“You could have asked me, Melanie, you’d have said no.”
“Maybe,” I said. and you’d still have a mother you hadn’t lied to. She started to cry. Some of it was real. Some of it, I’m sorry to say, was aimed across the table at Ranata, the way she used to cry at the principal instead of at me.
I didn’t move, and I didn’t reach for the tissue box. I let the room hold it. Ranata closed her folder halfway and waited. Then, Lynette laughed. It was not a nice laugh.
Lynette pushed the diffuser away from her with one finger. Listen to her, she said, lecturing my son about signatures. April 30th, 2009. You cut six women loose with one letter.
Six. I had a mortgage, too, Patricia. Nobody refunded me a night. Herb shifted in his chair. Duke studied the ceiling. I remember that letter, I said. The plaza’s budget collapsed that spring and the owners cut the cleaning contract.
I was the director, so I signed the notice. I’m sorry for what it cost you. I’ve been sorry for 17 years. You’re sorry, she said. But I signed it Lynette with my own name.
That’s the difference between that letter and this one. I tapped the owner authorization. I put my name on what I did. Your son put my name on what he did.
She didn’t have an answer for that. I reached into my folder, took out two sheets on Lou’s letterhead, and slid one to Lynette and one to Jordan. These are written notices of trespass.
I said neither of you may enter this property again without our written permission. Lou Bachman’s office has copies and the state police will have them on Monday. Jordan grabbed his and read it with his lips moving.
Lynette didn’t touch hers. Herb, I said, would you read the date on those out loud so there’s no confusion later. Herb put on his reading glasses with great ceremony.
Saturday, October 24th, 2026. He read. Then he checked his watch. 10:22 in the morning. Lynette stood, gathered up her empty garment bags, and walked out. She left the diffuser where it was.
Ranata’s phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it.
“That’s our counsel,” she said.
“He’s on the line.”
Ranata put the phone on speaker and laid it in the middle of the table next to the diffuser. A man’s voice, dry as toast, introduced himself as Blackwater’s in-house counsel. He’d been briefed on Monday.
Miss Gould has the owner verified in person with ID. Ranata said both owners, neither one signed. Then please serve the notice. Ranata took a stapled document from the back of her folder and handed it to Jordan.
It was a notice of termination and demand for repayment. The furnished housing agreement was void because Styles Hospitality LLC had misrepresented its authority to act for the owners. Blackwater demanded the return of $13,600 by wire within five business days by Friday, October 30th.
If the money didn’t arrive, the company would refer the matter to the Pennsylvania State Police for theft by deception and sue for the full amount plus costs. Jordan read it standing up. His hands were shaking.
I don’t have it, he said. I don’t have it. It’s gone. Gone where? said the voice on the phone. Credit cards, the truck payment, and the bunk beds. I ordered five sets of bunk beds for the basement.
They’re coming Tuesday. Duke made a low noise in his throat. bunk beds. He said the first words he’d spoken inside the house for my guys in somebody else’s basement on those stairs.
“That’s between you and our counsel now, Mr. Styles,” Ranata said, and she ended the call. Then she turned to me and her voice changed. It was still professional, but it was tired.
Mrs. Mrick, I’m sorry about all this, but I still have five men with nowhere to sleep on December 1st. I had waited a week to say the next part. I said it plainly.
I know, I said. That’s why I have this. I slid a blue folder across the oak table to her. Clipped to the front was a business card, Larch Street Holdings LLC.
My husband and I have owned rental property in Holland’s Ferry since 2009. I said, “Seven units. One is a furnished four bedroomedroom at 418 Foundry Street, 10 minutes from your pipyard.
It’s available December 1st at 6,200 a month utilities included. The lease is inside with our certificate of insurance and a W9. It’s the real kind of lease. It’s signed by the people who own the building.
Ranata opened the folder. She read the first page, then the second, and I watched her shoulders come down about an inch. Across the table, Melanie stared at me. You own what?
Seven units, Roger said from the stove. I did the kitchens. Jordan looked at that blue folder like it was written in a foreign language. 3 years earlier, he couldn’t find anyone to cosign one cabin.
His mother-in-law, the retired paper pusher, had been a landlord since before he married her daughter, and she had never once needed to borrow anybody’s name to do it.
“I’ve been a landlord for 17 years,” I said.
“I do it with signatures.”
Ranata took a pen from her vest pocket.
“Our legal will need to review the full lease by Monday,” she said.