She hadn’t.
She’d made a comment 3 weeks ago about how it would be nice if we could all enjoy Pop’s place, and I’d said “mm-hmm” while eating a dinner roll.
Apparently, that constituted agreement in Diane’s world.
“Dad, I’ll think about it,” I said, which is my standard line when I need someone to stop talking without creating a confrontation.
“That’s great, son. Diane’s planning a family dinner next week to celebrate. She wants everyone together.”
Celebrate.
They were going to celebrate the distribution of my property, which I hadn’t agreed to, which was no longer my property, because I’d sold it 5 weeks ago to a retired schoolteacher who was probably sitting on the dock right now reading a Larry McMurtry novel.
I told Dad I’d be there for dinner.
Then I sat in my truck.
I do a lot of thinking in my truck, apparently.
And I considered my options.
I could call Diane right now and tell her.
I could call Dad and explain.
I could send a family group text and blow the whole thing up remotely.
Or I could walk into that dinner, let them lay out their grand plan for my cabin that wasn’t my cabin anymore, and tell them face-to-face.
Lena, when I told her, said, “You’re not doing this to be cruel, right?”
“No. I’m doing this because they need to hear it from me in person, and they need to see my face when I say it, so they can’t pretend later that I was hiding something.”
She studied me for a second.
“Okay, but you’re not enjoying this even a little bit?”
I thought about it.
“Maybe a little bit.”
She nodded.
“Fair enough.”
The dinner was set for Saturday.
Diane’s house. 7:00. Pot roast.
And I had a deed transfer in my glove compartment.
I pulled into Diane’s driveway at 7:05.
Fashionably late is not my style.
I’m usually early to everything, but I wanted to make sure everyone was already seated and settled before I walked in.
I wanted the table full.
Diane’s house is exactly what you’d expect from someone who describes her aesthetic as “elegant but approachable.”
Cream-colored everything, decorative plates on the walls, a “Live, Laugh, Love” sign that she swears she bought ironically.
Travis’s Jeep was in the driveway next to Dad’s sedan.
And there was a third car I didn’t recognize.
Probably Travis’s latest girlfriend, which he cycled through the way most people cycle through streaming services.
I walked in carrying a bottle of wine because my mother raised me to bring something to a dinner party, even one that was about to go sideways.
“Cody,” Diane called from the kitchen.
She came out wiping her hands on a towel, smiling the way she always smiled. Broad and warm and ever so slightly performative.
“We were just about to start without you.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I said.
Dad was at the dining table, already seated, already looking like he wanted to be somewhere else.
He gave me a nod.
Travis was next to him, leaned back in his chair with his phone in one hand and a beer in the other.
The woman I didn’t recognize was across from him.
Blonde, polite smile, clearly not briefed on the family dynamics she’d walked into.
Travis introduced her as Megan.
She said, “Hi.”
I said, “Hi back.”
Dinner was pot roast, and I’ll give Diane this.
She can cook.
We made small talk for the first 20 minutes.
Travis talked about a business opportunity he was exploring, which is what Travis calls every scheme that requires someone else’s money.