two months to live.
He only took three days.
Just like that, she was an orphan at the age of eighteen. With one deft swing of his scythe, Father Time had left her an adult, in all senses of the word, and with adulthood came all the realities: her father was broke. Worse than broke, actually, with debts far exceeding his ability ever to dig himself out.
Unless his only daughter and only child had struck it big in Hollywood.
Those double shifts could have kept revenue flowing long enough and fast enough to cover his finances for a few years, she supposed, but when she really looked at the books he’d kept, the whole thing was embarrassing.
She could have walked away; should have, probably, but to allow everything her dad had worked for to be sold at auction seemed terribly unkind—sacrilegious, almost. He’d never once turned his back on her in life. How could she abandon him in death?
The logic of it all made sense at the time, even as her dad’s business friends tried to talk her out of it, but she’d inherited not only his penchant for dreams, but also his bullheadedness. April let all the unsecured debt just go away, and by reducing credit card debt alone, she was able to knock a hefty five figures off the depth of the hole he’d dug. That left her with the house, the car, and miscellaneous household gadgets bought on time, most of which she got to keep gratis, if only because she dared the collections weenies at Sears and Monkey Wards to come and take their stuff away from a grieving orphan.
Each victory came after a vicious fight, but at least the victories were hers. “Come on by,” she’d said enough times that the words became almost reflexive. “I’m sure the news coverage will be great publicity for you.”
But the fight for the washing machine and the refrigerator were just the warm-up bouts, and she knew it. The real war would be fought over the mortgage on the house, on which only ten years remained unpaid. The bank manager, a pompous prick named Morgan, told her in no uncertain terms that her father had already missed three payments on the note and was technically already in default when he died. Morgan was just as sorry as all get-out that things weren’t going well for her, but, well, business was business.
Morgan gave her two choices: she could walk away from the property, in which case the bank would foreclose and subsequently enjoy a 300 percent return on their original investment, or she could refinance the mortgage and try to make a go of it herself.
“What would the payments be?” she remembered asking.
The question prompted a flurry of activity as his long lady-fingers flew across the keys of his calculator. When he looked up, he was so damned proud of himself that she’d wanted to puke. “Looks like your P and I would be about eight-fifty a month. With taxes and insurance, maybe just north of a thousand.”
“A thousand?” April had breathed. “Dollars? Every month?”
Morgan laughed at her reaction, and that moment lived on to this day—well, until earlier this morning—as the instant when she had come closest to killing another human being. “I’m afraid so, miss,” he’d chuckled. “Is that more than you can afford at present?”
She could still feel the heat building in her face and neck as she sat there in the polished lobby of the Milford Bank and Trust Company. She knew deep in her gut that she should have just walked out, but even in retrospect, that wasn’t possible. Not remotely so. “You arrogant shit,” she’d said, louder than was proper in those surroundings, but then, that was sort of the point. She wanted the entire world to know how this asshole was treating her.
“Miss Fitzgerald, really,” Morgan blustered. “I don’t think—”
April never dropped a beat. “Yeah, it’s more than I can afford. I’m eighteen years old, you prick. How am I supposed to afford a thousand dollars a month?”
As she’d hoped, every eye in the bank had
He only took three days.
Just like that, she was an orphan at the age of eighteen. With one deft swing of his scythe, Father Time had left her an adult, in all senses of the word, and with adulthood came all the realities: her father was broke. Worse than broke, actually, with debts far exceeding his ability ever to dig himself out.
Unless his only daughter and only child had struck it big in Hollywood.
Those double shifts could have kept revenue flowing long enough and fast enough to cover his finances for a few years, she supposed, but when she really looked at the books he’d kept, the whole thing was embarrassing.
She could have walked away; should have, probably, but to allow everything her dad had worked for to be sold at auction seemed terribly unkind—sacrilegious, almost. He’d never once turned his back on her in life. How could she abandon him in death?
The logic of it all made sense at the time, even as her dad’s business friends tried to talk her out of it, but she’d inherited not only his penchant for dreams, but also his bullheadedness. April let all the unsecured debt just go away, and by reducing credit card debt alone, she was able to knock a hefty five figures off the depth of the hole he’d dug. That left her with the house, the car, and miscellaneous household gadgets bought on time, most of which she got to keep gratis, if only because she dared the collections weenies at Sears and Monkey Wards to come and take their stuff away from a grieving orphan.
Each victory came after a vicious fight, but at least the victories were hers. “Come on by,” she’d said enough times that the words became almost reflexive. “I’m sure the news coverage will be great publicity for you.”
But the fight for the washing machine and the refrigerator were just the warm-up bouts, and she knew it. The real war would be fought over the mortgage on the house, on which only ten years remained unpaid. The bank manager, a pompous prick named Morgan, told her in no uncertain terms that her father had already missed three payments on the note and was technically already in default when he died. Morgan was just as sorry as all get-out that things weren’t going well for her, but, well, business was business.
Morgan gave her two choices: she could walk away from the property, in which case the bank would foreclose and subsequently enjoy a 300 percent return on their original investment, or she could refinance the mortgage and try to make a go of it herself.
“What would the payments be?” she remembered asking.
The question prompted a flurry of activity as his long lady-fingers flew across the keys of his calculator. When he looked up, he was so damned proud of himself that she’d wanted to puke. “Looks like your P and I would be about eight-fifty a month. With taxes and insurance, maybe just north of a thousand.”
“A thousand?” April had breathed. “Dollars? Every month?”
Morgan laughed at her reaction, and that moment lived on to this day—well, until earlier this morning—as the instant when she had come closest to killing another human being. “I’m afraid so, miss,” he’d chuckled. “Is that more than you can afford at present?”
She could still feel the heat building in her face and neck as she sat there in the polished lobby of the Milford Bank and Trust Company. She knew deep in her gut that she should have just walked out, but even in retrospect, that wasn’t possible. Not remotely so. “You arrogant shit,” she’d said, louder than was proper in those surroundings, but then, that was sort of the point. She wanted the entire world to know how this asshole was treating her.
“Miss Fitzgerald, really,” Morgan blustered. “I don’t think—”
April never dropped a beat. “Yeah, it’s more than I can afford. I’m eighteen years old, you prick. How am I supposed to afford a thousand dollars a month?”
As she’d hoped, every eye in the bank had
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