mean he can lend out my house.”
“You’re hardly ever here,” she said.
That was the first moment I understood she wasn’t embarrassed.
She was annoyed that I had interrupted something she believed she had a right to do.
Her mother, Denise, appeared behind her, carrying a plate of strawberries.
“Iris,” she said, smiling without warmth.
“You’re making everyone uncomfortable.”
I stared at her.
“Denise, you’re sitting in my chair.”
She looked toward the wicker chair beside the porch door.
“Well, there are plenty of chairs.”
“Apparently not enough beds.”
Mallory exhaled loudly.
“Every bedroom is occupied.
These people planned this weekend months ago.
You can’t expect us to reorganize everything because you showed up without warning.”
“Without warning?”
“You know what I mean.”
From inside the house came the unmistakable scrape of heavy furniture against hardwood flooring.
I moved toward the doorway.
Mallory stepped into my path.
“Please don’t go inside and start criticizing everything.”
I could see over her shoulder.
My husband’s brass compass, which normally rested on the mantel, had been placed on the floor beside a cardboard box.
A decorative arrangement of white branches occupied its place.
That compass had traveled with Henry for more than twenty years.
He had carried it on fishing trips, kept it in his workshop, and polished it every spring even after he stopped going out on the water.
After he died, I brought it to the cottage.
I looked at it lying on the floor.
“Who moved that?”
Mallory followed my gaze.
“It didn’t fit the atmosphere.”
Something in my chest tightened.
“It’s my husband’s compass.”
“I know, Iris.
But this weekend isn’t about old family memories.”
I looked back at her.
“Then what is it about?”
She hesitated.
“Business.”
A woman carrying a welcome bag passed behind us.
I noticed identical cream-colored envelopes stacked beside the front door.
“Are these people paying you?” I asked.
Mallory’s expression sharpened.
“That’s really none of your concern.”
I almost laughed.
The house was mine, the furniture was mine, and the strangers sleeping in my beds were apparently customers.
Yet the money being exchanged was none of my concern.
“Where is Caleb?”
“Working.
Some people still have jobs, Iris.”
The insult landed exactly where she intended.
I had spent most of my adult life working while raising her husband.
Apparently retirement had erased all thirty-one years from her memory.
I looked around once more.
Then I took my phone from my handbag and photographed the driveway, the retreat sign, and the tables on the deck.
Mallory frowned.
“What are you doing?”
“Documenting what I found.”
“You don’t have to make such a production out of this.”
“I’m not making a production.
I’m leaving.”
Her face relaxed.
She believed she had won.
“Good.
Maybe book a hotel somewhere and enjoy yourself.”
I picked up my bag.
“I intend to.”
I drove away without raising my voice.
But I did not drive to a hotel.
I drove to a small cafe near the harbor, parked beneath a live oak tree, and called the woman who had handled my property purchase seven years earlier.
Her name was Nadia Chen.
Nadia was an attorney with a calm voice, an extraordinary memory, and no patience for people who misunderstood legal documents.
“Iris?” she answered.
“Is everything all right?”
