The Love Child's Revenge

Prologue

It had taken me weeks to read all of the letters that had been locked in my mother’s bedroom, the bedroom that I couldn’t bear to enter after she died in my junior year of college. But the summer after graduation, before I left for my new job in Atlanta, I dove in, searching for the letter that my father had written around the time of my conception. It was dated February 16, and in ink that had purpled with time on the cream linen paper, his words leapt from the page.

Dear Georgia,
You’re right. You’re absolutely right. A child is a reminder of why we’re alive, and giving birth is a way to assist God in a miracle. But you’ve got to know that you . . . this . . . caught me off guard. I’m not angry, though. Just shocked. And since we’ve always been honest with each other, I have to admit that I’m a bit pleased. Not at the circumstances, you see, because that shames me. I shouldn’t be in such a predicament with my situation, but I can’t think of a better person to help shape a life for me than you.

I know that most would think me a fool for even writing about this, but that only shows you my trust in you. I know that you’ll always do the right thing, and I want you to know that I’ll always do the right thing by you and the little one. That I promise you.

In closing, my sweet, I want to thank you for the opportunity that you’ve given me. Maybe this child will respect and love me in a way that, despite my best efforts, the others don’t.

Loving you,
LH

So that was it. He had been happy about me from the beginning. Although I still was what they, his legitimate family, had called me, a bastard, I found validation in the knowledge that I had been created in love and that he, my father, Louis Harrison, loved me even as I grew in Momma’s belly.

My Dear Georgia,
As your belly begins to round, you can’t know how beautiful you look. Your face holds a glow that makes you look even more angelic. Even though you are in a difficult situation, you remain steady and the sweetest person I know. That makes me treasure you even more. Thank you for being who you are, and thank you for loving me and taking such good care of me.

Yours,
LH

My father believed in owning property. From the first lot that he purchased, on which he built his lucrative funeral parlor, he learned that if a man had nothing else, he needed a place to hang his hat. Over time, he amended that sentiment, stating, “It’s a poor rat that has only one hole to run into.” So he bought properties right and left, acquiring them through sheriff sales and auctions, and set them aside for his children, shoring up their financial footing. A birthday present here, a graduation gift there, a sweet-sixteen souvenir here, a Valentine’s present there—in all, he was rumored to have owned more than one hundred properties throughout the city. My first property was a Christmas present.

Georgia,
I told you that I’d do right by our beautiful baby girl. I’ll do right by you, too. You’re in my will, so if I should pass before you, contact my attorney. I just wanted you to know that last week I bought a multi-unit row house in Kensington for her. I’ll get a copy of the deed to you soon.

Love you both,
LH

Every time he made a purchase, he sent a brief note, giving the address and reiterating his promise to do right by me. A duplex in The Tinderlines, a storefront in East Falls, a multi- unit in Port Richmond . . . the list went on and on.

Twenty-five properties in all. On paper, I was a very rich woman. I found the name of his attorney in one of his notes, and I called his office, anxiously waiting to hear what I needed to do to claim the property.

“Randolph and Sofansky,” the receptionist said.

“Hello. My name is Claudia Fryar, and I’d like to speak with Justin Randolph.”

“Mr. Randolph is in a meeting right now. May I ask the nature of your call?”

“Yes, it’s regarding some property left to me by Louis Harrison.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Harrison. I’ll make a note of your call and give the message to Mr. Randolph. Where can Mr. Randolph reach you?”

I gave her the number, and I sat down at the table, pondering the value of my property. I was angry that I hadn’t known about it before. If I had, I’d have been able to finish my education with my dignity in check, never having compromised myself with John Freeman. But that was water under the bridge. I’d still proceed according to plan, working my way north and getting experience in my field; but with the confidence that money could bring, I’d never have to do anything I didn’t want to.

The phone rang sooner than I expected it to, and Justin Randolph was on the other end.

“Ms. Fryar?”

“Mr. Randolph. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll speak bluntly, Mr. Randolph. Louis Harrison was my father. I just found out recently, although I’ve known him my whole life. He was my mother’s employer, so I actually grew up with him, but I didn’t know about the paternity.”

“I see,” he replied noncommittally.

“It recently came to my attention that he purchased some property for me, and I’d like to see what I need to do to claim it.”

“Ms. Fryar, is it possible for you to come to our Philadelphia office?” he asked in a tone that worried me. Although it was difficult to tell with attorneys, if it had been good news, he would have sounded more optimistic.

“Well, yes, but it would take a little time. Is there something wrong, Mr. Randolph?”

“Why don’t we discuss it when you get here?”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly.

“Good. I’ll transfer you to my secretary. She’ll put you on my schedule at a time most convenient for you.”

“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Randolph.”

“See you soon,” he said, hanging up.

I scheduled a meeting for just after I got to Atlanta, where I was beginning my career in television, giving myself enough time to get unpacked before flying off to Philly to find out about my future. I shouldn’t have been so hopeful.

When I arrived in Philadelphia two weeks later, I found myself sitting across from Justin Randolph, who could have passed for white, what with his freckled skin, green eyes, and graying hair that fell in loose waves. Yet the Morehouse College degree on his wall and fraternity mug on his desk removed any traces of doubt about his racial identity.

“Ms. Fryar, Louis Harrison was a generous man, and I respected him greatly,” he offered.

“Yes, he was,” I replied, anxious to hear the reason why he had dragged me all the way up here from Georgia.

“I’ve asked someone else to join us, and he should be arriving momentarily.”

“Okay. You sounded a little vague when I spoke with you.

Is there any reason that I should be alarmed?”

“I’ll let Mr. Elkins answer that when he gets here.”

“And who is he?” I asked, trying to maintain my composure despite the fact that I was growing more and more nervous with each passing minute.

“His company manages the Harrison properties.”

The door opened just then, and in walked Meridius Elkins, a middle- aged man whose coloring reminded me of one of the Philadelphia soft pretzels I’d been craving ever since I left the city all those years ago. In fact, my fi rst order of business once I’d landed at Philly International had been to buy one from an airport vendor.

“Meridius,” Mr. Randolph said, rising to shake his hand.

“Justin,” he replied before turning to look at me.

“This is Claudia Fryar, Louis Harrison’s other daughter,” Justin Randolph said, introducing me with a nod. I didn’t like the way Randolph said “other,” but I knew that he did it to distinguish me from Elizabeth and Louise Harrison, whom he’d undoubtedly met at some point.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, taking Elkins’s hand.

“My pleasure.”

“Meridius, Ms. Fryar called me a few weeks ago to inquire about the properties that her father bought for her.” “Yes,” I asserted, speaking up for myself. “In his letters to my mother, he wrote that he’d purchased twenty-five properties for me. I have addresses for most of them.” I handed the letters to Mr. Elkins, who briefly looked them over before handing them to Mr. Randolph.

“May I have my secretary copy these?”

I nodded my approval, and he walked to the door, pop-ping his head and hand out and speaking quietly to his secretary.

“I’m glad that you have these letters. They might help you, depending on how you plan to proceed,” Justin Randolph said.

“At least, you can put a stop to all of this.”

“Stop to all of what?” I asked.

Meridius Elkins cleared his throat before speaking: “I’m not sure exactly why he did it, though I assume it was in order to avoid embarrassing his wife, but the properties that Louis Harrison bought for you were put in his name in trust for you. You were to inherit them when you turned twenty one. When he died five years ago, I spoke to his wife about all of the property, and with regard to that block of property—”

“My property, you mean.”

“Yes,” he said, a little exasperated, “your property. She instructed me to cease paying taxes on that property, and little by little the houses have gone up for auction through the sheriff’s office for tax delinquencies.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, feeling my body heat rise up my neck, warming my face. “Do I have anything left?”

“You do. Just not what you had.”

“So from twenty-five properties, I’m down to . . .” I paused to let him finish the sentence for me.

“Eleven.”

“Eleven,” I shrieked. “That’s less than half.”

“But it’s more than you knew you had just one month ago,” Justin Randolph interjected.

I cut my eyes at him. “So I should just be happy with what I’ve got, then, right?”

“It sounds rather heartless, Ms. Fryar, but I’d say yes.”

“I have a question. Why didn’t anyone contact me about my inheritance?”

“Apparently, there was no forwarding address for you and your mother, and according to Mrs. Harrison, her private detective was unable to locate you.”

“You mean the same woman who instructed you to stop paying taxes on my property is the same woman whose word you took about not being able to locate me?” I asked, incredulous.

The room was silent as I considered my options. Either pay the back taxes on the remaining properties, collect the accumulated rents that were rightfully mine, and call it a day, or begin a lawsuit against Eliza Harrison and sue the city to get back my properties, some of which may have already been sold.

“What’s your pleasure, Ms. Fryar?” Justin Randolph questioned.

“Of course, you don’t think that I can answer that question on the spot,” I snapped.

“Of course not, but remember that time is of the essence. Just about every month, at least one of your properties is coming up for sheriff sale.”

Meridius Elkins handed me a thick file filled with spreadsheets containing notations about all of my father’s properties: their locations, their appraised values, their upkeep expenses, and the incomes they’d brought in over time. The remaining properties still made me a very comfortable woman, just not as rich as I’d been on paper.

“Gentlemen,” I said, standing. “I’ll get back to you soon.”

They stood as well. Mr. Randolph offered, “I’ll be in the office until seven this evening. Please call if you’d like to talk.”

“Certainly. Thank you, Mr. Elkins, Mr. Randolph,” I said, shaking their hands. “I’ll be in touch.”

I walked out of the Center City office and back to my hotel, where I sat at a table in the bar, examining the file more closely. Truly, I don’t know why I was surprised, but I couldn’t believe that Eliza Harrison would stoop so low as to steal my inheritance. I’d done nothing to her—besides serve as a reminder of her husband’s infidelity. But that wasn’t my fault. Children have no control over the circumstances of their birth, so why would she do that to me?

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