Chapter 4 - THE SIGNATURE JULIAN COULDN'T EXPLAIN
Julian called me three days after Christmas.
I was sitting in Harbor House's kitchen while Harrison ate oatmeal and carefully arranged banana slices into something he insisted was a dinosaur.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Julian sounded relaxed.
“How's Tokyo?” I asked.
“Exhausting. Meetings from morning until night.”
I looked at the photograph Claire had sent me.
Julian and Isabel standing outside a restaurant in Aspen.
“Sounds difficult.”
“You have no idea.”
He laughed.
I wondered how long he could keep lying without becoming exhausted by it.
Then he asked:
“How's Harrison?”
“He misses you.”
A short silence followed.
“I miss him too.”
I believed that much.
Then Julian added:
“I tried the house phone yesterday. Nobody answered.”
I set down my coffee.
“We're staying at Harbor House.”
His tone changed immediately.
“Why?”
“I needed some space.”
“Space from what?”
“Our marriage.”
Silence.
Then he laughed nervously.
“Elena, what are you talking about?”
“I know you're in Aspen.”
He stopped breathing.
I continued.
“I know about Isabel. I know about the loan. And I know someone submitted a guarantee using my name.”
“Wait.”
His voice became sharp.
“Who told you that?”
“That isn't the important question.”
“Did you go through my business files?”
I almost smiled.
There it was.
The familiar attempt to turn his conduct into an accusation against me.
“Rebecca is handling the financial matter. We'll discuss everything through the appropriate channels.”
Julian lowered his voice.
“Elena, you're overreacting.”
“No.”
“You don't understand the financing.”
“Then explain why my signature appears on a guarantee I never signed.”
He went silent.
For several seconds, I could hear voices in the background.
Then Isabel spoke.
Faintly.
But unmistakably.
“Julian, don't say anything else.”
He quickly moved away from the phone.
Too late.
“She's there,” I said.
“Elena—”
“I'm ending this call.”
“You can't just take my son and disappear.”
“I haven't disappeared. I'm at a property I own, and Rebecca will be in contact about parenting arrangements.”
“Come home.”
I looked at Harrison.
He was now feeding banana pieces to his stuffed dinosaur.
“I am home.”
Then I ended the call.
My hands were shaking.
But I didn't regret a word.
An hour later, Rebecca called.
The lender had acknowledged our dispute and agreed to suspend further action concerning my purported guarantee while the documentation was reviewed, without admitting wrongdoing.
It was a first step.
Not a final victory.
Then Rebecca told me something that changed the entire situation.
She had obtained a copy of the notarization certificate attached to the disputed transaction.
It claimed I had personally appeared before a notary in Connecticut on December 12.
I remembered that date immediately.
Harrison had been sick.
I'd spent most of the afternoon and evening with him at a pediatric urgent-care center.
Julian had joined us for less than twenty minutes before leaving for a supposed meeting.
The medical visit and other records could help establish where I'd been.
But the name on the notarization was what made my blood run cold.
The notary was not a stranger.
It was Julian's longtime executive assistant, Patricia Wells.
A woman who had attended our wedding, visited our home, and held Harrison when he was born.
May you like
Someone close enough to know exactly how I signed my name.
And someone who had apparently been helping my husband long before I knew our marriage was falling apart.
