“You’re renting it?” she clarifies, worry lining her face.
“From Mrs. Griffith, yeah. That was the plan.”
“I mean… in this state?” She coughs.
“Obviously.” My voice is dry. “I didn’t know you were coming or I’d have tidied up. Mrs. Griffith said the place was all good on the inside.”
She looks around again and winces at the dated wallpaper and a few long scuff marks on the wooden floor.
Possibly left by Leonidas himself. Or someone moving furniture around after his death, maybe.
Who knows.
Either way, this place isn’t rental-ready. Mrs. Griffith’s impression was a brutal understatement.
But we booked it. I have the emails to prove it.
“Oh. Well, I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Griffith since right after the funeral. Gramps’ lawyer was handling the rest,” Margot says slowly, like she’s piecing everything back together in her head. “I didn’t realize—I just assumed you knew the lake house was only being rented as a temporary thing. Had I known the house was this rough, we would’ve vetoed it.”
Yeah, shit.
“That makes two of us,” I grumble.
Mrs. Griffith didn’t say anything about temporary when I spoke with her last month. Or any of the times since.
Hell, I just picked up the keys when we rolled into town and no one said a damn word.
Fuck this day.
“Regardless, I paid good money for this place. I’m not looking to walk away just yet.”
“You did?” She frowns as she looks around again.
There’s no denying the ‘rough’ condition here after my daughter could’ve snapped her neck. I wouldn’t have paid so much for it if it hadn’t been theonlything available in the area.
Sully Bay stays busy deep into September with the spillover from the Bar Harbor crowd and Acadia leaf-peepers not faraway. That’s what I found out when I went looking for the perfect fall getaway in driving distance.
Not Vermont with its bad memories in the wake of the divorce.
I thought Maine would be safer for the kids, and for me.
I pinch my nose, trying to keep my cool even though we drove up from New York this morning and I’mexhausted.
The kids are already unpacked in their rooms. This was supposed to be the break we needed, the kind I promised them formonths.
But if Margot Blackthorn really is the new owner like she seems to be, that means she’s in charge.
Which should also mean she’s obliged to hold up her end of the contract I signed.
My brain works.
I’m no expert on rental agreements in the state of Maine.
Still, if she makes us vacate now, after the shit day I’ve had, it’s going to be a long haul back home in the car.
What other choice is there? Sleep in the vehicle?
Frustration curdles my breath.
