“What?”
Her voice was loud enough to hear before he put the phone down.
“Dad, the key doesn’t work.”
He closed his eyes.
My mother reached for the phone.
“Lindsay? Where are you?”
“At the cabin. Where else would I be?”
Dad said, “I told you I’d call.”
“You told me to go ahead.”
One of the boys was crying in the background. Lindsay said something to him, then came back.
“There’s a different lock. I called the number on the card in the window, and this man says Shelby owns the house.”
I looked at my father.
“He says we can’t stay,” she continued. “Dad, I have groceries melting in the van.”
“Are the boys with you?” I asked.
A pause.
“Shelby?”
“Yes. Are they safe?”
“They’re in their seats. We’re parked.”
“Okay. Leave the air running if they’re hot.”
“What is happening?”
My father reached toward the phone.
“I’ll explain later.”
“No,” Lindsay said. “You keep saying that.”
My mother sat down.
Lindsay’s voice had changed. The anger was still there, but underneath it was something less certain.
“You said you bought it from Shelby. You said she wanted out because of the bills.”
My mother looked at him.
“Abe?”
He pulled the empty chair farther from the table.
“You said once the boys were older, you’d make sure we had it,” Lindsay went on. “Dwayne’s mother asked me about the Fourth, and I told her yes.”
“Dad couldn’t promise you the cabin,” I said.
“But he owns—”
“No. He doesn’t.”
Silence came through the phone, apart from the faint sound of the van’s engine.
Then Lindsay asked, “Did you sell it to him?”
“Never.”
My mother stared at my father.
“Why would you tell her that?”
He rubbed a hand across his mouth.
“I was going to work something out.”
“With what?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
I turned the laptop so my mother could see.
“There’s something else.”
“Shelby,” Dad said.
It was the first time since he arrived that he had lowered his voice.
I brought up the saved listing.
My mother leaned forward, then reached into her purse for her glasses.
“Abe’s Lakeside Hideaway,” she read.
She stopped.
“That’s the cabin.”
“Yes.”
She scrolled down and looked at the photographs.
“That’s your grandmother’s quilt.”
“She made it for me when I was fifteen.”
My mother read a little farther.
“You rented it?”
Dad pulled out the chair and sat.
“Only when nobody was using it.”
“I was using it,” I said. “Sometimes I was staying away because you told me I couldn’t come.”
“I never said you couldn’t.”
“You said your friends had the rooms. You said the plumbing needed work.”
“It did need work.”
“Then show me the repair bill.”
He looked at the laptop instead.
My mother clicked a review by accident. It expanded.
A guest had written about the pictures on the refrigerator.
She read the sentence silently.
I knew which one it was.
“Those are Delaney’s drawings,” I said.
My father put both hands on the table.
“I took care of that place.”
“You never told me you were running a rental.”
“Somebody had to keep it from sitting empty.”
“You could have asked.”
“You would’ve said no.”
That was the first plain answer he had given me.
I let it stay there.
On the phone, Lindsay said, “How long?”
“At least two summers,” I told her. “That’s what the public listing shows. We’re getting the actual records.”
My mother took off her glasses.
“What money?”
Dad shook his head.
“It wasn’t much after expenses.”
“What expenses?” I asked.
“Cleaning. Supplies. Things break.”
“Then put them in the accounting.”
He looked up.
“What accounting?”
“The one my attorney is requesting. Bookings, payments, refunds, documented expenses. All of it.”
My mother picked up one of the screenshots.
Twenty-six reviews were visible at the top.
“Twenty-six?”