Chapter 7 - The Colonel’s Tea
Out stepped Colonel James Harris.
He was wearing clean, faded denim trousers, a khaki short-sleeved work shirt with the sleeves pressed, and a pair of leather roper boots that had been polished so many times the toes looked like mahogany. In his right hand, he carried a large plastic pitcher of iced tea with mint sprigs floating among the cubes. In his left hand, he held a clipboard.
Behind him came Martha, carrying four heavy glass tumblers on a tin tray that had an advertisement for Dixie Crystals Sugar stamped on the rim.
The hound dog on the swing didn't move, merely thumping his tail twice against the floorboards as the Colonel passed.
“Afternoon,” Colonel Harris said. His voice was not loud, but it had that parade-ground resonance that makes people with bad posture instinctively pull their shoulders back.
Ryan stepped up onto the porch, his chest puffed out, his hand extended not in greeting, but in an aggressive, finger-pointing gesture.
“Who the hell are you?” Ryan demanded. “And what did you do to my lock?”
The Colonel didn't take the hand. He set the pitcher of tea down on the cedar side table Thomas had built out of scrap tongue-and-groove, then looked down at Ryan from the top of the three steps.
“I’m James Harris,” the Colonel said mildly. “This is my wife, Martha. And that lock you’re referring to was unauthorized electronic debris attached to our front portal without the landlord’s consent. Earl Bennett took it off with a crowbar about four hours ago. It’s currently in that blue plastic recycling bin by the pump house, if you want the components.”
“Your front portal?” Ryan’s voice climbed an octave. “This is my house! I am Ryan Miller! This is my wife Claire, Margaret Ellis’s daughter! We own this property!”
Colonel Harris didn't blink. He lifted the clipboard, flipped the first page with a thumb that had a white scar running across the knuckle, and looked at a clean, notarized document.
“Margaret Ellis owns this property,” the Colonel said calmly. “Fee-simple, recorded in Putnam County Deed Book 412, page 88. And as of zero-eight-hundred hours yesterday morning, my wife and I are the sole legal tenants under a twelve-month residential lease. Which means, Mr. Miller, you are currently standing on my porch without an invitation.”
Claire pushed past Ryan, her face white, her eyes wide with that specific brand of panicked fury that hits people who have never been told no by a service professional.
“That’s impossible!” she shouted. “My mother wouldn't do this! We’re her family! We have our children in that car! Ryan’s parents flew in from New Jersey! We have reservations at the club!”
Martha Harris stepped forward, setting the tray of glasses on the railing. She looked at Claire with the gentle, terrifying patience of a grandmother who has raised five boys through three wars.
“Well, dear,” Martha said, her voice like warm buttermilk, “it does sound like you have a very busy afternoon planned. But you won't be having it here. The house is occupied.”
“I’m calling the police,” Ryan snarled, pulling his phone up to his face. “I’m calling the Putnam County Sheriff right now. This is fraud. This is an illegal squatting situation. You’ve taken advantage of an old woman with dementia!”
The Colonel’s eyes went very small and very cold.
“Mr. Miller,” he said, and the air on the porch seemed to drop ten degrees despite the July heat. “I suggest you choose your words with a higher degree of tactical awareness. Mrs. Ellis does not have dementia. She has a very fine attorney named Paul Henderson, who happens to have been the county attorney here for twenty-four years. And as for the Sheriff—Sheriff Sills and I had coffee at the Blue Willow Inn about ninety minutes ago. He has a certified copy of this lease in his glove box, along with an advisory from the superior court regarding the enforcement of residential boundaries.”
From the driveway, Lorraine Miller had reached the foot of the steps. Her face was mottled red beneath her makeup, her expensive linen pants already damp with sweat around the waistband.
“This is absurd!” she shrieked, shaking her gold bangles at Martha. “Do you know who we are? My husband was an executive with a Fortune 500 company! We spent twelve hundred dollars on airfare to come to our family’s lake house! You get your things out of that bedroom immediately, or I will have every state trooper in Georgia down here on your heads!”
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Martha looked down at Lorraine. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't even stop smiling.
“Ma’am,” Martha said softly, “I don't care if your husband was the King of England and you flew here on an eagle’s back. My potato salad is already in the refrigerator, my husband’s boots are by the door, and the only bedroom you’re sleeping in tonight is one you pay for with a credit card at the Holiday Inn Express out on the bypass.”
