Chapter 2 The Legal Doctrine of Finders Keepers #3
Forest’s Bridge was a major draw for Timber Creek tourism.
Partly because it was Vincent Groff’s most famous and final residential build before his death.
But mostly, because it didn’t actually exist. It was an architectural urban legend.
A structural Bigfoot. True believers trudged through the woods each year in search of the final work of a man Architectural Digest once declared “The Greatest American Architect.” Some thought it was hidden behind forest and overgrowth.
Others believed it burned down in a fire.
Lainey had always been in whichever camp didn’t care either way. Until now, apparently.
“Half of architecture internet doesn’t think Forest’s Bridge exists!” Bree screeched. “The other half thinks it was a tax evasion scheme.”
“Well, it was,” Gran explained. “But it also exists. And we’ve been living in it for decades.”
“Have you lived there for more than twenty years? Exclusively?”
Gran nodded at Mark’s question. The gesture propelled his wheely chair over to the corner of his desk, where a laptop sat between a coffee mug and an overstuffed in-out tray. Without explanation, he started typing furiously.
“Gran, you didn’t…” Lainey wasn’t sure how to respectfully accuse a woman in her early eighties of trading sex for real estate with a lawyer present, so she attempted to do so telepathically. Perhaps some sort of meaningful exchange of services would help their case.
“Goodness, no!” Gran responded. “He was nearly dead by that point. But in his prime, he was one of my most treasured lovers. He had…vision. In the bedroom, I mean.”
“I don’t need to hear any more about the bedroom,” Lainey protested.
Gran didn’t have boyfriends; she had “lovers.” She maintained men lacked the “imagination” required to date longer than a few months.
Mark stopped typing. “Whitney!” He whipped his neck around excitedly, which elicited a pained wince and required a small adjustment to his brace. “Whitney, can you bring Dawn in here? She’s going to love this.”
“What’s happening?” Lainey felt sick again.
“You, Elaine Davis…” He pointed at Gran. “Are a legend. That’s what’s happening.” Whitney shuffled an older woman into the room.
“Adverse possession claim,” he told the silver-haired woman in the taupe suit.
Lainey had the distinct feeling that everyone was speaking in a foreign language.
“They’ve squatted in this guy’s house for over twenty years.
Openly. Exclusively. Continuously. They’ve paid taxes on it.
They’re basically a real-life bar exam hypothetical. ”
“What does that mean, Mark?” Bree asked.
“Was it hostile?” Dawn asked skeptically, ignoring Bree’s question.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Gran interjected, but Mark more quickly responded, “Yes—legally speaking—and it should be easy to prove they were better caretakers of the property, considering it’s not in the lake like half of Hodges’s cabins.”
Dawn let out a giddy clap and then quickly covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. This is unprofessional. We just never see an adverse possession case like this actually happen! What sane person would live in someone else’s house for twenty years? No offense.”
“Adverse possession…” Lainey repeated the words Dawn was absolutely delighting in at what Lainey guessed was her expense.
“It’s a legal doctrine derived from English common law in which a trespasser of a property can automatically obtain ownership so long as their possession satisfies certain elements,” Mark explained.
“Technically, it can apply to residences, but I’ve only ever seen it done successfully with property lines, fences, the occasional shed… ”
“So these two accidentally stole a notorious piece of American architectural history?” Bree asked, her jaw nearly detached from the rest of her face.
“I didn’t steal anything. He wanted me to have it,” Gran protested. “I’ll admit, we never got around to the legal parts of the arrangement.”
“There are some loose ends for me to address,” Mark responded, looking at Bree. Lainey could already hear her bank account take its last dying gasp at the idea of paying Mark’s attorney fees.
Maybe she’d build him a birdhouse in lieu of payment. Constitutionally, he seemed like a man who could handle little more than the thrills of birdwatching.
“So even though the surrounding land belongs to the Shore Thing, we can prove their ownership would no longer include the home itself.”
Lainey was no stranger to making things happen for herself.
She periodically swiped rolls of toilet paper from public restrooms and, in pursuit of free dessert, turned twenty-seven so many times she was banned from three separate Applebee’s in the northern Wisconsin region.
She was a gig worker on four different apps, flipped furniture she found on the curb, and once, in a particularly dark moment, had resorted to selling a lock of her hair to a person on the internet and suspected she was being framed for a crime in the Florida panhandle.
She never trusted the universe to provide, because it never had before. Ever. Lainey could only trust herself.
But somehow—this time—it had. She’d started the day with nowhere to live, and against all reason, a solution to her problems had materialized on its own.
Lainey Davis had finders-keepers-ed her way into home ownership, and no one, not even the weaselly little nephew of Gilbert Hodges, would be able to take it away from her.
She was almost excited to watch him try.