Chapter 2 - The Taste Of Arrogance
By three o'clock that afternoon, I was pulling my beat-up sedan back into the gravel driveway of the farmhouse. A shiny black real estate sign had already been hammered into the front yard near Grandma's beloved maple tree. The bright blue letters proudly announced: COMING SOON - PRIME ASHEVILLE OUTSKIRTS PROPERTY.
Beside the porch sat Presley's brand-new convertible, bought with money Mom had pulled from high-interest personal loans, anticipating the big payout from selling Grandma’s house. I sat behind the wheel for a moment, letting the engine idle. Through the wide front window, I could see Presley pacing back and forth with her ring light mounted on a tripod, holding up swatches of luxury wallpaper for her social media stream. In the kitchen, Diane was talking loudly on speakerphone, her voice drifting right out through the screen door.
"Oh, absolutely, Linda," my mother was gushing. "We expect multiple cash offers by the weekend. The land alone is worth a fortune. Once the closing happens, Presley and I are heading straight to the design center in Biltmore Park. We're getting the waterfall kitchen island. It’s finally time I lived like I deserve, without any old junk holding me back."
I turned off the ignition, took the quilted pouch in my hand, and walked up the wooden porch steps. Every creak of the floorboards felt different now. They weren't steps on someone else's floor; they were mine.
When the front door opened, both of them turned. Presley rolled her eyes dramatically, keeping her camera pointed at her face. "Look who crawled back," Presley sneered into her phone screen. "My sad stepsister is back from her pity drive. Tell the chat how it feels to pack trash bags, Bridget. Maybe my followers will donate fifty cents to your bus fare."
Mom hung up her phone and crossed her arms, looking at me with cold disapproval. "I told you not to drag this out, Bridget. The real estate photographer is arriving tomorrow morning at ten sharp. I want your bedroom cleared out and staged as a guest room. Take your boxes down to the curb or put them in the trunk of your car. You’re ruining the aesthetic."
I stood in the center of the kitchen, resting my hand on the smooth oak countertop Grandma Evelyn had sanded with her own hands. "Did you sign the listing agreement with the broker, Diane?"
Mom blinked, clearly irritated that I wasn't weeping. "Of course I did. It’s my house. I can sign whatever I want. And you will address me as your mother, young lady."
"You shouldn't have done that," I said quietly.
Presley burst out laughing, an obnoxious, shrill sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "Oh, listen to her! The big tough diner waitress is giving legal advice! Mom, please tell her to shut up before she embarrasses herself even more. I'm trying to film an aesthetic moving vlog!"
"Bridget, you are testing my patience," Mom snapped, stepping closer and pointing a sharp, manicured finger at my face. "You have lived here on my charity for years. You contributed nothing while Presley brought joy and modern energy into this home. Evelyn spoiled you, but Evelyn is six feet in the ground. She can't save you from the real world anymore. Now get upstairs, get your junk out of my sight, or I will have the trash service haul it off tomorrow morning myself."
"Grandma isn't here," I said, meeting her cold stare without blinking. "But her attorney is. Right outside."
Before Mom could spit out another insult, two loud raps pounded against the heavy wood of the front door.
Presley huffed, adjusting her phone angle. "Who is that? Did the staging crew get here early?"
Mom scoffed and turned toward the door, plastering on a fake, polite smile. She swung it wide open, expecting a decorator or a contractor. Instead, standing on the wraparound porch was Deputy Miller from the county sheriff’s department, accompanied by Arthur Finley, who held a red legal folder tucked neatly under his arm.
Diane's smile froze. Her eyes darted from the deputy's badge to Arthur's stern, familiar face. "Arthur? What on earth is this? If this is about Evelyn’s back estate paperwork, my broker told me everything was cleared for listing."
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Arthur Finley didn't smile. He stepped over the threshold without waiting for an invitation, Deputy Miller following closely behind with his thumbs hooked into his duty belt.
"Mrs. Somers," Arthur said, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "I am here on behalf of the sole and legal owner of this property. And we are here to serve you with an immediate notice of unlawful detainer and permanent trespassing."
