The Big Bang (41 page)

$38,0133.12 worth of donations were earmarked for the building fund.

She opened the file tucked behind and entitled,
MELODY MOUNTAIN COMMUNITY CHURCH FINANCIALS
, pulled the most recent profit-and-loss statement from the front of the folder, and located the line item,
Building Fund
.

$38,0133.12.

Her heart, beating frenetically, dropped back down and was almost normal by the time she went through the rest of the files and pulled the last folder.

Inside, like she expected, was a key and a three-by-five card with the password for the home computer: MELEVA.

For one emotion-fraught moment she thought she might shake the grip of her steely shock when she realized the password was a combination of his nickname for her and the name Eva had so desperately wanted to be called by him.

She might even have cried, had she not also found copies of three checks, one for twenty-three thousand, one for ten thousand, and one for five thousand, all written on an account entitled MMCC Building Fund.

The payee on all three was Henderson Homes.

“T
hey haven’t declared Chapter Eleven?” the Melody Mountain Ranch Community Association lawyer asked.

“Not to our knowledge,” Trautman said.

Under different circumstances, Tim’s de facto step-in as HOB president would have pissed Will off to the same degree the spectacular view of the Front Range from the lawyer’s seventeenth floor window would have buoyed his spirits.

Considering how bad the situation was, neither much moved him.

“They seemed to have closed up shop and disappeared,” Tim added.

“In a way, that’s better,” the lawyer said. “If they had filed for bankruptcy, your losses become just another claim among what will inevitably turn out to be many.”

“What about insurance?” Tim asked. “Can’t we go after their builder’s insurance?”

“If Henderson Homes didn’t feel obligated to follow the building code,” Will said, “what are the chances they felt like paying for builder’s insurance?”

“How do we find that out if there is no Henderson Homes to contact to get that information?”

“Someone will eventually resurface,” the lawyer said. “In the meantime, I’d hire a P.I. to run a skip trace and whatever else he or she thinks needs to be done to dig up the principals of the company as quickly as possible.”

“And then?”

“You pray there’s some money somewhere.”

***

“I found receipts for payments to Henderson Homes from the Melody Mountain Community Church account and a stream of back and forth e-mails between Frank and the H.H. finance department on his personal computer,” Maryellen said. “But I didn’t find anything in the way of a deed.”

“They haven’t declared Chapter Eleven?” her lawyer asked.

“Not to my knowledge. And Frank was theoretically short $2,000.”

“That’s sort of worse.”

“How could it be worse?”

“If they had filed for bankruptcy, you have a convincing paper trail to petition whoever’s appointed trustee to deed the land to you as promised.”

“But since they haven’t?”

“I’d wait. If Frank did come up with the money, the deed could turn up. If not, someone from Henderson Homes will eventually resurface. At that point, either they’ll file for bankruptcy and we go the trustee route, or we go after them for the money and/or the deed.”

“What do I tell the membership of the church in the meantime?”

“To pray.”

M
aryellen’s palms began to sweat as she twisted another key into yet another lock and opened her mailbox. Before she looked inside, she bowed her head:
Dear Lord, Please provide some resolution to this financial mess, if not for me, for the members of the church who stand to lose so much more than just their pastor. Amen.

She pulled a single piece of correspondence from her box.

The Visa bill.

She sighed, opened the monthly statement, and looked over the charges like Frank always did, but without the questions about the grocery tab or what she’d spent $59.88 on at Macy’s.

As always, everything checked out.

Everything, but a cash advance for $2,000, made on June 29, the day before Frank had his last meeting at Henderson Homes.

***

“The best thing we can do right now is keep calm,” Tim said over the angry din of neighbors crowding the multipurpose room.

“First you tell us our builder disappeared,” someone said from three rows back. “Then you tell us to be calm?”

The last thing he wanted to do was step into power in the midst of disaster, but the whole phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes angle did have workable upside potential. “I’m saying cooler heads always prevail when the going gets tough.”

“Are all of our houses going to rot and sink like the Estridges’?” someone else asked.

“We’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Tim said.

“I’m selling,” came from the back row.

“Not without disclosing the cracks and damage,” someone else said. “The Fowlers took off for Oakland and their house is sitting there empty and not for sale.”

“The situation is dicey, to say the least.” Tim waited for the first lull in the spiraling hysteria. “But, we’ve hired a private investigator to locate the principals of Henderson Homes.”

The room quieted ever so slightly.

“We will get the playground fixed and we will make sure that the affected homeowners and our community as a whole is made right.” He paused. “I promise.”

***

“Nothing?” Will asked.

“Not on the skip trace,” the private investigator said. “But that’s not entirely unusual considering they just closed shop less than two weeks ago.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“Dig deeper,” the P.I. said.

“Meaning what?”

“Depends on your budget.”

“We used the last of the homeowner’s board fund on your retainer.”

“Afraid I can’t much help you, then.”

***

Maryellen grabbed a cookie and left the multipurpose room modifying the prayer she’d been revising and restating for days:
Dear Lord, I now realize the shock and, honestly, outrage I felt upon seeing Frank cash-advanced the last $2,000 for the land from our joint credit card was all part of your plan. I have faith the deed for your church was somehow processed because of his unusual, but ultimately well-meaning, actions and will find its way to me so I can make things right for the former members of Frank’s congregation. Amen.

“We’re so fucked,” Ron Hill said to his wife as they passed Maryellen in the hallway.

And please, please, please right this mess. Amen
, she added before finishing her last bite of cookie and detouring into the ladies’ room.

Closing herself into a stall, she wiggled her not entirely loose jeans down below her hips to pee. Somehow, in the midst of it all, her need to feed had grown, but she just didn’t feel like putting herself through the purge anymore.

The door to the bathroom opened with the scrape of a stroller against the doorframe and accompanied by the sound of two screaming babies.

“Let me help you,” a voice said.

Maryellen looked through the crack in the stall door.

Theresa Trautman pushed the stroller, followed by Meg Pierce-Cohn who picked up and began to rock one of the babies.

“Thanks,” Theresa said over the wailing. “I never thought about them both being colicky at the same inopportune moment.”

“My girls always fussed at the same time,” Meg said. “Still do.”

Both babies screamed louder.

“The colic, mixed with the lack of sleep…” Theresa said, tearfully.

“Is one of the toughest parts of having twins,” Meg said. “Two weeks after having ours, I sent Will in for a vasectomy.”

Vasectomy.

Will Pierce-Cohn was fixed.

***

“You an attorney?” the representative from the Estridges’ structural insurance asked.

Will’s idea, to advocate for the Estridges who were getting the runaround as to the ultimate fate of their home, and, at the same time, make inquiries into Henderson Homes’ construction insurance coverage, seemed less brilliant by the second. “Not per se, but I am an authorized representative of—”

“Authorized how?”

“The Estridges asked me to, and—”

“And this is an open file. We are only authorized to speak with the Estridges or their legal counsel.”

“I see,” he said. “Can you provide any information on a non-open file, unrelated to the Estridges’ loss?”

“What would that be?”

“Can you tell me if Henderson Homes also carried their builder’s insurance with you?”

“Not unless you’re an authorized representative of Henderson Homes.”

***

Maryellen bowed her head.

Dear Lord, While I admit, it’s growing more and more difficult to maintain a positive attitude, I am grateful You spared the Pierce-Cohns from what could have been unbearable shame. I pray that the blessing of overhearing the conversation between Theresa and Meg is Your way of telling me there is no reason to be concerned about Hope’s pregnancy. Please, don’t let…
She couldn’t figure out which name was better or worse to insert.
Please let Jim be the father of Hope’s baby. Please also let the neighborhood situation resolve. And,
she paused.
Please, let the deed be in the mailbox. Amen.

She turned the key in the lock.

Inside, she found a polite, carefully worded letter from the church brotherhood wondering how they might be of assistance in organizing and preparing the Melody Mountain Community Church for its upcoming merger with Harmony Hills.

And a 10 percent off coupon for Bed Bath & Beyond.

***

“Question?” Will asked.

“Shoot,” the forensic engineer said.

“What’s it going to cost to retrofit the drainage we need?”

“You don’t want to know.”

***

Maryellen got back in her car after another fruitless mailbox pass and drove down the street toward her house. She pulled into the garage and went inside to find Eva curled up on the sectional, weeping silently in the blue light of the TV. “I thought you had some friends coming over?”

“I don’t.”

“Why don’t you call—?”

“If they came over, it would only be out of guilt.”

“People don’t know what to do in these situations.”

“Especially when they feel guilty.”

“Why would anyone feel guilty?”

“Mom.” Eva looked up at her. “I know you heard, saw what was going on in the basement after the potluck.”

“Oh God, Eva, I…” Maryellen saw herself looking at her daughter in that purple cape through a haze of candles and incense. “I’m not sure what I saw.”

“Because of the hash brownies.”

“I…” Maryellen said.

“My fault,” Eva said.

“How is it your fault? Lan…” Maryellen stopped herself. “One of the parents—”

“Mrs. Estridge found the brownies we hid in the cabinet at the rec center. She brought them out but she didn’t bring them to the party.”

“Oh Lord.” Maryellen felt sick.

Eva looked down. “They were supposed to enhance a spell.”

“Experimenting,” Maryellen finally managed, mainly because she couldn’t figure out what else she could say. “Normal part of the adolescent process.”

“The spell was about Daddy.”

Fighting a horrific, aching revulsion, she forced herself to sit down and put her arm around her daughter. “Whatever it was you kids were doing couldn’t possibly have caused what happened to happen.”

“Tyler found this book. We thought it would be cool to form a… People were into it and when Lauren moved into the neighborhood and fell for Tyler and wanted to join we had thirteen people.”

“Thirteen,” Maryellen found herself repeating.

“When Dad said I had to go to camp, it just made sense to try a spell that would send him to Africa or something.” Her voice was husky with anguish. “He wasn’t supposed to…”

“You were play acting. You couldn’t have—”

“Tyler said we shouldn’t do it after Lauren took off because her mom went into labor. He said the results were too unpredictable. I thought maybe Daddy would go away, but somewhere close, or for less time. With only twelve we weren’t strong enough to effect…”

And now it is done.

“And then I broke up Lauren and Tyler by pretending… I can’t even talk about it.… Everything’s ruined. And now everyone hates me, but none of it matters, because Daddy’s gone.” She buried her head in Maryellen’s shoulder. “Daddy’s gone.”

Maryellen closed her eyes. She thought about asking Eva to join her in a healing prayer, but thought better of it. She began to recite the words silently instead:
Heavenly Father, in my present need, help me to believe that You understand my pain and will do what is best for me.

She stopped.

Frank was not only dead, but had left her to deal with an emptied building fund, a sinking playground, a cracking home, and a question mark where Hope Jordan was concerned.

Eva’s tears dampened her shirt.

Worse, he’d left her with a despondent, hash-brownie-making, teen witch for a daughter.

Could this really be what was best for her?

The built-up tears from the past days, weeks, months, probably even years finally erupted and streamed down her face. As she cried for how little she missed Frank, how much she wished he was around to deal with his mistakes, and sobbed that much harder over Eva, she couldn’t get herself to recite the
Give me the strength to trust You and put the present and future in Your Hands
remainder of the prayer.

“Are you okay, Mommy?” Eva asked.

“Honestly?” Maryellen found herself looking up at her equally teary daughter. “Everything’s really fucked up.”