The Unwelcome Guests
“Sophia,” I said, walking in from the deck with my coffee still in hand, my bare feet silent on the cool tile floors, “what a… surprise.”
She was already dragging a massive Louis Vuitton suitcase toward the guest staircase, her new husband standing somewhat awkwardly by the door like he wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to be there. Smart man, I remember thinking. His instincts were correct—he absolutely shouldn’t be.
“Derek, this is my mother, Patricia. Mom, this is Derek Castellano, my husband.” She delivered the word ‘husband’ with that particular emphasis people use when they want to make absolutely certain you understand they’ve made a monumentally life-changing decision without bothering to consult you, inform you, or in my case, even invite you to witness it.
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Derek stepped forward with what I had to admit was a genuinely charming smile—the kind of smile that had probably opened doors, closed deals, and convinced women to ignore their better judgment for decades. He extended his hand with practiced confidence.
“Mrs. Whitmore, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Sophia talks about this place constantly. The views, the peace, the sanctuary you’ve created here.”
“Does she?” I shook his hand, my professional radar—honed during twenty-five years of working in commercial real estate before my divorce settlement allowed me to retire early—immediately noting the expensive Rolex, the custom-tailored shirt, the Italian leather shoes that cost more than most people’s monthly mortgage payments.
