The next morning, I packed an overnight bag, filled my trunk with heavy duty garbage bags, and drove 3 hours north to the lake cabin.
The property was entirely in my name, paid off years ago by Arthur and me.
David and Sarah usually took it over for the entire month of June.
When I unlocked the front door, the place was a mess.
Sarah had left it exactly as it was at the end of last summer.
Dust coated the floors.
The pantry was full of stale, halfeaten cereal boxes.
But more importantly, the closets were packed with their things.
Sarah’s expensive summer dresses, David’s fishing gear, inflatable water toys, and cases of wine they had shipped up here.
I opened the garbage bags and got to work.
I didn’t damage anything, but I didn’t fold anything either.
I stuffed Sarah’s clothes, David’s tackle boxes, and every single item that belonged to them into the heavy black bags.
I dragged 14 bags out onto the covered back porch.
Next, I opened my phone and called a local locksmith.
By 210 p.m., he had replaced the dead bolts on the front door, the back door, and the shed.
I tested the shiny new brass keys, putting them safely on my ring.
Before leaving, I called a local real estate agent I had known for years.
Within an hour, she came over, took some photos, and we signed a short-term rental agreement.
A retired couple from Ohio wanted to rent the place for the entire summer.
The cash would easily cover the property taxes for the next 5 years.
I locked the new deadbolt, got in my car, and drove home with a smile on my face.
Memorial Day weekend arrived 2 weeks later.
This was the traditional kickoff to Sarah’s lake season.
I was sitting on my patio with Helen sharing a picture of lemonade when my phone started vibrating furiously on the glass table.
It was David.
I let it ring.