Chapter 3 - The Golf Trip
Mark Dalton packed his golf clubs into the bed of his leased black Silverado with the triumphant swagger of a man who believed he ruled his kingdom. He wore an expensive moisture-wicking polo that strained slightly against his beer belly, designer sunglasses perched atop his thinning hair, and white leather golf shoes.
""Make sure you get my dry cleaning before Saturday, Dee,"" Mark barked from the hallway, checking his reflection in the antique gilded mirror hanging near the foyer. ""I’ve got that dealer dinner next Tuesday, and that charcoal suit needs to be pressed. Don't let the cleaners ruin the lapels like last time.""
Denise stood near the kitchen island, wiping down the marble counter with steady, rhythmic strokes. ""I won't be picking up your dry cleaning, Mark.""
Mark turned, letting out an amused, condescending chuckle. ""What, are you still pouting about the birthday party? Jesus, Denise, it’s been five days! It was a joke! The guys at the dealership are still talking about how funny it was. Even your brother-in-law laughed. Can you please learn to take a compliment disguised as a gag? You know you're cute when you're feisty, but the silent treatment gets old real fast.""
""I'm not pouting, Mark,"" she said, her voice completely flat, devoid of anger or warmth. ""I am simply busy this weekend.""
""Busy doing what? Eating ice cream on the sofa?"" He grinned, shaking his head as if pitying her limited world. ""Whatever. Ethan said he might stop by tomorrow to borrow the lawnmower. Tell him to leave the gas tank full. And don't touch the meat in the freezer; I’m smoking ribs for the Monday night game.""
""Have a wonderful trip, Mark,"" she said.
He stepped toward her, leaning down to plant a dismissive, patronizing kiss on her cheek. Denise did not pull away, but she did not lean in either. She felt like marble beneath his touch. Mark didn't notice. He was already checking a text on his phone, whistling an off-key tune as he grabbed his leather duffel bag and strutted out the heavy front door.
""See ya Sunday night, gorgeous!"" he yelled over his shoulder, slamming the door shut.
The house fell completely quiet.
Denise stood by the window and watched his truck back down the long gravel driveway, kick up a small plume of dust, and disappear around the corner onto the main county road. She stood there until the sound of his engine faded into total silence.
Then, she exhaled. It was the first full breath she felt she had taken in twenty years.
She turned around and surveyed the house. The Parker family home. High ceilings with original crown molding. Heart-pine hardwood floors that her father had stripped and refinished by hand forty years ago. Large bay windows that let in the warm afternoon sun. Mark had always complained about the draftiness of the old windows, the creaky floorboards, the lack of modern open-concept space. He had spent years chipping away at the soul of the home just as he had chipped away at hers.
Denise picked up her smartphone. She dialed the first number on her freshly prepared list.
""Linda? He just drove away. Call Rachel. It's time.""
Within twenty minutes, two cars pulled into the driveway. Linda emerged from an SUV carrying a box of heavy-duty packing tape and permanent markers. Denise’s younger sister, Rachel, stepped out of a sedan, carrying an armful of flat-packed cardboard boxes.
Rachel walked through the front door and immediately threw her arms around Denise. ""I’m so proud of you, Dee. When you called me yesterday and told me what Vance said, I cried. Mom would be throwing a parade right now.""
""We don't have time for a parade yet,"" Denise smiled, wiping a stray tear from her sister’s cheek. ""We have seventy-two hours to dismantle twenty-two years of his clutter.""
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""Where do we start?"" Linda asked, cracking her knuckles with relish.
""The master bedroom,"" Denise said, her jaw set. ""Every shirt, every tie, every pair of shoes, every cologne bottle, and every single one of his precious golf trophies. We pack them, we seal them, and we label them with exact inventory numbers. Marcus Vance said precision is our greatest weapon. Let's make sure Mark Dalton gets the most organized eviction in Rockford history.""
