The kitchen was a disaster.
The Château Margaux was empty on the counter. Two more bottles beside it. Wine glasses everywhere. A half-eaten bag of Doritos. Hot dog wrappers. My mother’s reading glasses. Ben’s car keys.
Ezoic
My mother’s phone. Face-down on the counter. Where she’d left it.
I brewed exactly one cup of coffee.
Mine.
Then I opened my laptop.
The first email went to my property manager.
Her name is Dana Fletcher. She’s fifty-six. She’s managed properties on the Outer Banks for twenty-two years. She handles my guest bookings when I rent the suite. She knows every hotel, every rental company, every service provider from Corolla to Hatteras.
Dana — I need two adjoining family suites at a resort for six people, starting today. Two adults, two seniors, two children ages 8 and 5. Somewhere with activities for kids. Two nights. Charge to my account. Please also arrange transportation from my house for 5:00 AM. I’ll explain later. Thank you. — M.
