A number from First Commonwealth Bank.
The woman introduced herself as Audrey Collins.
She was reviewing a source-of-equity statement related to the Cedar Run Hospitality Project.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “The what?”
There was silence on her end.
“Mr. Mercer, are you the owner of Cedar Run Farm?”
“Yes.”
“And are you contributing the property as the underlying land asset?”
“No.”
Another pause.
Audrey’s voice became more formal.
“The project documents list a land contribution valued at approximately $8.6 million.”
I sat down.
“Who submitted that?”
“I’m reviewing the file for a financing group.”
“Whose names are on it?”
She hesitated.
Then said, “Owen Mercer is listed as managing member.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Vanessa Mercer?”
“Chief development officer.”
“And Malcolm Porter?”
“Chairman of the founding investor group.”
Vanessa’s father.
The man who supposedly needed my bedroom for his back.
Audrey continued carefully.
“There is an option and development authorization dated August fourteenth. It appears to carry your signature.”
“I never signed one.”
The office became very quiet.
“Mr. Mercer, I think you need counsel before we continue.”
“I agree.”
My attorney, Margaret Shaw, had represented Cedar Run for twenty-three years.
She arrived at my office before dark with reading glasses, a yellow legal pad, and the expression she wore when somebody had given her a problem she intended to make smaller.
Audrey sent the disputed document through proper channels.
Seventeen pages.
Cedar Run Hospitality Project.
Luxury agritourism resort.
Thirty-two cottages.
Spa.
Wedding pavilion.
Restaurant.
Event lawn.
Private club.
The renderings placed glass cottages where our east orchard stood.
The wedding pavilion covered Ruth’s rose garden.
The main spa occupied the hill where my grandfather’s original barn foundation remained beneath the grass.
Page fourteen carried my signature.
At least it appeared to.
I stared at it.
Margaret stared too.
“Do you recognize it?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
I went to the filing cabinet.
Pulled a 2022 equipment lease.
Placed the signature page beside the resort option.
Same shape.
Same pressure.
Same tiny gray scanner defect above the R in Mercer.
Pixel for pixel.
Margaret leaned closer.
“They copied it.”
The option price was $8.6 million.
The option fee listed as consideration was ten dollars.
Ten.
My grandfather survived the Depression on those acres.
My father expanded the orchard after returning from college.
Ruth and I spent thirty-seven years turning apples into payroll.
And somebody had assigned a ten-dollar option payment to the right to control it.
“Who prepared this?” I asked.
“We’ll find out.”
Margaret turned pages.
“Do not confront anyone tonight.”
“They’re in my kitchen planning where I sleep.”
“Still don’t confront them.”
She pointed to the papers.
“Right now, this needs to remain a document problem.”
I looked at her.
“What happens if I cancel Thanksgiving?”
“You may save yourself an unpleasant weekend.”
“And what happens to the investors?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“What investors?”
That was when Neil called again.
He had found more.
A bank-linked escrow account associated with Cedar Run Retreats.
Investor units had been sold for twenty-five thousand dollars each.
Forty-one names appeared on a preliminary list.
Thirty-seven had surnames I recognized from Vanessa’s side of the family.
More than eight hundred thousand dollars sat in escrow.
Additional transfers suggested the total amount raised was considerably higher.
Margaret looked at me.
“Now I understand the napkins.”
So did I.
Forty relatives weren’t coming to my farm merely for Thanksgiving.
They were coming to celebrate an investment.
My land.
Their future resort.
And apparently I was supposed to sleep in an unheated cottage while they toasted it.
Margaret said, “Cancel dinner.”
I thought about it.
Then shook my head.
“No.”
“Frank.”
“If I cancel now, what story do they hear?”
She did not answer.
“I’m seventy-two.”
I tapped the signature page.
“They already have a document saying I approved this.”