Chapter 5 - The Red Light of Reality
Down on the porch, the atmosphere shifted instantly from eager anticipation to irritated confusion.
“Kyle,” Melissa called out, her voice rising an octave as she jammed her finger against the keypad a third time. “Come here. The stupid lock isn't working.”
Kyle dropped the heavy duffel bags with a dull thud against the wood decking and ambled over, wiping sweat from his neck with the hem of his t-shirt. “What do you mean it’s not working? You probably typed the numbers in wrong. You always mess up digits when you're tired.”
“I didn't mess it up! I copied it straight from Lauren’s text message!” Melissa snapped, her face flushing a mottled pink in the afternoon heat. She shoved the keypad buttons again with excessive force. Bzzzt. Red light.
Evelyn shuffled up the steps, leaning heavily on her floral-print cane. “Let me see that paper, Melissa. You probably wrote down the wrong sequence.”
“I didn't write it down, Mom, it’s right here on my phone!” Melissa shoved her glowing smartphone screen into Evelyn’s face. “See? Code 4892-Star. I typed it in three times!”
“Well, press the star key first,” Kyle offered, stepping in and aggressively jabbing his thick thumb against the plastic buttons.
Bzzzt. Red light.
Frustration flared into outright anger. Kyle puffed out his chest, gripped the brass door handle, and gave it a violent, rattling shake. “Are you kidding me? We drive ten hours with screaming kids, a broken AC compressor, and a tetanus shot, and we’re locked out of a six-thousand-dollar rental?”
“Call her,” Evelyn commanded, her voice sharpening with maternal annoyance. “Call Lauren right now and tell her to fix this immediately.”
Melissa whipped her phone out of her pocket, dialing my number with frantic, stabbing motions of her thumb.
Up on the second-story balcony, my phone remained silent on the teak table beside my iced tea. I had set my device to Do Not Disturb for all incoming calls from my immediate family members, though VIP notifications from my business partners and close friends were still active. I leaned back in my lounger, watching them through the decorative slats, a small, amused smile playing on my lips.
Down below, Melissa lifted the phone to her ear, listening to the ringing tone.
“She’s not answering,” Melissa hissed, her voice tightening as voicemail picked up. She hung up and dialed again. “Straight to voicemail. Why is she screening my calls? Does she think this is funny?”
“Typical Lauren,” Kyle scoffed, kicking the base of the porch pillar with his sneaker. “Always has to make everything difficult. Probably sitting in her air-conditioned Chicago condo right now, laughing at us.”
“She wouldn't dare,” Evelyn said, though a flicker of genuine uncertainty crossed her wrinkled features. “She knows how important this trip is for the family.”
As if in direct response to their growing panic, Tyler—who had been wandering around the side of the porch, poking a stick into the decorative pampas grass—decided he wanted to test another entry point. He grabbed the heavy brass handle of the side service door leading directly into the kitchen and gave it an enthusiastic, full-body yank.
What Tyler and his parents didn't realize was that when my catering crew arrived three hours earlier, they hadn't fully latched the heavy commercial-grade latch on the side delivery door. They had simply pulled it closed until it clicked softly, leaving the latch bolt resting precariously against the strike plate.
When Tyler yanked on the handle with all his nine-year-old momentum, the door didn't resist. It gave a loud click-clack and swung smoothly, majestically wide open, revealing the cool, air-conditioned expanse of the luxury kitchen inside.
Melissa stopped mid-sentence, her phone frozen near her ear. Kyle’s jaw dropped slightly. Evelyn squinted through her bifocals into the shadowy interior of the grand foyer.
“Well,” Kyle said, blinking in surprise. “Guess it wasn't locked after all. See? You were just typing it in wrong.”
“I was not typing it in wrong!” Melissa retorted defensively, lowering her phone as relief washed over her features, quickly replaced by righteous indignation. “Whatever. The door’s open. Let's just get inside before I lose my mind. I need a drink so badly I could cry.”
Without waiting for permission, Melissa grabbed her oversized tote bag, marched across the threshold, and stepped directly into the grand open-concept kitchen. Kyle followed closely behind her, dragging two heavy suitcases that scraped loudly across the imported Spanish tile flooring. Evelyn shuffled in last, leaning on her cane and shaking her head at the incompetence of modern rental management companies.
“Hello?” Melissa called out loudly, her voice echoing off the high vaulted timber ceilings. “Is there a property manager here? Because your electronic locks are completely screwed up!”
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They stood in the center of the kitchen, waiting for an apologetic custodian or a flustered rental agent to emerge from the back hallways and cater to their arrival.
Instead, what they heard was the soft, melodic clinking of crystal glassware, low laughter, and the rich, buttery aroma of truffle-infused scallops drifting in from the formal living area just past the quartz breakfast bar.
