Chapter 4 - The Studio in the Study
On Wednesday afternoon, I returned from a quiet walk around the rose garden to find the front foyer filled with cardboard boxes, heavy black tripod cases, and two strangers in backward caps hauling equipment up the grand oak stairs.
"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded, leaning on my cane as I confronted the young man dragging a heavy metal case across the parquet flooring.
"Oh, hey, Mrs. Vance," the boy stammered, pulling off his headphones. "Tyler said we could set up the podcast gear in the big library room. He said nobody ever uses it."
I felt my heart race with a sharp, burning fury. "Set it down immediately. Do not take another step."
I walked into Thomas’s library. The room was holy ground to me. It held four thousand volumes collected over sixty years, first editions of Dickens and Melville, and the deep leather wingback chairs where Thomas and I had spent thousands of quiet winter evenings reading by the fire.
Tyler was standing on the library ladder, attempting to duct-tape a massive ring light to the ornate crown molding.
"Tyler Vance!" my voice rang out, carrying a sharpness that made him nearly lose his footing.
He grabbed the ladder rail and looked down, annoyed. "Gran! Watch it, you scared the crap out of me! I almost dropped an eight-hundred-dollar light!"
"Get down from that ladder this instant," I said, pointing toward the floor. "Who gave you permission to bring strangers into this house? Who gave you permission to tape equipment to century-old woodwork?"
Tyler climbed down slowly, his face flushed with irritation. "Gran, chill out. I told you, I'm launching my new podcast series: *Trust Fund Chronicles*. It’s about young entrepreneurs who come from legacy wealth. The aesthetic here is perfect. Old money vibes. The algorithm eats this stuff up."
"Legacy wealth?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. "What wealth have you created, Tyler? What work have you ever done with those hands other than hold a camera and hold out your palm for an allowance?"
Tyler scoffed, tossing a roll of black gaffer tape onto Thomas’s desk. "Look, Dad told me this place is basically ours anyway. You’re eighty years old, Gran. You spend all day sitting around watching birds. What difference does it make if I use a room you never touch?"
"Dad told you this place is yours?"
"He said it’s family property," Tyler snapped, crossing his arms defensively. "And I’m the family heir. Why are you gatekeeping an empty house? It’s selfish."
I looked at my grandson—the boy I had rocked to sleep when he had colic, the boy I had taken to baseball games when Richard was too busy chasing failed real estate ventures. In his eyes, there was not a speck of warmth or reverence. He did not see his grandmother. He saw an obstacle occupying square footage.
"Pack your equipment," I whispered. "Get these young men out of my house within fifteen minutes. If I see a single strip of tape left on that wood, I will call the sheriff’s department and have you all removed for criminal trespass."
May you like
Tyler laughed, thinking I was bluffing. But when he saw my eyes, the smirk died on his lips. "You're insane, Gran. Seriously. Dad is going to hear about this."
"I certainly hope he does," I said.
