I thought I was protecting my widowed mother when I followed the young man she’d hired. What I discovered wasn’t what I feared, but it changed how I saw her.
I followed the black SUV for almost 15 minutes.
Every rational part of me knew this was a terrible idea.
I was alone. I had no idea who the driver was. And Tyler, the 25-year-old pool cleaner I had just watched buy plywood, a crowbar, and a glass cutter, was sitting beside him.
Still, all I could think about was Mom.
Seventy years old.
Living alone.
Trusting a man she had known for three weeks.
The SUV turned into the older industrial part of town and pulled into a small construction company.
HALE RESTORATION.
I parked across the street.
Tyler climbed out with the older man who had been driving. He looked around 60, with gray hair and a button-down shirt.
They unloaded the plywood.
Then Tyler looked directly across the street.
At me.
I ducked.
Which was pointless because I was sitting in a bright red car.
A few seconds later, someone knocked on my window.
I screamed.
Tyler jumped back.
“What the hell?”
I lowered the window two inches.
“Stay away from me.”
He stared at me.
“You followed us?”
“You ran away from me!”
“You came pounding on the window!”
“Because I saw you buy a crowbar and a glass cutter after measuring my mother’s basement window!”
The older man crossed the street.
“Tyler?”
Tyler rubbed his face.
“This is Mrs. Bennett’s daughter.”
The man looked at me.
“Oh.”
I didn’t like that “oh.”
“You know my mother?”
“My name is Robert. I’m a contractor.”
“I don’t care what you do. If you’re planning something involving my mother’s house, I’m calling the police.”
Tyler sighed.
“I’m not robbing your mom.”
“Then explain the window.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s a terrible answer.”
“I know.”
Robert glanced at him.
Tyler finally said, “Your mother told me not to tell you.”
I froze.
“What?”
“She said you’d ruin the surprise.”
“What surprise?”
“I’ve already said too much.”
I pulled out my phone.
“Fine. I’ll call her.”
Tyler’s expression changed.
“Please don’t.”
That scared me more than anything else had.
“Why not?”
Robert answered.
“She’s meeting with an attorney.”
My stomach dropped.
“Is she sick?”
“No,” Tyler said quickly.
“Is she selling the house?”
“No.”
“Is someone taking advantage of her?”
“No.”
“Then what is happening?”
Neither answered.
I got back into my car.
“Where are you going?” Tyler asked.
“My mother’s.”
“You shouldn’t.”
I slammed the door.
He called after me.
“Please don’t go into the basement.”
I slowly lowered the window again.
“Why?”
His face told me he regretted saying it.
“Because it’s not safe.”
That was enough.
I drove straight to Mom’s house.
Her car was in the driveway.
I barely parked before running inside.
“Mom?”
Nothing.
“Mom!”
“I’m in the kitchen!”
Her annoyed voice was the best thing I’d heard all day.
She was sitting at the table with a woman in a navy suit. Papers covered the table.
Mom looked up.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“You’re okay?”
“Of course I’m okay.”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
She held it up.
Dead battery.
I looked at the woman.
“Who’s this?”
“Angela. My attorney.”
The woman smiled cautiously.
“Hello.”
I stared at Mom.
“Why do you have an attorney?”
She sighed.
“Did Tyler tell you?”
“No. Tyler told me absolutely nothing, which is why I’ve spent the last hour thinking he’s preparing to break into your basement.”
Mom covered her face.
“Oh, Tyler.”
“I watched him buy a crowbar.”
“Not for my house.”
“And a glass cutter.”
“Also not for my house.”
“He measured your basement window.”
“That part was for my house.”
I stared at her.
“Mom.”
Angela quietly gathered her papers.
“I’ll give you two a minute.”
Once she left the room, I sat across from my mother.
“Start talking.”
She folded her hands.
“I was going to tell you Sunday.”
“What would be ready Sunday?”
“Your father’s workshop.”
I blinked.
“Dad’s workshop?”
“In the basement.”
“Dad never had a basement workshop.”
“I know.”
My father, Harold, had been dead for 14 months.
He had loved tools. He repaired everything from lawnmowers to clocks. His workshop had always been in the detached garage.
After he died, Mom told me she donated most of his tools.
At least, that was what I thought.
She stood.
“Come downstairs.”
The basement had always been half laundry room, half storage.
But when she turned on the lights, I saw blue painter’s tape across the floor, marks on the walls, and a section of drywall missing below the window Tyler had measured.
The wood under it was blackened.
“What happened?”
“Water damage. Some rot. A little mold.”
“You knew about this?”
“Three weeks.”
“Mom!”
“I’m handling it.”
“With your pool cleaner?”
She sighed.
“Tyler isn’t just a pool cleaner.”
“Then what is he?”
“An architecture graduate student. Restoration and adaptive design.”
I stared at her.
“He cleans pools?”
“School is expensive.”
Apparently Tyler noticed the water damage near the foundation while maintaining Mom’s pool.
