Page 62 of Warrior Security
“What are my options?”
He didn’t rush the answer. “You could try to refinance the second mortgage with another lender, but given your current financial picture, approval would be difficult. You could negotiate directly with Pinnacle for a modified payment plan, but this letter suggests they’re not interested in negotiation. You could consult an attorney about whether the acceleration was properly executed. Sometimes there are procedural defenses.”
“I can’t afford an attorney, James.”
“I know.” His voice was quieter now. “I’ll reach out to them and see if there’s any room to negotiate. But I want to be straight with you. If they’ve already sent this letter, they’ve made a decision. The acceleration clause is their legal right, and thirty days is a hard deadline. You need to start thinking about what your options look like if they don’t budge.”
“Thank you, James.”
“I’m sorry, Lark. I wish I had something better to tell you.”
I hung up and set the phone on the counter. I stood there for a long time with the letter in my hand, reading it again even though the words hadn’t changed. Through the window, I could see the east paddock, Duchess at the rail with her ears forward, watching nothing. The barn and the guest cabin. Even some of the outbuildings. Every board and post and nail on this property sitting under a deadline I couldn’t meet.
I picked the phone back up. One grant application was still pending. Eleven weeks since I’d submitted, strong application, solid track record, well within their funding priorities. The initial response had been very positive. I’d been telling myself not to count on it, but I’d been counting on it anyway.
A program coordinator answered. I gave her my name and application number and asked about the status.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Monroe. That application is no longer under active consideration. The committee finalized their selections last week.”
I forced myself to remain calm. “Can I ask why? We have five years of documented outcomes with veteran services and at-risk youth. We’ve received funding from similar organizations without any issues.”
“I don’t have specifics on individual decisions, unfortunately. The committee went in a different direction this cycle. You’re welcome to reapply in the fall.”
That was five months away. I’d be foreclosed on in thirty days.
I thanked her and hung up and set the phone facedown on the counter.
Two calls in twenty minutes. Three grants in a row, all dead, no explanation for any of them. Five years of successful applications, and then starting nine months ago, nothing. Bad luck piled on top of more bad luck.
I didn’t have time to think about why. I didn’t have time for anything except figuring out what to do, and I had thirty days to do it.
A week ago, the bookings had momentum, and the future had felt like something I could hold on to for the first time in months. Now, I was sitting at my kitchen table with a number I couldn’t pay and thirty days I couldn’t stretch. Hell, I couldn’t pay it even if they gave me a year.
I couldn’t see a way through this. But Logan had looked at my situation in the feed room and seen the birthday parties when I was too deep in the problem to see anything at all. Maybe he’d see something here that I was missing, because I had looked everywhere I knew to look.
I set the letter on the counter next to the coffeemaker where we’d both see it. I’d tell him when he came back from the fence line he was fixing.
And prayed he had another miracle he could come up with.
The animals didn’t know about my mortgage, and they needed feeding, regardless. Evening rounds went the way they always did, Logan and me moving through the barn in the rhythm we’d built over weeks.
“Frank’s up a full pound,” I said, writing the number on his chart.
“Frank is always up a full pound. That dog’s relationship with food should be studied by scientists.”
“It’s emotional eating. He has feelings.” I scratched behind Frank’s ears, and he leaned into my hand with full-body commitment. “Big, complicated feelings.”
Logan updated me on the fence line while I finished the medication log. We walked back to the house, I heated soup, and we ate at the kitchen table while he told me about a post on the south boundary that needed resetting. I kept waiting for the right moment to tell him about the letter, and the right moment kept sliding past because there was no version ofI’m going to lose everythingthat fit betweenpass the breadandhow was your day.
He reached across the table for the salt, and his hand brushed mine on the way back. He left it there for a second, his thumb running once across my knuckles before he pulled away. A small thing. The kind of thing he’d started doing in the past week without comment, these brief, unhurried points of contact that said more than either of us had managed to put into words yet.
And meanwhile, that letter sat on the counter six feet from where he was eating. He hadn’t noticed it, or if he had, it looked like any other piece of mail.
I’d tell him in the morning. First thing, before rounds, before coffee. I’d hand it to him and saythis came yesterday, and we’d look at the number together and figure out what to do the way we’d figured out the birthday parties.
Together. The word he’d given me in the overhang that I was still learning how to use.
Tova settled on the bedroom floor while we got ready for bed. She circled once, lowered herself with a huff, and put her chin on her paws. Logan left the door cracked the way he always did.
