Chapter 10 - The Unbroken Foundation
By June, the dogwoods in Farragut had dropped their blossoms, replaced by the lush, deep emerald canopy of a Tennessee summer.
The lawn at 11422 Whittington Way was immaculate, the fresh sod having taken deep root in the rich red clay beneath. Along the foundation, a bed of white hydrangeas and purple salvia bloomed in full glory, their fragrance drifting across the covered back patio where three ceiling fans turned lazily in the warm afternoon breeze.
In the center of the yard, three boys were playing wiffle ball.
Thomas swung a yellow plastic bat, connecting with a white perforated ball that soared over the cedar fence into the neighboring meadow, sending Leo and Ben sprinting across the grass with wild, shrieking laughter.
On the patio, Briana sat in a comfortable wicker chair, a cold glass of sweet tea in her hand, reviewing an electronic textbook on legal research methods displayed on her tablet. She wore a simple summer dress, her skin tan, her laughter bright and easy as she cheered for Thomas's home run.
Beside her sat Beatrice, wearing a pale blue linen blouse and sunglasses, watching her great-grandsons with an expression of serene, unshakeable contentment.
I stepped out through the French doors of the kitchen carrying a wooden tray holding a pitcher of fresh lemonade, bowls of cherries, and a stack of napkins.
I set the tray down on the glass-topped patio table, pulled up a chair, and sat down between my sister and my grandmother.
My phone buzzed on the table.
A notification from the Knox County Register of Deeds automated property monitoring service:
ANNUAL STATUS ALERT: PARCEL 142-088.01 (11422 WHITTINGTON WAY). STATUS: FEE SIMPLE. ENCUMBRANCES: STANDARD RESIDENTIAL DEED OF TRUST (FIRST LIEN ONLY). ZERO ADVERSE CLAIMS DETECTED.
I looked at the screen, smiled softly, and slid the phone into my pocket without opening the app.
I didn't need to check the title anymore. The foundation was solid.
"Ayla," Briana said, looking up from her tablet with a wide, mischievous grin. "Professor Hawkins gave me an A-minus on my civil procedure brief. He said my analysis of fraudulent conveyances was 'unusually sophisticated for a first-year student.'"
Beatrice laughed—a rich, melodic sound that rose into the warm afternoon air. "Tell your professor that the Vance family has an extensive graduate curriculum in that particular subject."
"Very extensive," I agreed, pouring three glasses of lemonade.
From the lawn, Thomas came running up the patio steps, out of breath, his face red from the heat, clutching the yellow wiffle ball bat.
"Aunt Ayla!" he shouted, pointing toward the open yard. "Your turn to bat! Leo says you can't hit his curveball!"
I looked at the eight-year-old boy, seeing my grandfather's stubborn chin and my sister's clear eyes looking back at me, safe within the perimeter of a home that had been defended with truth, paper, and an unbending will.
May you like
I stood up, kicked off my sandals, and walked out into the warm, soft grass of my own backyard.
"Tell Leo," I called back over my shoulder, taking the yellow bat in both hands and squaring my stance over the home plate drawn in the dirt, "that he has never thrown a curveball I couldn't see coming from a mile away."
