Of course.
Earlier that year, while I was away visiting a friend, a maintenance contractor needed access to check a leaking pipe beneath the kitchen sink.
Mark had offered to coordinate the appointment.
I gave him a temporary guest code, something I had never imagined he would use without permission.
Now I could hear voices inside my home.
Harper continued talking as though we were discussing dinner arrangements.
“Mom and Dad have had an exhausting year. They really need privacy and quiet.”
“So do I.”
“Barbara, you know what I mean.”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
She sighed.
“Mark and I are staying in the guest bedroom. Mom and Dad need the master suite because of Mom’s back. That means there really isn’t anywhere suitable for you.”
I stared at the phone.
“You’re telling me there’s no room for me in my own condo?”
“Don’t phrase it that way.”
“How would you phrase it?”
“We’re trying to find a practical solution.”
I heard a woman’s voice behind me.
“Harper, where are the extra towels?”
It was Brenda, Harper’s mother.
I turned again.
She was walking out of my master bedroom, wearing a cream-colored linen outfit and carrying one of my embroidered hand towels.
She smiled as if I were a hotel employee.
“Oh, Barbara! There you are. Lovely place. The bedroom is gorgeous.”
She glanced down at the towel.
“Do you have more of these? Harold likes two towels after his shower.”
I didn’t immediately answer.
Harper was still speaking through the phone.
“You could stay at the Marriott. It’s only a few minutes away.”
Brenda nodded enthusiastically.
