Chapter 5 - Breakfast on the Patio
The morning sun rose over the Atlantic in brilliant shades of tangerine and gold, casting a deceptive warmth across the coastline. By 7:45 AM, Seagull Lane was already waking up to another day of careless freeloading. Through the binoculars from my car parked down the block, I watched the house. Lauren’s father was already outside in his bathrobe, carelessly flicking cigarette ashes into my potted ferns. Two of the children were chasing seagulls, trampling through the sea oats that anchored the dune.
At 7:55 AM, I drove my sedan up the driveway and parked squarely behind their SUVs, blocking two of them in. I walked through the front door with a box of fresh bakery pastries and a warm, pleasant smile on my face.
"Good morning, everyone!" I announced brightly as I entered the open-concept kitchen.
Lauren’s mother, a woman named Beverly who had never spoken more than two polite sentences to me at holidays, was sitting at the island in my silk dressing gown. She didn't even look up from her tablet. "Oh, Margaret. Make a fresh pot of coffee, would you? The machine ran out of beans."
"Of course," I said cheerfully, setting the pastries on the island.
Lauren came floating down the grand staircase a few minutes later, wearing oversized sunglasses pushed up into her hair, radiant with the smug satisfaction of someone who believed she had won an unspoken war. She leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing her ankles.
"See? I told you getting some rest would fix your mood," Lauren said patronizingly, reaching for an apple turnover. "You look much more cooperative today. Kyle told me you went to a hotel last night. Such a waste of money, Margaret, but hey, if you have cash to burn on luxury suites while Kyle is driving a five-year-old car, that’s your conscience."
"Kyle’s car runs perfectly fine," I replied pleasantly. "Where is he, by the way?"
"Sleeping in. He was exhausted after hanging out on the deck last night," Lauren replied. "Anyway, my sister Amanda wants to take the master bedroom’s walk-in closet for her baby’s crib. We’re going to need you to move the rest of your old winter coats from the attic down to your storage room today so we can use the space for luggage."
"Is that so?" I smiled, pouring myself a glass of orange juice.
"Yes. And my dad wants to set up a smoker on the back deck. We might have to take down that decorative wooden privacy trellis your husband built, but it’s kind of an eyesore anyway. You don't mind, do you?"
"I don't mind at all," I said calmly.
Lauren blinked, momentarily thrown off by my utter lack of resistance. She had prepared for an argument, and my pleasant compliance was disarming her. "Wait... really? You're okay with taking it down?"
"Lauren, I don't mind anything you do to this house today," I said, leaning closer with a warm, steady gaze. "Because by noon, none of it will be my problem anymore."
Before Lauren could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the heavy rumble of diesel engines shook the driveway. The vibration rattled the china cups in my glass cabinet. Outside, the crunch of heavy tires signaled the arrival of something massive.
Lauren frowned, walking toward the large front bay window. "Who is that? Did you order new patio furniture without telling us?"
"Not quite," I replied, smoothing down my linen blazer.
Behind the wheel of the massive twenty-six-foot commercial moving truck was an imposing crew in matching uniforms. And trailing directly behind the truck was a jet-black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows. The luxury SUV pulled to an aggressive stop directly in the center of the lawn, crushing Lauren's brother-in-law's lawn chairs without hesitation.
The driver’s side door of the Escalade swung open. Out stepped a tall, imposing woman in designer sunglasses, holding a thick, legal-sized Manila envelope tied with red string.
Lauren froze. Her hand, which had been reaching for another pastry, halted mid-air. Her face drained of all its warm morning color, turning the shade of spoiled milk.
"No," Lauren whispered, her voice trembling with an old, deeply buried fear. "No, what is she doing here?!"
Kyle came stumbling down the stairs in sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. "What's all that noise outside? Mom, whose truck is..."
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He stopped dead in his tracks as he looked through the window. "Aunt Evelyn?"
"Yes, sweetheart," I whispered, taking a slow sip of my juice. "Aunt Evelyn is here for breakfast."
