Chapter 5 - The Grand Floridian Eviction
At 4:15 PM, the sun broke through the remaining cloud cover over the Seven Seas Lagoon, turning the water into a sheet of hammered brass.
Outside the grand glass entrance of the Grand Floridian, the Buick Enclave was no longer parked beneath the portico. It had been directed to the short-term holding lot by two resort security officers who stood fifteen feet away with their thumbs tucked into their tactical equipment vests, watching the family like hawks.
Brittany sat on a stone retaining wall near the luggage drop, her face streaked with ruined mascara, smoking a menthol cigarette despite the three distinct "No Smoking" signs posted along the brick walkway.
"Put that out, Brittany," Richard snapped. His face was gray, his polo shirt damp with sweat around the collar. "You're going to get us fined."
"Fined with what, Dad?" Brittany snarled, flicking the ash into a bed of manicured petunias. "We don't have twelve dollars, let alone twelve thousand! Look at Greg! Look at him!"
Thirty yards away, near the bus terminal, Greg was loading two large duffel bags into the back of an Uber sedan.
"Greg!" Brittany screamed, jumping off the wall and stumbling in her sandals across the pavement. "Greg, wait! You can't just leave us here! Dad is calling his credit union! They’re going to open an emergency line!"
Greg didn't even turn his head. He shoved his daughter Chloe into the back seat of the silver Toyota, slammed the door, and turned to Brittany with an expression of pure, unadulterated contempt.
"Emergency line?" Greg laughed—a short, barking sound that made two passing tourists turn their heads. "Your old man couldn't get approved for a toaster, Brittany. You told me your sister was a millionaire who paid for everything. You told me we had a VIP suite with free booze and private golf carts."
"She was supposed to pay for it!"
"Well, she didn't," Greg said, leaning into Brittany’s face. "And now I’ve wasted half a tank of gas, Chloe’s been crying for three hours, and I look like a deadbeat because two rent-a-cops followed me through the lobby while I was trying to get a cup of coffee. Lose my number, Brittany."
"Greg, please! I love you! What about Chloe?"
"Chloe doesn't need this circus," Greg said, pulling the passenger door open. "Go back to your daddy's house."
The Uber pulled away, its tires hissing against the damp asphalt.
Brittany stood in the driveway, her arms hanging limp at her sides, her chest heaving as the exhaust fumes drifted over her bare legs.
Behind her, Evelyn sat on the edge of Richard’s open trunk, her designer handbag clutched to her stomach like an infant. "What are we going to do, Richard? My feet are swollen. I need my medication. It’s in the house."
Richard was standing by the driver’s door, his phone pressed against his ear. His hand was shaking so badly he could barely keep the receiver against his temple.
"Yes, operator... I need the emergency fraud department... No, I am not the primary cardholder, I am her father... Listen to me! My daughter has suffered a mental break! She has stolen our reservations! She has left senior citizens stranded on private property without transportation!"
A calm, automated voice on the other end repeated: *We cannot discuss account specifics with an unauthorized third party. If you are experiencing an emergency, please hang up and dial 911.*
Richard let out a roar of frustration and hurled the phone against the Buick's leather seat.
"She’s cut us off," he whispered. The realization seemed to hollow out his chest, making his shoulders collapse inward until he looked twenty years older. "She’s actually cut us off."
"She can't do that," Evelyn whimpered, shaking her head in denial. "She’s our daughter. We raised her. We gave her everything. I took her to piano lessons for seven years! I made her wedding dress! She owes us!"
"She doesn't think she owes us," Richard said, his voice flat, dead, devoid of the booming authority that had dominated our family dinners for three decades. "She thinks we owe her."
"Well, we’ll go to her house," Evelyn said, her eyes suddenly narrowing with a sudden, vicious spark of resolve. She climbed off the bumper, smoothing her skirt with aggressive, jerky movements. "Get in the car, Richard. We are driving straight to her subdivision. We will sit in her driveway. We will knock on her neighbors' doors. We will tell that homeowner’s association president what kind of monster she is. Let’s see how she likes being embarrassed in front of her friends."
Brittany turned around, wiping her nose with the back of her forearm. "Yeah. Let’s go to her house. She has that roast in the freezer. She has to let us in. She can't keep us out of her house."
Richard didn't move for several seconds. He looked back toward the soaring white towers of the Grand Floridian—the grand Victorian paradise that had stood thirty yards away, completely out of reach, separated from them not by physical walls, but by a balance sheet they had spent their entire lives ignoring.
"Get in," Richard muttered.
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The Buick Enclave sputtered to life, its belt screeching loudly as it pulled out of the resort lot, past the guard shack where the gate officer watched them through polarized sunglasses, his radio already relaying their departure to the terminal shift supervisor.
***
