Chapter 12 - The Letter from the Law Office
Tuesday morning brought an official-looking brown envelope delivered by the United States Postal Service.
It wasn't a bill, and it wasn't a junk mail flyer for local replacement windows. It was a heavy linen envelope addressed to Jody and Dwight Miller with a return address from a legal firm in downtown Fayetteville: Henderson & Miller Commercial Law.
I sat at the kitchen island, slit the top open with a butter knife, and pulled out a single sheet of formal letterhead.
It was from the commercial leasing agent representing the strip center on Pleasant Grove Road where Trisha’s pottery shop had been located.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Miller, Please be advised that pursuant to the termination of the commercial lease agreement for Suite 14 (The Painted Mug) held by Patricia Vance, our office has been instructed to settle outstanding default penalties, storage fees for abandoned inventory, and legal costs totaling $4,850. As your name was previously listed on file as the primary guarantor for the lease term ending October 2026, our office initially attempted to direct collection proceedings toward your household. However, upon review of the formal revocation notice submitted by Jody Miller on October 18, releasing all guarantor responsibilities, our office confirms that your household holds zero financial liability for these debts. All collection actions have been redirected entirely to Patricia Vance and her named co-signers. Sincerely, Marcus Henderson, Esq.
I read the letter twice, letting the words sink in.
Four thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars. If I hadn't gone down to the laundry room that Sunday night and sent those two quiet emails, that debt would have hit our bank account by the end of the week. Dwight’s vending-machine savings and our roof repair money would have been wiped out overnight to pay for Trisha’s unsold clay mugs and broken pottery wheels.
May you like
I folded the letter neatly, walked over to the recycling bin by the pantry, and dropped it right into the bottom.
Out in the driveway, Dwight’s service van was idling, its deep diesel rumble shaking the morning air as he prepared for his route.
