Chapter 2 - Legalities and Lockouts
Out by the gravel driveway of the Lake Oconee property, Kevin Vance was turning a dangerous shade of crimson.
He stood chest-to-chest with Julian Vance—no relation, as the tall, silver-haired buyer had politely clarified—waving a rolled-up magazine like a baton. “I don't care what your deed says! My wife’s mother built this place for our family use! You’re trespassing on property that has been promised to us for six summers!”
Julian Vance didn’t flinch. He adjusted the cuffs of his linen shirt, his expression a masterclass in corporate disinterest. He reached into his leather briefcase, pulled out a laminated copy of the final bill of sale, and tapped it with a manicured finger.
“Sir, I suggest you look at the timestamp,” Julian said, his voice smooth and cold as river ice. “The closing was finalized eight days ago. The funds cleared. The county records have been updated. If you or your family remain on these premises past sundown, I won't argue with you—I’ll simply have the local sheriff escort you off for trespassing.”
“This is absurd!” Kevin shouted, turning back toward the porch where his parents stood with wide, scandalized eyes, and his two teenagers stared in open mortification. “Lorraine, your mother has lost her mind! Call her back! Tell her we’ll sue!”
Lorraine stood frozen by the sage-green door, her phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Her mother’s words echoed relentlessly in her ears: Only choices. And consequences.
For six years, Lorraine had treated her mother like an invisible concierge—someone to stock the fridge, wash the sheets, yield the best bedroom, and absorb every casual slight without complaint. She had convinced herself that Dorothy was simply an old widow who had nothing better to do than cater to her grandchildren. She had never imagined that beneath that soft-spoken, patient exterior lay a woman who had spent thirty-four years holding bleeding lives together in an emergency room—a woman who knew precisely how to cut away a rotting limb to save the body.
“She’s not answering,” Lorraine whispered, her voice hollow. “She hung up.”
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Kevin swore loudly, kicking a loose pebble into the grass. His father, Arthur Vance—a man who had spent his life looking down on others—stepped forward, his face tight with indignation. “This is completely unprofessional! Where is old Mrs. Hastings supposed to go anyway? Doesn't she live here?”
“No,” Julian replied coldly, turning the key in his new front door. “She lives in Atlanta. And she bought herself a very nice retirement annuity with the proceeds of this sale. Good evening, Mr. Vance. I suggest you pack your coolers.”
