Chapter 2: The Audacity of the Entitled
The next afternoon arrived with a brilliant, deceptive sunshine that did nothing to warm the chilly spring air. At precisely one-forty-five, a sleek, black European sedan pulled up to the curb of Maple Ridge Lane.
Loretta stood by her living room window, a cup of chamomile tea warming her hands. She watched as the doors of the sedan opened. Gwen stepped out first, looking utterly ridiculous in a cream-colored designer trench coat and high heels that sank instantly into the damp grass of the front lawn. Leonard followed her, his posture hunched, his eyes fixed firmly on his shoes. The third person to emerge was a man in an excessively tight blue suit, carrying a tablet and a digital camera—Richard Crane, the premier luxury real estate broker in the county.
They walked up the porch steps with the arrogant confidence of conquistadors arriving on an uncharted shore. Gwen didn't even knock; she simply turned the brass doorknob and pushed the door open, ushering the realtor inside before her husband.
“Loretta!” Gwen called out, her voice echoing through the foyer. “We’re here. Richard brought the preliminary listing agreements, and he’s already pulled the comparative market analysis for the neighborhood.”
Loretta walked out of the kitchen, her expression serene, her hands folded neatly in front of her gray cardigan. “Good afternoon, Gwen. Leonard. And you must be Mr. Crane.”
The realtor offered a practiced, synthetic smile, extending a hand that smelled strongly of expensive cologne. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Whitman. Beautiful bones this house has. Of course, we’ll need to completely neutralize the color palette. This hallway peach color has to go, and the kitchen... well, we’ll probably list it as a ‘renovator’s dream’ to attract cash buyers.”
Leonard refused to look at his mother. He stood near the umbrella stand, nervously adjusting the collar of his coat.
“Let’s sit in the dining room,” Gwen commanded, taking off her trench coat and tossing it over the back of Raymond’s favorite armchair without asking. “Richard has a tight schedule. He has a million-dollar listing appointment in the hills at three.”
The group moved into the dining room, settling around the solid oak table that Raymond had restored after finding it at a yard sale in 1992. Richard Crane immediately laid out his tablet, displaying a series of glowing charts, graphs, and photographs of stark, white modern houses that looked more like dental clinics than homes.
“So, Loretta,” Gwen began, tapping her manicured nails against the oak table. “Richard confirms that in the current market, despite the deferred maintenance, we can list the property at six hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Because of the location, we expect a bidding war within forty-eight hours. We’ve already drafted the paperwork to transfer the proceeds into a managed trust account in Chicago, which Leonard and I will oversee to pay for your Schaumburg fees.”
“Six hundred and eighty thousand,” Loretta repeated, her voice remarkably flat. “That is a great deal of money.”
“Exactly,” Gwen said, leaning forward, her eyes gleaming with the unmistakable hunger of a predator closing in on its prey. “It’s about being smart, Loretta. You can’t handle this house anymore. Leonard is stressed about your health, and frankly, having this capital tied up in old wood and crooked tiles is a financial crime.”
“And what do you think, Leonard?” Loretta asked, her eyes moving to her son. “Do you believe my home is a financial crime?”
Leonard shifted in his chair, his face turning a deep, uncomfortable shade of crimson. “Mom... come on. Gwen’s right about the numbers. We’ve been having a tough year with our investments in the city, and... well, having the peace of mind knowing you’re taken care of, and knowing there’s a financial cushion... it just makes sense for the family.”
“Ah,” Loretta said, a brilliant spark of realization illuminating her mind. “The investments in Chicago aren't doing well. You need the liquidity.”
Gwen’s face instantly hardened, her polite facade dropping away like dry plaster. “That is entirely beside the point, Loretta! The point is that you are an elderly woman living alone in an unsafe structure. Richard, show her where to sign the initial listing authorization and the disclosure forms.”
Richard Crane slid the tablet across the table, a sleek digital pen resting on top of the glossy screen. “Just a few digital signatures here, Mrs. Whitman, and we can have the professional photographers here by Friday morning.”
Loretta looked down at the screen. Then, she looked up, her eyes locking onto Gwen’s with an intensity that made the younger woman blink.
“I won’t be signing that,” Loretta said softly.
Gwen let out a sharp, ugly laugh. “Loretta, don’t be ridiculous. We’ve gone over this. You don’t have a choice. Leonard is your son, and we are going to enforce this transition whether you like it or not.”
“I’m afraid you miscalculate my position, Gwen,” Loretta said, her voice dropping into a register of profound, terrifying calm. “You see, you cannot sell a house without the consent of the owner.”
“We know you own it!” Gwen snapped. “And Leonard will have power of attorney the moment we file the medical competency updates next week!”
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“Gwen, be quiet,” a new voice interrupted from the doorway of the den.
The three people at the table spun around. Standing in the threshold was Arthur Pendleton, a towering man of seventy with a mane of white hair, wearing a bespoke three-piece suit and carrying a thick, wax-sealed manila folder.
