Pushing my hair back again, I remind myself that I’mnota teenager. Or the star of this medical drama with the hot doctor.
I’m a single mother who’s going to be late to her shift at the market tonight if I don’t get a move on. And if I’m late, Sienna is going to kill me, then Gus will be a heart patientandan orphan.
“Alright. I’ve sent that Lotenvix over to the pharmacy on file—Sixth Street CVS sound right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The moment he stands and opens the door for us, I rush through it, face hot. What the hell is wrong with me? For a second, I was tempted to stop in the doorway and see if I could specifically identify that scent of his.
I’m around men all day in the office, but I’ve never felt quite like this. Maybe I’m in the horny phase of my cycle.
Gus and I hit the check-out desk, where he gets a sucker and we collect our post-appointment packet. As we make our way down to the patient drop-off area to meet Sienna, I remind myself that I have far more pressing things to focus on than Burch. Than his strong hands and cedar-y smell.
Sienna is outside when we come walking through the sliding glass doors and into the chilly October air. Today she’s wearing a pair of burgundy overalls and a long-sleeve black shirt with little ghosts on it. Luckily, she has an extra car seat, and when Gus clamors in, she turns, leaning over to buckle him in.
Over her shoulder, she says, deadpan, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Ha, Halloween joke,” I mutter, because the last thing I want to do is admit how much meeting Dr. Russell Burch got under my skin.
Chapter 7
Russell
“Are you saying there’snothingyou can do? This is obviously a ridiculous clause.”
“Ridiculous or not,” Mr. Grande says, leaning back in his chair and picking up a small wooden hourglass from his desk, “those were your father’s wishes. And he was completely cognizant while laying them out, Russell. I imagine he just wanted you to settle down.”
Mr. Grande—the family lawyer I’ve known since I was a kid—gives me a look that says,and what would be so bad about that?
“I need the money, Grande,” I say, leveling with him. “It’s not for me. It’s for the clinic. That has to mean something—he wouldn’t want it to close.”
“I’m sorry, Russell, my hands are tied. The will is very clear about what the clauses are for you to receive the funds.”
“What will happen if I don’t?”
“If you don’t…ever get married?” Mr. Grande asks the question like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Maybe it is. For me, at forty-eight, it’s already strange to others that I haven’t been married—or even married and divorced. Plenty of people my age are on their fourth or fifth spouses at this point.
To our lawyer, it probably seems like the most ridiculous thing in the world to turn down this amount of money when the answer could be so simple.
“Right,” I confirm, finding myself unable to meet his eye. It’s not like I’m particularly ecstatic to tell Grande here all the reasons why I didn’t settle down and make my own cute little family. Why I haven’t found a little wife for my arm and made my own medical-prodigy babies to strap with the weight of a future in medicine.
“Well, at some point, when you pass—which is hopefully in a very distant future—I’d assume the money would be absorbed back into your father’s trust, which would disperse it to BHC.”
“So, great,” I put my hands on the table, lean toward him. “Let’s assume I’m not ever going to get married. Pronounce me dead right now and send the money back to the hospital.”
Mr. Grande is already shaking his head, turning the hourglass over and over. Leave it to the lawyer to use such a poignant symbol as his fidget.
“That’s just not how it works. I mean, I could review the terms, but as the family attorney I’m not sure I could, in good faith, look for a loophole to your father’s wishes. The terms of his will are pretty straightforward.”
“Great.” I let out a breath and scrub my hand through my hair. “Perfect. So, the only way for me to get access to the inheritance is to get married?”
“More specifically,” Mr. Grande pulls a thick stack of documents up from his desk. My father’s will. He must have pulled it from his files when he realized I was coming. “The beneficiary—that’s you, Russell—must be legally married in accordance with the statutory requirements of the jurisdiction in which the marriage is recognized...including but not limited to…ah, here:both parties must possess sufficient mental capacity to understand the nature of marriage, there must bevoluntary and mutual consent free from undue influence or coercion,and…well, I’ll save you more jargon—you’ll have to present me with the documents and proof of marriage. And, according to the will, I’ll need to interview you.”
I try not to let my frustration show, “Like a priest or something?”
“I’m not familiar with exactly how that works, but I’m not assessing the quality of your partnership for approval, just ensuring it's…well, not aget rich quick scheme.”
Mr. Grande smiles at this last part, like it’s all a great joke.
