“You did this?” she asked.
“Most of it.”
“Huh.”
That was as close as Bellamy came to praise.
I set the kettle on the stove. She wandered to the back door and looked out at the yard, where I had cleared half the weeds and marked garden beds with twine. The rusted shed was still there, but I had braced it, cleaned around it, and stacked salvaged bricks beside it for a future patio.
“You’re really committing to this,” she said.
“I am.”
She turned back, eyes narrowed. “Why?”
The question sounded simple, but I heard the old family translation underneath it.
Why aren’t you embarrassed?
Why don’t you know your place?
Why do you keep acting like this counts?
Before I could answer, her phone started buzzing inside her purse.
Not a normal buzz. A frantic, repeated vibration that rattled against the chair where she had set it down.
She sighed. “Probably Calloway. He gets dramatic when the landscapers move one planter.”
She pulled the phone out and looked at the screen.
Her face changed.
At first, she frowned, annoyed. Then she went still. Her lips parted. The color slid out from beneath her makeup so quickly it looked like someone had opened a drain.
“Blythe?” she said into the phone. “Slow down. I can’t understand you.”
The kettle began to hiss behind me.
Bellamy listened, one hand pressed to her stomach. Her eyes moved around my kitchen as if she no longer saw the cabinets or the shelves or me. The voice on the other end was too loud and panicked to hear clearly, but I caught fragments.
County.
Engineers.
Tape.
Evacuation.
Bellamy’s grip tightened around the phone. “No. No, that’s not possible. They can’t just put tape around my house.”
My heart began to pound in a hard, controlled rhythm.
The kettle screamed.
I turned off the burner.
Bellamy spun toward the window like she expected to see her mansion from my backyard. “Where is Calloway?”
A sharp pause.
Then she shouted so loudly the sound slapped against the bare walls.
“You need to get there now. Do not let them inside without us. Do you hear me? Don’t let them touch anything.”
She ended the call and stood frozen in my kitchen.
“What happened?” I asked, though some part of me already knew.
She stared at me as if I had become a stranger. “The county is at Larkspur Ridge.”
“Why?”
“They’re telling people to leave.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Blythe said inspectors are everywhere. She said there are engineers in hard hats, and fire trucks, and some man from the state. She said they put orange tape around our driveway.”
The room felt too bright. Dust floated in the sunlight between us.
I reached for the counter to steady myself. “Bellamy, did they issue an evacuation notice?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes filled with furious tears. “She was screaming. She said something about foundations.”
Foundations.
The word hung there, heavy and ugly.
Bellamy grabbed her purse, knocking one of my teacups sideways. It rolled but did not break.
“This is a mistake,” she said. “It has to be. Calloway will fix it.”
She rushed for the door. One heel caught on the edge of my drop cloth and she stumbled, swore, then yanked herself free.
“Bellamy,” I called.
She turned back, wild-eyed.
“Take photos. Save every notice they hand you. Don’t sign anything without an attorney.”
Her face twisted. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your county files.”
Then she was gone, heels sinking into gravel, SUV door slamming hard enough to startle the birds from my maple tree.
I stood alone in my half-finished kitchen, the air still smelling of tea leaves and hot metal.
On the counter, her untouched cup sat beside mine.
For years, my family had treated my house like a joke.
Now the county had knocked on hers.