Chapter 8 - What Our Fathers Hid
We met at a diner off Highway 24.
Public place.
My attorney sat two booths away.
Travis knew he was there.
I knew Travis’s lawyer was outside.
Neither of us pretended this was friendly.
Travis looked older.
The perfect haircut was gone.
Dark circles beneath his eyes.
“What about my father?”
He stirred coffee he never drank.
“My dad and yours were partners once.”
I thought he was lying.
“Dad hated your father.”
“Later.”
Travis slid an old photograph across the table.
Two young men stood in front of a service truck.
One was my father.
Harold Cole.
The other was Robert Mercer.
The date on the back was 1989.
I stared at it.
“Where did you get this?”
“Dad’s files.”
Travis explained.
Before Mercer Agricultural Equipment existed, Robert Mercer and Harold Cole ran mobile repair jobs together.
Dad handled mechanical work.
Robert handled customers and money.
They planned to open a dealership.
Then they fought.
“About what?”
“A patent.”
I almost laughed.
“My father didn’t own patents.”
“Yes, he did.”
Travis produced a photocopy.
VARIABLE-PRESSURE HYDRAULIC BYPASS ASSEMBLY.
Inventor: Harold James Cole.
It had been filed in 1991.
The patent expired years ago.
“What does this have to do with your company?”
“Everything.”
According to Travis, Dad designed a cheap bypass system that extended the life of certain hydraulic components used on older farm machines.
Robert saw commercial potential.
Dad wanted to license it inexpensively to repair shops.
Robert wanted exclusivity.
They split.
Robert later built Mercer Agricultural Equipment.
Dad opened Cole Agricultural Repair.
“You’re saying Dad could have been rich?”
“I’m saying he chose not to be.”
That sounded exactly like him.
“Why did your father want my property?”
“The original prototypes were stored there.”
I frowned.
“There aren’t prototypes.”
“Dad thought there were.”
“He spent years asking Harold.”
“And after Dad died?”
“I found his notes.”
My stomach turned.
“You wanted my shop because you thought something valuable was hidden there.”
“At first.”
“And later?”
Travis looked at me.
“Later I just wanted to win.”
At least that answer sounded true.
“Why tell me this now?”
“Because the investigation is tearing everything apart.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“No. But what happens next might be.”
He explained that several Mercer lenders were preparing to call loans.
If the company collapsed suddenly, hundreds of employees could lose jobs.
Farmers with prepaid service plans might lose money.
Equipment warranties could be trapped in bankruptcy.
“You want me to feel sorry for you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I want Barrett to buy the company.”
I almost laughed.
“You insulted Margaret to her face.”
“I didn’t know who she was.”
“That’s the entire point.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
That was the first time Travis Mercer admitted anything resembling regret.
But he still wasn’t asking for forgiveness.
He was asking for rescue.
I took the photograph.
“Does Caleb know about our fathers?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Dad made me promise not to tell him.”
“Why?”
Travis looked toward the window.
“Caleb was Harold’s godson.”
That one stunned me.
Our families hadn’t merely known each other.
They had once been close.
I went home and searched Dad’s office.
Old cabinets.
Toolboxes.
Storage shelves.
Nothing.
At midnight I remembered the workbench.
Dad built it before the shop opened.
I crawled underneath with a flashlight.
One plank looked newer than the others.
I removed six screws.
Behind it was a narrow compartment.
Inside sat a metal box.
The lock had rusted.
I broke it.
There were no valuable prototypes.
Only letters.
Dozens.
Dad and Robert Mercer.
At first friendly.
Then angry.
Then one final letter from Robert.
HAROLD,
YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT THE DESIGN. I WAS WRONG ABOUT WHAT WE WERE BUILDING. YOU WANTED A TOOL PEOPLE COULD AFFORD. I WANTED A COMPANY PEOPLE COULDN’T AVOID.
I stopped reading.
The letter continued.
I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIX WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN US. IF OUR BOYS EVER INHERIT THIS FIGHT, THEN WE FAILED THEM WORSE THAN WE FAILED EACH OTHER.
I sat alone on the shop floor.
Thirty-five years of bitterness.
Two fathers.
Two sons.
A company built partly from a friendship that collapsed.
And suddenly the story was bigger than Travis and me.
The next day I showed Caleb the letters.
He cried.
Not dramatically.
Just silent tears while reading the words of two dead men.
Travis refused to come.
Margaret read the final letter.
Then folded it carefully.
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I looked at her.
“You just don’t know whether you’re brave enough.”
I hated when she did that.
That evening, I called Travis.
“Come to the shop tomorrow at nine.”
May you like
“For what?”
“To talk about how this ends.”
