David had written the lease very carefully. Of course it covered the usual things: rent, repairs, utilities. But at my request, it also had a section called Authorized Occupants and Guests. It listed exactly who could live in the house: Richard and Patricia Barrett. No one else could move in without the owner’s written permission. And it named two people the owner considered permanently welcome guests, who could never be refused entry: Nicole Barrett and her son.
It also included a clause my father had signed and initialed, called Material Breach and Termination. If the tenants seriously violated the lease, the owner could give written notice ending the lease.
When David drafted it, he’d raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll ever need this?”
“No,” I’d said. “But I want it there.”
I’d never expected to use it.
That night, sitting in my SUV in the snow with the heater blasting, I remembered exactly where it was.
David answered on the third ring.
“Nicole? It’s Thanksgiving.”
“I know.” Through the windshield, I could see figures moving behind the dining room curtains. “Do you still have the Westchester file?”
“Yes.”
“The original lease?”
“Yes.”
“And the signed termination clause?”
He paused. “What happened?”
I looked at Leo. He was rubbing his palms together in front of the vents, his eyes fixed on my face.
“Richard told us to leave and never come back. He threw Leo out into the snow with me. Over spilled cranberry juice. And Natalie and Terrence are moving into my old bedroom. Tonight.”
David’s voice went very steady. “Are you both safe?”
“We’re in the car.”
“Then drive somewhere warm. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“David,” I said, before he could hang up. “Use it.”
