“Why, Peter?”
He said he had gotten in over his head. He mentioned the investment collapse, the tax issues, Tiffany’s family getting involved. His voice turned defensive, recognizable from adolescence: “You have two houses, Mom.”
I did not speak because if I had I might have screamed.
He rushed on: “I thought if we sold the place or leveraged it—”
“Did you know she changed my front lock?”
Silence.
“Did you know she told me to leave?”
Still silence.
“You were going to let her bully me into surrendering the house,” I said. “Weren’t you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“From this point forward,” I said, “you speak to my attorney.”
I hung up.
Sunday morning. Mara called. The realtor had scheduled a private walk-through with a boutique hospitality investor from Providence, believing Peter had inherited the property.
Because of the hold and the fraud inquiry, the investor had been informed that title was disputed and declined to come. But Tiffany and her family did not know that yet, and Peter was driving up from Philadelphia to explain.
