Linda signed eleven days later.
She hired her own attorney, a man from Westerville who reviewed Gregory’s agreement and apparently told her she’d be crazy not to sign it. I never learned exactly what he said. But on a rainy Friday in May, Linda signed a promissory note for $11,400, payable from the sale proceeds. She signed an irrevocable escrow instruction to the title company. She signed a new contract with Buckeye Kitchen & Bath as owner, and Rick Kowalski signed a written release removing David as guarantor.
She didn’t come to the signing in person. She signed at a UPS Store in Naples with a mobile notary and overnighted everything back to Gregory’s office.
The kitchen was finished in early June. I saw pictures on the Zillow listing when it went live: white shaker cabinets painted “Swiss Coffee,” gleaming quartz countertops, a big white farmhouse sink, and brushed nickel hardware.
It was beautiful. I’ll give her that.
The house sold in nine days for $394,500, over asking, to a young couple with a baby on the way.
At closing, the title company paid Buckeye Kitchen & Bath the remaining $25,400 and paid David $11,400 by wire transfer into his account at Kemba Financial, before Linda received a single dollar.
David moved all $11,400 into a new savings account that same afternoon. He opened it in both our names, and he labeled it in the app.
MAUI. AGAIN.
He showed me the screen that night at our kitchen table.
“I lost eleven hundred dollars in cancellation fees,” he said. “I’ll make that up myself. Out of my paychecks. You’re not putting in another cent until it’s back.”
“David…”
“I mean it, Rach.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “I owe you a lot more than eleven hundred dollars. I owe you an apology I don’t even know how to say.”
“Try,” I said.
He was quiet for a long time.
“I’m sorry I called you selfish,” he said. “You weren’t selfish. You were the only person in my life who was actually looking out for me. My mom spent thirty years telling me she gave up everything for me, and I spent thirty years trying to pay her back for it. And when she lied to me, you saw it. You saw it, and you waited until I could see it too.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry it took watching her kitchen get torn out for me to see what was right in front of me.”
“I’m sorry I made you find out that way,” I said.
“Don’t be,” he said. “If you’d told me on Monday, I would’ve believed her. You were right. I needed to stand in that kitchen.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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