t accept it.”
Jessie finally sat down.
“She’s right, Uncle Rance.”
Vickie shifted in her chair.
“Maybe we should talk about this somewhere private.”
That was the first sensible thing anybody on his side had said all evening.
But Rance wasn’t interested in private.
He was interested in getting his pride back.
He looked around the table.
“Well, this is something, isn’t it? Everybody’s been keeping secrets.”
I looked at him.
“Not everybody. Just me.”
My son RJ had gone completely quiet.
He was staring at the building contract like it was a bomb.
“Mom,” he whispered. “You really own it?”
I nodded.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“All of it?”
“Every brick.”
He shook his head.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
That question hurt more than anything Rance had said.
Because RJ had been there when his father left.
He’d watched me cry in the kitchen after the divorce.
He’d watched me work double shifts.
He’d watched me put groceries back on the shelf because the mortgage came first.
And I hadn’t told him.
“Because I wanted one thing in my life that didn’t become everybody else’s business,” I said.
He looked down.
Rance pushed his chair back.
“Fine. So you own it. Congratulations. Now tell me what you want.”
There it was.
The question I’d known he’d ask.
I put my napkin beside my plate.
“I want you to stop calling it your building.”
He laughed bitterly.
“That’s it?”
“No.”
I looked directly at him.
“I want you to stop telling people I took nothing from our marriage because I was too stupid to understand what I was signing.”
His face changed.
“And I want you to stop telling RJ that I was the reason our family fell apart.”
RJ looked up.
“Dad?”
Rance waved him off.
“That’s between your mother and me.”
“No,” I said. “It stopped being between us when you started telling the whole town.”
I took a breath.
“And one more thing. I want you to pay your rent on time.”
A few people at the table almost smiled.
Rance didn’t.
He stood up.
“You’re enjoying this.”
I shook my head.
“No, Rance. I’m enjoying my birthday.”
Then I picked up my fork and cut another piece of cake.
He left without saying goodbye.
Vickie followed him.
The restaurant door closed behind them.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then my neighbor, Mrs. Donnelly, raised her glass.
“Well, Kaci,” she said, “I think you just gave yourself the best birthday present in Brookville.”
Everybody laughed.
This time, I laughed too.
But RJ didn’t.
He sat beside me for another twenty minutes without touching his food.
When the others started leaving, he helped me put on my coat.
“Mom, can I talk to you?”
“Of course.”
We stood outside under the restaurant’s yellow lights.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
“I invited Dad because I thought maybe things could be normal again.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know he was going to do that.”
“I know that too.”
He looked at me.
“But when he started making fun of you, I didn’t say anything.”
I waited.
“I’m sorry.”
I put my hand on his cheek.
“You’re allowed to love your father, RJ. But you don’t have to let him embarrass your mother to prove it.”
His eyes filled.
“I should’ve stood up for you.”
“Next time, you will.”
He nodded.
Then he hugged me.
And for the first time that evening, I felt like my birthday was really mine.
But the trouble wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Because the next morning, my phone started ringing.
And the first call was from my property manager.
PART 3: THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HE COULD STILL CONTROL ME
Sunday morning, I was making coffee when my phone rang.
It was Diane, the property manager.
“Good morning, Kaci. I assume you’ve heard from Rance?”
“I saw him last night.”
There was a pause.
“Well, he’s been calling since seven.”
I looked at the clock.
7:14.
“That’s early.”
“He says you embarrassed him in front of his family and business associates.”
I leaned against the counter.
“He embarrassed himself.”
“I agree. But there’s something else.”
I waited.
“He’s asking to meet with you about the purchase.”
“No.”
“He’s also asking whether you’ll consider selling for the original offer.”
I laughed.
“One hundred and eighty thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Diane, the building was worth more than that before Main Street was renovated. It’s worth considerably more now.”
“I know.”
“And the mortgage is paid off.”
“I know that too.”
“Then you understand my answer.”
She sighed.
“I do. But I thought you should know he’s making calls around town.”
“What kind of calls?”
“He says the building has structural problems. He’s telling people you might be trying to force him out.”
I stopped stirring my coffee.
That was new.
For nine years, Rance had been perfectly happy paying rent to a company he believed belonged to some investor from the city.
Now that he knew the owner was me, he was suddenly worried about the roof.
“Does he have a copy of the lease?”
“Yes.”
“Does he have the maintenance records?”
“Every one of them.”
“Then he knows exactly what condition the building is in.”
“Yes, Kaci.”
“Good. Let him talk.”
Diane was quiet for a moment.
“You really don’t want to sell?”
I looked out my kitchen window.
Across the street, a delivery truck was backing into a driveway.
I could see the little brick house where my grandmother used to live.
The house wasn’t there anymore. It had been torn down years ago.
But the street name was still on the mailbox.
“Not to him,” I said.
After we hung up, I sat at the kitchen table.
My retirement statement was still on the refrigerator.
The pierogi magnet was holding it in place.
I finally took it down.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a summary of my retirement benefits, my estimated monthly income, and a list of options.
I read every line.
Then I read it again.
I wasn’t rich.
I wasn’t going to be rich.
But I had something I’d never had before.
A paid-off building.
A steady rental income.
And the possibility of retiring without being afraid of every unexpected bill.
I folded the statement and put it in a drawer.
Then I called Jessie.
She answered on the second ring.
“Morning, Aunt Kace.”
“Are you busy?”
“Filing paperwork. Why?”
“I need to ask you something about the building.”
Her voice changed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing yet. But Rance is making calls.”
I explained what Diane had told me.
Jessie listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said something that made my stomach tighten.
“Aunt Kace, there’s another thing you should know.”
“What?”
“Yesterday afternoon, before the birthday dinner, Uncle Rance came into the recorder’s office.”
I sat down.
“Why?”
“He wanted to know how to transfer the building into his name.”
I closed my eyes.
“He thought he’d already bought it?”
“Apparently. He said the seller had agreed to everything and he just needed to make sure the paperwork was filed correctly.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I asked him whether he’d seen the deed.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the property manager handled all that.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Jessie.”
“I know.”
“What else?”
She hesitated.
“He asked whether there was any way to get a copy of the old divorce settlement.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why would he need that?”
“I don’t know. But Aunt Kace, I looked up the original property transfer. Everything is clean. Your company owns the building. The deed is recorded. There’s no issue.”
“Then why was he asking about the divorce?”
“I think he might be looking for something.”
I stared at the kitchen wall.
Nine years ago, Rance had been happy to hand me a building he thought would ruin me.
Now he wanted to know if he could take it back.
“Jessie, I want copies of everything.”
“Already working on it.”
“And don’t discuss this with anyone.”
“Of course.”
We hung up.
I thought about calling Rance.
I didn’t.
Instead, I called Diane.
