Chapter 7: The Last Move
They came to Grandpa's house on a Thursday evening.
Not Hartwell.
Not his lawyer.
Diane — the wife — alone.
She rang the bell at 6:40, and when I opened the door, she looked smaller than she had in her own home.
She was dressed plainly.
No coffee cup this time.
"I'd like to speak with Frank," she said.
"Just Frank.
Please."
I looked at her for a moment.
Then I stepped back and let her in.
Grandpa was at the kitchen table.
He stood when she came in, which was exactly the kind of man he was, and gestured to the chair across from him.
She sat down.
I stayed in the doorway.
"I'll get to it," she said.
"Richard doesn't know I'm here."
Grandpa waited.
"He's going to try to go after your business license," she said.
"He has a contact at the county licensing board.
He thinks if he can get your license flagged for review, it'll tie up your ability to work while the case drags out." She folded her hands on the table.
"He told me this last night.
He thinks it'll pressure you into dropping the claim."
Grandpa's expression didn't shift.
"Why are you telling me this?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"Because I've been watching my husband do this to people for twenty years." Her voice was steady, but something underneath it wasn't.
"Small people.
People who couldn't fight back.
And it always worked before." She looked at the table.
"You're the first person who came back."
"I came back," Grandpa said, "because your husband made a business decision and I made one in response.
That's all this is."
"That's not all it is to him." She looked up.
"To him, you embarrassed him.
In his own driveway.
In front of his neighbors." She paused.
"He won't let that go."
"I appreciate you telling me," Grandpa said.
"I mean that."
She nodded.
Started to stand.
"Mrs.
Hartwell," Grandpa said.
She stopped.
"Is there anything you'd like to say for the record?
In writing?"
She looked at him for a long time.
Then she sat back down.
"What would that involve?"
"A written statement.
Voluntary.
Describing what you just told me, and anything else you believe is relevant." He kept his voice even.
"Janet Morse is my attorney.
She'd receive it directly."
Diane Hartwell looked at her hands.
At the table.
At the window.
"Richard will find out," she said.
"He may," Grandpa said.
"That's your decision to make.
Not mine."
The kitchen was very quiet.
The refrigerator hummed.
A car passed outside.
She reached into her bag and took out her phone.
"Give me your attorney's email address," she said.
"I'll send something tonight.
Before I lose my nerve."
I read Janet's email address out loud.
Diane typed it without looking up.
She stood, smoothed her jacket, and walked to the door.
She stopped with her hand on the frame.
"He's going to be very angry," she said.
It wasn't a warning.
It sounded more like something she was saying to herself.
"Mrs.
Hartwell," Grandpa said from the table, "a man who uses his contacts to punish people who ask to be paid fairly — that anger was always going to land somewhere."
She didn't answer.
She walked out.
I closed the door and turned around.
Grandpa was already writing on the legal pad.
"She'll send it," I said.
"Yes," he said.
"She will."
He kept writing.
"Grandpa.
Are you okay?"
He set the pen down.
Looked at the table for a moment.
"That woman has been watching him do this for twenty years," he said quietly.
"And tonight was the first time she did something about it."
He picked the pen back up.
May you like
"I think she'll be okay," he said.
"Eventually."
