Chapter 9 - The Eviction of Lake Forest
The private road winding through Lake Forest was lined with century-old burr oaks whose bare, gray branches arched over the asphalt like cathedral ribs.
At 2:00 PM on Wednesday, the driveway of 1442 Sheridan Road was blocked by two white county sheriff’s cruisers, their amber lights flashing in the cold afternoon light, accompanied by a heavy twenty-six-foot commercial moving van bearing the logo of a state-licensed court liquidator.
A small crowd of neighbors—women in designer puffer coats with manicured labradoodles, retired corporate directors in cashmere sweaters—stood at the edge of the stone pillars, watching through dark sunglasses as four movers in denim coveralls hauled an antique gilded mirror down the front limestone steps.
On the front lawn, driven into the frozen turf beside the brick mailbox, stood an official metal sign: BY ORDER OF THE CIRCUIT COURT OF LAKE COUNTY: FORECLOSURE WRIT EXECUTED. PREMISES UNDER RECEIVERSHIP.
Cordelia stood on the flagstone portico, wrapped in her gray wool cape, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching the movers with an expression of paralyzed, venomous disbelief.
Beside her, Blair sat on a wrought-iron patio chair that had been dumped onto the grass, wearing an oversized pair of dark sunglasses, clutching a small leather jewelry case to her ribs, weeping silently into a silk scarf.
A sleek black Audi sedan pulled to a halt at the foot of the driveway.
I stepped out of the passenger side, wearing my wool coat, flat leather boots, and gloves. Beside me climbed Genevieve Price, holding an aluminum clipboard with the court-certified inventory list.
When Cordelia saw me, she descended the three limestone steps, her heels clicking an erratic, desperate rhythm against the stone.
"Sloan," Cordelia choked out, her hands coming up in a frantic, clawing gesture before falling back to her sides. "Sloan, tell these men to stop. Look at what they’re doing to your father’s house. They’re taking the dining room chandelier. They’re packing the portraits."
I didn't stop. I walked up the driveway, stopping on the brick walkway five feet from where she stood.
"They're taking the assets that were pledged to secure your mezzanine debt, Cordelia," I said, my voice completely calm, devoid of any cruelty, carrying only the flat weight of an audited conclusion. "You valued that chandelier at forty thousand dollars when you signed the collateral schedule for Oakhaven Capital. You told the lenders it was family equity. Now it’s satisfying your liabilities."
"Where are we supposed to sleep tonight?!" Blair wailed from the grass, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair, her face blotchy and swollen. "The building manager at my penthouse changed the electronic locks at noon! They won't even let me go upstairs to get my winter coats! They said the lease was terminated for non-payment!"
"Your lease was terminated because Verve Meridian hasn't paid rent in five months, Blair," I replied, looking down at my sister. "And because the commercial guarantor—Whitmore Data Systems—revoked its corporate backing at eight o'clock yesterday morning. You have no credit. You have no inventory. And according to the state licensing division, Maison Blair has been dissolved for corporate tax fraud."
"You're a monster," Blair wept, burying her face in her hands. "You're an absolute monster. How could you do this to your own sister?"
"I didn't do this to you, Blair," I said softly. "You did this every time you charged an eight-thousand-dollar weekend to a company that was struggling to make payroll. You did this every time you looked at me and laughed because I worked for a living. You spent three years pretending you were an empress, and all you were doing was burning through your father’s life insurance."
Cordelia stepped closer, her breath pluming white in the freezing air, her eyes wide, glassy, and completely detached from the reality of the street.
"You can't leave me with nothing, Sloan," Cordelia whispered, her voice cracking into that thin, pathetic reed. "I am your mother. The society pages... the auxiliary board... what am I supposed to tell people when they ask where I live?"
"You can tell them the truth, Cordelia," I said. "Tell them that you spent forty million dollars of money that wasn't yours, and that the bill finally came due."
Genevieve stepped forward, handing a small brass key to Cordelia.
"What is this?" Cordelia asked, staring down at the metal in her trembling palm.
"That," Genevieve said, "is the key to a two-bedroom furnished corporate apartment in Des Plaines. It’s four miles from O'Hare. The rent has been prepaid for sixty days by the estate receiver. It has a dishwasher, a coin-operated laundry room on the second floor, and a bus stop directly across the street."
Cordelia looked at the key as if it were an unexploded grenade.
"Des Plaines?" she gasped, horror twisting her features into a grotesque caricature of her former pride. "A coin-operated laundry?! I am Cordelia Whitmore! I have a box at the Lyric Opera! I host the winter gala at the Drake!"
"You had a box, Cordelia," I said, turning my back on her, walking back down the brick path toward the idling Audi. "The opera canceled your patron status yesterday morning when your corporate credit card declined. And the only gala you’re attending this winter is your formal arraignment before Judge Martinez on December twelfth."
"Sloan!" Cordelia screamed behind me, her voice tearing through the quiet, frozen trees of Lake Forest, high and ragged and desperate. "Sloan, look at me! I am your mother!"
I didn't turn around.
I climbed into the passenger seat of the Audi, closed the heavy door, and let the quiet, leather-lined warmth of the car seal out her voice forever.
May you like
As we backed down the driveway and turned south toward the highway, I looked in the side mirror.
My mother stood alone on the frozen grass of 1442 Sheridan Road, holding a two-dollar brass key in her hand, watching the moving van haul her gilded mirrors toward the interstate until the trees closed behind us and the house disappeared into the gray Chicago mist.
