Chapter 7 - THE BIBLE
Grant stared at the faded leather Bible in my hand. His confident smirk wavered, just slightly.
“What is that?” he demanded, taking a step toward the porch. “Some kind of guilt trip?”
“It’s proof that you aren’t half as smart as you think you are,” I said, my voice carrying clearly in the quiet night air.
I opened the Bible. My mother, Joyce, had never been a woman of great wealth, but she had possessed a fierce, quiet intelligence. She knew the value of her work, not in dollars, but in legacy. Tucked into the back pages, right behind the Book of Revelation, was a folded, yellowed document.
I pulled it out and held it up.
“Before she died,” I said, reading the crisp text at the top of the page, “my mother incorporated the Thursday Suppers as a registered 501(c)(3) nonprofit. And she filed a federal trademark for her name, her recipes, and the title Three Generations Culinary.”
Grant’s face went completely slack.
“She did it ten years ago, Grant,” I continued. “And she named me as the sole executor of the trust. Your LLC doesn’t own anything. Your copyright filing is fraudulent because the trademark already belongs to the church trust. You sold a publisher stolen property.”
Mara’s phone was still recording. The red light blinked steadily.
“You’re bluffing,” Grant choked out, but his eyes were darting nervously toward the end of the street, listening for sirens.
“Call your publisher tomorrow,” I suggested. “Ask them how they feel about printing a book that infringes on a federal trademark owned by a charitable organization. Ask them how they feel about the impending lawsuit.”
Grant spun around, looking for a way out. He saw Brooke standing in the doorway behind me.
“Brooke!” he barked. “Get out here. Tell them you wrote those recipes. We can claim parallel creation. You’re my partner in this.”
Brooke stepped onto the porch. She looked at Grant, then at the camera Mara was holding. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her own phone.
“I’m not your partner, Grant,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute. “I’m your witness.”
She pressed play on the voice memo she had recorded earlier that evening at the storage unit. Grant’s voice blasted through the phone speaker, echoing in the driveway.
“I don’t care about the recipes. The wife is clueless. We bankrupt the LLC, the bank forecloses on the church, and the developer pays us two million. Just get the money for the lawyer.”
The two movers had heard enough. They turned around, got into the box truck, and drove away without a word.
Grant was left standing alone in the driveway, the echo of his own greed hanging in the air.
Blue and red lights flashed at the corner of the street. A police cruiser turned onto our block, moving slowly toward my house.
Grant took a step backward. “Anne, wait. We can fix this. I can cancel the mortgage. We’re married.”
I looked at the man I had spent ten years with. I felt nothing but a profound, cleansing relief.
“We were married,” I corrected him. “Now, you’re just a trespasser.”
The police car pulled to a stop behind Grant’s SUV. Two officers stepped out.
“Ma'am, we received a call about a domestic disturbance and potential property fraud?” one of the officers asked, approaching the lawn.
May you like
I walked down the porch steps and handed the officer the folder containing the forged mortgage, the bank statements, and the text messages.
“Officer,” I said clearly, “I’d like to report a forgery.”
