“You are hereby directed to cease all attempts to market, transfer, encumber, purchase, or exercise control over the property owned solely by Sloane Bennett.”
Mark’s voice weakened as he read the sentence.
The rain continued tapping against the windows.
Somewhere near the kitchen, the refrigerator motor clicked on.
No one at the table moved.
Mark looked at the second page, then the third.
His fingers began to shake.
Diane set her wineglass down too hard.
Red wine jumped over the rim and stained the white tablecloth beside her plate.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked.
I looked at her calmly.
“It means you cannot buy a house that I never agreed to sell.”
Diane gave a brittle laugh.
“Don’t be dramatic.
We have an agreement.”
“You have an unsigned draft.”
“Mark signed it.”
“Mark doesn’t own the house.”
She turned toward her son as if he could change the deed by answering quickly enough.
Mark stared down at the letter.
The copy of the deed was clipped behind it.
My name appeared alone in the ownership section, exactly as it had since the day I closed on the property.
Diane’s church friend leaned forward, then stopped herself.
Mark’s aunt lowered her hands into her lap.
His boss finally looked up from his coffee.
Robert cleared his throat.
“You’re married,” he said.
“That makes it Mark’s house too.”
“No,” I replied.
“Marriage did not give him authority to sign a contract for property titled only in my name.”
Mark shut the folder.
“We should talk about this privately.”
“You announced it publicly.”
His eyes flicked around the table.
The humiliation he had prepared for me had changed direction, and he knew it.
Diane pushed back her chair.
“This family has spent weeks solving your financial problem.”
“What financial problem?” I asked.
She hesitated.
Mark answered for her.
“The mortgage.
The repairs.
Everything we’ve discussed.”
“We never discussed selling.”
“We discussed needing more flexibility.”
“I said the upstairs bathroom needed new tile.”
A cousin covered his mouth.
Whether he was hiding a cough or a smile, I couldn’t tell.
Diane’s face hardened.
“You’re twisting words.”
“No.
You turned a bathroom renovation into permission to take my house.”
Mark reached for my wrist beneath the edge of the table.
I moved my hand before he could touch me.
“Sloane,” he whispered, “you need to calm down.”
I looked at the folder.
