Part 2: The Note in Her Father’s Handwriting
“Russell Prescott.” We knew each other’s names through Chicago’s business community.
He looked at the girls. “I hope they haven’t disturbed your lunch.” I replied, “Quite the opposite. They’ve made it considerably more interesting.”
Nell beamed at him. “Mr. Mercer is helping us today.” Russell looked confused, and Eliza quickly stepped in. “Russell, we’re finished for now. I need to take the girls home.”
“Eliza, this decision affects everyone involved. You can’t keep putting it off.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I can take the time I need.” Russell lowered his voice. “I’m only trying to give you and the children some stability.”
Harper moved closer to her mother. “We already have a home, Mr. Prescott.” Eliza gently rested a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
Russell seemed ready to answer, but I spoke first. “Perhaps this conversation would be more productive when Mrs. Whitcomb actually wants to have it.”
He studied me for a long moment, then straightened his jacket. “We’ll speak tomorrow, Eliza.” “Only if there’s something new to discuss,” she replied. Russell left with his associate.
Nell watched him vanish through the door, then whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear: “Our pretend daddy is really good at making people go away.” For the first time that afternoon, Eliza laughed.
I expected never to see the Whitcomb family again. Instead, forty minutes later, I found them in the parking garage. Eliza stood beside a dark-blue sedan, staring helplessly at her phone, while all four girls waited inside the car.
I walked over. “Car trouble?” She looked up. “Apparently my car decided this afternoon wasn’t complicated enough.”
“What happened?” “It won’t start, and my roadside assistance app keeps freezing.”
I called my driver, Bennett, who kept a portable jump starter in our SUV. While he checked the battery, Eliza and I stood nearby. “You really didn’t have to do this,” she said. “I know. But it’s a fairly simple problem to solve.”
She hesitated. “Can I ask what my daughters told you?” I explained their worries about Russell. Eliza listened without interrupting, then sighed. “Russell has never been unkind to them. But lately he seems convinced he knows what our family needs better than I do.”
“How long have you known him?” “Almost twenty years. He and my husband, Peter, started a development company together.” Her face softened at her husband’s name. “Peter passed away three years ago. Russell helped me manage everything afterward.”
She described how Russell had handled complicated business decisions while she adjusted to raising four daughters alone. At first, his help had been invaluable. He understood the company, knew the investors, and had worked beside Peter for years. But gradually, his advice became more personal. He began suggesting how she should raise the girls, where they should go to school, and which family traditions were worth keeping. Then he proposed.
“I told him I wasn’t interested,” Eliza said. “He said I was just afraid of making another commitment.” “And what did you say?” “That I knew my own feelings better than he did.”
I nodded. “That sounds like a perfectly reasonable answer.” She looked surprised. “You make it sound simple.” “Sometimes the answer is simple, even when the circumstances aren’t.”
Bennett returned with good news: the battery had responded, though he recommended having it checked. Eliza thanked him warmly. Before they left, Harper rolled down her window. “Mr. Mercer, are you coming back tomorrow?” I smiled. “I don’t think your mother has invited me.”
Nell shouted from the back seat, “Mommy, invite him!” Eliza shook her head, laughing. “Girls, please let the man have a peaceful afternoon.” But as she drove away, I kept thinking about the exhaustion I had glimpsed behind her smile.
The next afternoon, Eliza called my office asking for advice on a business matter. I invited her to stop by. She arrived with all four daughters and a paper bag of blueberry muffins. “The girls insisted on bringing something,” she explained. Nell proudly handed me the bag. “We made sure yours didn’t get squished.” “That’s the most thoughtful business gift I’ve received all week.”
While the girls admired the Chicago skyline through my office windows, Eliza explained the dispute. It centered on a historic brick property called Maplewood Hall on the city’s North Side. Once a neighborhood school, it had been transformed years earlier, with Peter’s help, into a community space offering affordable art studios, children’s reading programs, and offices for local nonprofits. I knew the property. Its location had grown increasingly valuable, and several developers had shown interest.
“Russell wants to sell,” Eliza said. “He claims the company needs the money for upcoming projects.” “And you disagree?” “Peter loved that building. He always said it should stay part of the neighborhood.”
She opened a folder of financial summaries and company records. “Russell says Peter’s feelings don’t change the legal ownership. According to the documents he’s shown me, the partnership can sell it.” “Have you reviewed the original agreements?” She shook her head. “Russell says the oldest documents were replaced years ago.”
I studied the papers. Nothing immediately proved Russell was acting improperly; companies sometimes sold properties to fund new investments. But Eliza had every right to request the complete records first. “You should have an independent attorney examine the original ownership documents.” “Russell says that would create unnecessary expenses.” “An independent review is usually cheaper than signing something you don’t fully understand.”
Eliza looked down. “He also says investors would feel more confident if we married. He thinks it would show the business and our family moving forward together.” I set the papers aside. “Those are two separate decisions, Eliza.” She nodded slowly. “I know. I just needed someone else to say it.”
All the while, Harper had been unusually quiet, standing near my desk with a worn hardcover clutched to her chest. Finally she approached her mother. “Mom, can I show Mr. Mercer what I found?” Eliza frowned. “What did you find, sweetheart?”
Harper laid the book on my desk. It was an old illustrated edition of The Secret Garden, its cover faded, several pages loose from the binding. Eliza touched it gently. “That was your father’s favorite book when he was young.” “I know. I found it in the box of his things in the upstairs closet.”
She opened the back cover. Tucked between the lining and the final page was a folded sheet of pale blue paper. “I thought it was an old receipt, but then I saw Dad’s handwriting.”
Eliza’s expression changed. She unfolded the paper carefully, and as she read, her face grew more and more serious. Then she looked up at me, her voice barely steady. “Nathaniel, would you mind looking at this?”
