Chapter 3 - THE UNINVITED SQUATTERS
When I walked through the double mahogany doors of my Buckhead penthouse at twelve-thirty, the air in the foyer smelled distinctly of bleach and frying lard.
A set of plastic storage crates had already been dragged into the center of my living room. My hand-knotted Oushak wool rug—an antique I had spent three months sourcing from an estate in Savannah—had been rolled up like a cheap sleeping bag and shoved against the floor-to-ceiling windows. In its place sat a garish, floral-patterned synthetic runner.
“What happened to my rug?” I asked, dropping my keys onto the marble console with a deliberate clatter.
Shirley emerged from the master hallway wearing a pair of yellow rubber cleaning gloves and an expression of grim, self-righteous authority.
“Wool traps mites,” she declared, crossing her arms over her floral apron. “At Walter’s age, he can’t be inhaling dander. I’ve rolled it up for the basement storage.”
“We don’t have a basement, Shirley. This is a fourteenth-floor condominium.”
“Then we’ll put it on the balcony until the garage sale.”
I stepped past her into the living room, taking off my trench coat. “Nothing in this home is going to a garage sale. Put the rug back.”
Shirley chuckled—a patronizing, clicking sound of her tongue. “Stella, dear. Everett explicitly told us that while he was overseas, this was our home. When two generations share a living space, adjustments must be made. You’re at the office all day anyway; you don’t even notice your surroundings.”
Walter shuffled into the room from the kitchen, holding an open jar of peanut butter and a butter knife. He wore stained sweatpants and white athletic socks pulled halfway up his calves.
“Where’s the big TV clicker?” he grunted, looking past me as if I were a hotel receptionist who had arrived late to a shift. “The one for the sports package. Everett said you had the full SEC package on the satellite.”
“I don't watch college football, Walter. We have Apple TV.”
Walter turned to Shirley with an aggrieved scowl. “See? I told you. Can’t even watch the pre-season analysis.”
“Don’t worry, Walt,” Shirley said soothingly, patting his arm. “Everett said we’d order whatever cable package you wanted. We’ll just call the provider this afternoon and put it on the house account.”
I walked toward the kitchen, my heels clicking sharply against the herringbone white oak floor. “There is no house account. Everything here is under my name.”
Shirley followed me like a cloud of dust. “Well, that’s going to have to change, isn't it? If Walter and I are managing the domestic upkeep while Everett is representing the family in England, we can’t be begging you for an allowance every time the milk runs out. We need a card.”
I poured myself a glass of water from the filtered tap, taking a slow, steady sip before turning around.
“You want a credit card?”
“A debit card tied to Everett’s household fund,” Shirley said firmly. “He said he left twenty thousand dollars in the reserve checking account for our groceries and medical supplies.”
My fingers tightened around the crystal glass. *Twenty thousand dollars.* The exact amount Everett had promised would cover our property taxes due next month.
“Everett’s reserve account is currently depleted,” I said calmly.
Shirley’s face hardened, her thin eyebrows arching into two sharp, penciled peaks. “What nonsense is that? My son is an international executive. If the account is empty, it’s because you spent it on those three-hundred-dollar haircuts.”
“Your son spent fifteen thousand dollars at Cartier at nine-forty-two this morning,” I replied, looking directly into her rheumy, hostile eyes.
Shirley didn’t even blink. Instead, an insufferable smirk curled her lip.
“Well, of course he did,” she said smoothly.
I paused. “Of course he did?”
“Everett has business associates to entertain. In Europe, high society requires gifts. Protocol, Stella. You wouldn’t understand the demands of old-money corporate culture. You come from trade.”
*Trade.* My father had been a civil engineer and my mother a public school principal. They had paid off their home, saved every dollar, and taught me that debt was a cage and honesty was the only currency that never depreciated. Everett’s father had run a failing hardware franchise into bankruptcy twice before taking an early pension, living off refinancing schemes and their son's inflated vanity.
“Let’s establish some boundaries right now,” I said, setting my glass down on the island. “The master bedroom is locked. You will be staying in the guest suite at the end of the north hall. You will not move any furniture. You will not touch my art. And you will not order anything on any account without my explicit written consent.”
Walter threw his butter knife onto my quartz countertop. It clattered against the stone, leaving a streak of grease across the polished surface.
“Now listen here, young lady!” he barked, his voice rising in manufactured paternal outrage. “Everett brought us down here to ensure you didn't run wild while he was serving his company! We are his parents! You will show some respect in this house!”
“This is not his house,” I said, my voice dropping so low that both of them had to lean forward to hear it. “The deed has one name on it. Stella Mercer. Not Hayes. Not Walter. Not Shirley.”
Shirley drew herself up, clutching her apron. “We are married into this family, Stella. In the eyes of God and Georgia law, what is his is ours!”
“Georgia is an equitable distribution state, Shirley. Not a community property state. And real estate acquired prior to marriage remains separate property.” I gave her the same cold, polite smile I reserved for hostile journalists during press conferences. “You might want to consult a lawyer before you start rearranging the furniture.”
Before Shirley could unleash the tirade bubbling behind her trembling dentures, my phone began to buzz in my hand.
The screen read: **Everett (FaceTime Audio).**
He had landed during his layover. Probably in New York or Boston before making the transatlantic leap to Paris.
I held up a finger, silencing his parents, and swiped the green button.
“Hello, Everett.”
“Stella! Hey, babe!” Everett’s voice was breezy, accompanied by the background hum of an airport lounge and the distant clink of champagne glasses. “Just touching down for our connection. Reception’s a little spotty, but I wanted to make sure you got home okay from Hartsfield.”
“I’m home,” I said, looking Shirley dead in the eyes. “Your parents are already busy redecorating.”
Everett let out a soft, rehearsed chuckle. “Mom’s just being Mom. Let her have her little projects, okay? It keeps her active. Did you check the account? I had to run an urgent transaction through before boarding.”
“I saw the Cartier charge, Everett. Fifteen thousand two hundred dollars.”
A split-second hesitation buzzed across the digital connection. Then, his smooth corporate pivot kicked in.
“Yeah, total headache. It was a client gift for the managing director of the London syndicate. His wife loves vintage French cut. The regional vice president told me to expense it through personal first and submit the voucher upon arrival in Mayfair. I’ll be reimbursed by Monday.”
“You bought client gifts at the airport duty-free on our joint card without calling me?”
“Stella, please,” his tone shifted, adopting that familiar, patronizing edge of tired masculine patience. “Don't start an argument while I’m in transit. I’m doing this for our future. Don't micromanage me. Just make sure Mom and Dad are comfortable. Did they like the guest room?”
“They haven't seen it yet. Shirley was too busy rolling up my Savannah rug.”
“Stella. Be gracious. I have to board. I’ll call you when I land in London tomorrow morning. Love you.”
“Everett?”
“Yeah?”
“Don't lose that ring in Paris.”
The line went dead with a sharp click.
Across the island, Shirley glared at me like a hawk defending a dead mouse. “See? A client gift. Just like I said. You owe my son an apology.”
I picked up my keys and turned toward the foyer.
“Dinner is at six, Stella!” Shirley yelled after me. “Walter likes meatloaf with extra gravy! Make sure you pick up the right brand of tomato paste!”
I didn’t answer. I stepped into the elevator, hit the lobby button, and dialed Marcus Vance’s direct office line.
May you like
“Marcus,” I said the second he picked up. “It’s Stella. I need an asset search, a temporary restraining order drafted, and an emergency financial injunction. Let’s burn the house down.”
***
