Chapter 2 - Sunday Morning Illusions
The sunlight over the front range of the Rocky Mountains broke in dazzling shades of amber and rose, illuminating the manicured fairways of the Broadmoor Golf Club.
At 10:30 on Sunday morning, the patio of *The Golden Bee*, the historic and exclusive pub associated with the resort, was humming with laughter, the clinking of mimosa flutes, and the cheerful chatter of Colorado Springs' upper crust.
At the premier corner table overlooking the terrace sat Bernice Palmer, wearing a tailored cream knit cardigan, oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses, and an expression of regal satisfaction. Beside her, Lloyd was on his third Bloody Mary, picking at a plate of eggs Benedict with an air of mild detachment. Across from them, Angie was glowing, leaning into Spencer’s shoulder as he scrolled through the engagement metrics on his social media accounts.
"I’m telling you, Mom, it was the best thing you could have done," Angie said, lifting her bellini and taking a deliberate sip. "Everyone was thinking it. For years, people have been asking me why Veronica just hangs around like a rainy cloud, freeloading off you and Dad, acting like she’s too fragile to get a real corporate career. You finally set the boundary."
Bernice waved a dismissive, manicured hand, adjusting the diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist—a piece she had purchased two Christmases ago on the "emergency" Palmer Screen corporate account, convinced that Veronica was too oblivious to check the line-item expenses.
"It broke my heart, of course," Bernice sighed, though her voice carried the performative melancholy of an actress seeking an encore. "A mother always wants the best for her children. But Veronica has developed this dreadful, passive-aggressive entitlement. To spill punch on my bespoke dress—at our *fortieth anniversary*, Lloyd!—and not even drop to her knees to apologize? She looked at me with those cold, empty eyes, just like her grandmother used to. It was deliberate."
"She’s jealous," Spencer chimed in, adjusting the collar of his Ralph Lauren polo. "It’s obvious. Look at Angie: vice president of regional sales for a boutique interior design firm, driving a European sports sedan, living in the Luminary. Then look at Veronica: working remote data entry or whatever staffing nonsense she does from her laptop in her sweatpants, dragging Blake around like an excuse not to date or socialize. She couldn't stand seeing Angie shine last night."
Lloyd cleared his throat, setting his fork down with a tiny clatter. "Did you have to throw the wine, Angie? In front of the Murphys and Dr. Henderson? And the boy was right there."
Angie rolled her eyes with an exaggerated groan. "Oh, please, Dad! Don't go soft on us now. It was Cabernet, not battery acid. It was a dramatic flourish! It made the point. And besides, Spencer captured the whole thing. The audio didn't catch the wine hitting her, but the way she scurried off through the side gate? Absolute perfection. She won’t be showing her face around Pine Creek for months."
"I just hope she doesn't forget to drop off the dry cleaning tomorrow," Bernice said, checking her compact mirror to reapply her coral lipstick. "I left three silk blouses in the laundry room, and the cleaners on Tejon is the only one that handles the lace correctly. Lloyd, call her later and tell her she can come over through the basement entrance after five o'clock to pick them up. But make sure she leaves Blake with a babysitter. I don't want him tracking dirt onto the Persian rugs after last night’s fiasco."
Lloyd stared into his tomato juice, swirling the celery stalk. "She didn't answer my text this morning."
"She’s pouting," Bernice snorted, snapping her compact shut. "She always pouts. She’ll mope for three days in that dingy little apartment she rents near the university, then she’ll realize she needs us. Who else is going to watch the boy when she has those mysterious 'business calls' she pretends are so vital? She has nobody, Lloyd. We are her only lifeline."
The waiter, a polite young man named Julian wearing a crisp black apron, approached the table with a leather bill presenter. "Whenever you're ready, folks. Hope you enjoyed the brunch."
"We certainly did, Julian," Bernice said smoothly. She reached into her Louis Vuitton tote, pulled out the sleek, matte-black American Express corporate card, and dropped it onto the tray without looking at the total. "Put it all on this, including a twenty percent tip."
"Right away, ma'am."
Spencer leaned back, crossing his legs. "We should take the boat out on the reservoir this afternoon. Angie, did you tell the marina to have the slip prepped?"
"Spencer, babe, the marina billing is handled through the house account," Angie said, waving her hand. "Mom, did Veronica send the confirmation for the dock slip renewal?"
"I haven't checked the mail, darling," Bernice said airily. "Veronica usually files all the recreational invoices in the blue folder by Lloyd’s desk. If she hasn't done it, I'll deduct it from whatever grocery money she asks for next week."
A few minutes passed. The mountain breeze ruffled the striped umbrellas. Bernice smiled cordially at Mrs. Cavanaugh, the president of the local symphony guild, who was seated two tables away. Everything was orderly, prestigious, and thoroughly under control.
Then Julian returned.
His posture was noticeably stiffer, his smile strained with that specific, excruciating awkwardness service workers wear when an upper-class transaction goes catastrophically wrong. He held the black leather folio flat against his chest.
"Mrs. Palmer?" Julian murmured, leaning down discreetly between Bernice and Lloyd.
"Yes, Julian? Is there a problem with the receipt? Just leave the merchant copy."
"Um, no, ma'am. I’m terribly sorry, but... the card was declined."
Bernice stared at him through her sunglasses, her smile freezing into an amused mask of disbelief. "Declined? Don't be ridiculous. That is an unlimited executive black card. Run it again."
"I did run it again, ma'am," Julian whispered, keeping his voice down, though Mrs. Cavanaugh glanced over at the sound of the word *declined*. "I ran it three times through two different terminals. It’s returning a Code 04. The terminal literally instructed me to confiscate the card, but of course, I wouldn't do that at your table. It says 'Card Revoked by Issuing Corporation.'"
Spencer laughed, a sharp, nervous sound. "It’s a fraud flag. You know how Amex gets when you make multiple high-end transactions in forty-eight hours. Mom spent eight grand on catering yesterday. Use mine."
Spencer whipped out his sleek silver Visa Signature card and handed it to Julian. "Here. Run this. Take care of it."
"Thank you, sir. One moment."
"Honestly," Bernice muttered, taking a sip of water to hide the flush creeping up her neck. "These banking security algorithms are becoming completely unmanageable. Last month they flagged my purchase at Nordstrom simply because I bought three cashmere blankets at once. Lloyd, remind me to call our private wealth banker tomorrow and give him an earful."
Lloyd didn't answer. He was staring at his phone, his brow deeply furrowed. "Bernice... that's strange."
"What's strange?"
"My mobile service. The bars just disappeared. It says 'No SIM / Account Suspended.'"
"You probably forgot to update the operating system, Dad," Angie said dismissively, watching Julian walk back toward the patio with a face that looked like he was about to deliver a death notification.
Julian stopped beside Spencer. He handed the silver Visa back, along with the bill.
"Sir... this one was declined as well. 'Transaction Exceeds Available Credit / Card Inactive.'"
Angie’s jaw dropped. "What? That card has a twenty-thousand-dollar limit! Spencer, what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything!" Spencer snapped, his voice rising enough that several patrons turned their heads. "The balance was paid off on Friday! Veronica was supposed to process the monthly clearing from the trust account—" He stopped abruptly, his eyes darting to Bernice.
"Well, Angie, pay it with your card," Bernice demanded, her voice losing its calm veneer, a sharp, shrill edge cutting through. "We have fifty people watching us. Pay the bill so we can leave."
Angie fumbled through her clutch, pulled out her gold card, and shoved it at Julian. "Here! Take it! Just swipe it and get us out of here!"
Two minutes later, Julian didn't even come all the way to the table; the restaurant manager, a tall man in a dark suit named Harrison whom Bernice had known for years, walked over with the folio.
"Mrs. Palmer," Harrison said with quiet, unyielding formality. "I’m afraid Miss Angie's card has also returned an authorization failure. The total for brunch is four hundred and eighty-six dollars. We cannot allow the party to depart without settlement. Do you have cash, or an alternate personal bank card?"
Bernice’s face went the color of a fresh beet. Across the patio, Mrs. Cavanaugh was whispering behind her napkin to her husband.
"Harrison, this is an outrage," Bernice hissed, trembling with rage. "I have eaten at this club for fifteen years! You know who we are!"
"I do, Mrs. Palmer," Harrison replied, unflinching. "Which is why I am handling this discreetly instead of calling resort security. However, corporate cards from third-party logistics firms are currently failing across your entire party. If you do not have a means of payment, I will have to escort Mr. Palmer to the front desk to hold his driver's license while you arrange funds."
Lloyd reached into his back pocket with shaking hands, opened his worn leather wallet, and pulled out four crumpled hundred-dollar bills and two twenties—his emergency cash stash that had sat in his wallet since the previous summer. He shoved them onto the table without looking at Harrison.
"Keep the change," Lloyd mumbled, pushing his chair back with a violent scrape. "We're leaving."
Bernice stood up so fast her chair nearly tipped over. She grabbed her bag, her knuckles white, and marched off the terrace without looking right or left, her heels clicking like gunshots on the stone. Angie and Spencer scrambled after her, their faces burning with humiliation.
"It’s a system crash," Angie hissed as they reached the resort valet stand. "It has to be. The entire banking network must be down. Some cyberattack or something."
"Shut up, Angie," Spencer growled under his breath, frantically refreshing his banking app on his phone, only to be met with a red banner: *Access Suspended. Contact Primary Account Holder.* "This isn't a cyberattack. My phone is still working on Wi-Fi, but my banking portal says my cardholder status was revoked by Palmer Screen Logistics at 12:01 AM."
"Palmer Screen?" Angie repeated blankly. "Why the hell would Veronica’s little background check office have anything to do with your personal card?"
"Because the cards are tied to the corporate master line, you idiot!" Spencer spat, dropping his voice as the valet hurried over. "Where do you think the loyalty points were coming from? Where do you think the zero-percent interest came from? Veronica set up the sub-accounts three years ago so we could write off our travel!"
Bernice stopped dead in the middle of the driveway. "What did you say?"
Before Spencer could answer, a loud, pneumatic hiss sounded from the street.
A massive, flatbed commercial transport truck, branded with the logo of *Apex Heavy Logistics*, pulled into the cul-de-sac of the Broadmoor entrance. It was followed immediately by a second flatbed.
Bernice didn't pay attention to them—until the first flatbed backed directly up toward the parking lot where Lloyd’s midnight-blue BMW 7-Series was parked. Two men in high-visibility vests jumped down, carrying clipboards and wheel-lift dollies.
Lloyd stopped walking. His mouth fell open. "What are they doing to my car?"
"Hey!" Spencer yelled, jogging toward the parking stalls. "Hey! What the hell are you doing? That’s a private vehicle!"
The driver of the lead truck, a burly man with a tablet strapped to his forearm, didn't even look up as he began hooking safety chains around the front axle of the BMW. "Lloyd Palmer?"
"I'm Lloyd Palmer!" my father barked, his voice cracking. "Get your filthy hands off my car! I’ll have you arrested!"
The driver calmly turned the tablet around, displaying a digital work order bearing the official corporate seal of Palmer Screen Technologies, accompanied by a repossession affidavit signed by the Fourth Judicial District Court and countersigned by Marcus Vance, Esq.
"Vehicle asset recovery order, buddy," the driver said in a bored monotone. "Vehicle Identification Number ending in 8-8-4-1. Registered owner: Palmer Screen Fleet Operations LLC. Lease canceled for non-payment and corporate restructuring. We have an order to recover this unit and a 2022 Lexus RX 350 located at 4410 Promontory Bluff View."
"That's my house!" Bernice shrieked, rushing forward, her purse swinging wildly. "You cannot steal my car from my house! That is grand larceny!"
"Take it up with the company, lady," the driver said, pulling a lever on the side of the rig.
With a deafening hydraulic groan, the steel bed tilted, the winch cable snapped taut, and Lloyd Palmer’s pride and joy—the car he had bragged about leasing through his "private business consulting connections" for three years—was dragged backward, its tires squealing against the asphalt, up onto the iron ramp of the flatbed.
"Lloyd!" Bernice screamed, clawing at her husband's arm. "Do something! Call the police! Call the mayor! Spencer, knock him down!"
Spencer took two steps back, his hands raised, his eyes wide with genuine terror. "I'm not touching him, Bernice! That’s an official repossession! If I interfere, it’s a felony!"
"Call Veronica!" Angie cried out, her voice rising to a glass-shattering pitch as the second flatbed turned around and headed north—directly toward the Pine Creek estate to take Bernice’s Lexus. "Dad, call Veronica right now! Tell her to fix this! Tell her her stupid little company made a clerical error and they're taking our cars!"
Lloyd stood on the curb, his phone dead in his hand, his eyes wide and completely vacant. For the first time in his life, looking at the corporate name printed on the repossession orders—*Palmer Screen Technologies*—a terrifying, suffocating realization began to dawn behind his eyes.
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"It wasn't an error," Lloyd whispered, his face draining of all color until he looked like a corpse in a tailored blazer. "Bernice... it wasn't an error."
***
