I freeze, a whisk in one hand on its way to a box. “Wait. You really need me there? Last we spoke, you were nearly done with the estate.” And I’ve managed the whole thing, doling out the antique mirrors, the jewelry, a few artsy photos for me, some books and a boat for Theo, and the proceeds from the sale of her small house to my mother, who in turn used it to pay off her mortgage.
“We were going through the final boxes—your grandma really did keep everything—and we found a wrinkle in Betty’s estate.”
I shake my head. “Of course you did.”
We set a time, and I walk back to my apartment, grab my car, and return to the ghost kitchen—that name feels awfully apropos now—to pack up all my supplies before they lock me out. I load up my car and leave from there, headed to a town I avoid if I can help it. Because that was where my seven-year streak of bad luck began.
My grandmother was a photographer. A photojournalist, then a nature photographer, then she took pics of cute towns. That’s where she made a name for herself, when she photographed one of the first ever “beefcake” calendars. Grandma Betty marched right up to the fire department, pitched them on an idea for a calendar, and snapped twelve months’ worth of small town firefighters and their large hoses.
She was a woman who went after what she wanted, including my grandfather, a teacher she was friends with. She loved to tell me I came from a long line of women who followed their hearts. She’d often share bon mots with me in the postcards she sent me weekly.You’ve got this.Life is short. Eat the cake. That one was not a problem to follow. AndIf not now…when?
Grandma’s personal mantra must have been,If it can fit in a box, I’ll save it.
It’s made the management of her estate a long, complicated affair after she died twelve months ago, a few years after her husband. When Garth tells me there’s one more box to go through, I can only assume it’s newspaper clippings about Betty’s mother, who was one of the town’s first female firefighters, or old macaroni artwork that Garth really should just feel empowered to throw out.
But that’s not how estates work, as I’ve learned. I’m the executor, which means she had good taste and liked me best. That also means I have to deal witheverything,even when I should be dealing with my lack of a kitchen.
After I stop by the lawyer’s, I’ll dash out of Cozy Valley as fast as I arrived—ideally avoiding my parents, who’ll be busy penning world-class research papers for the university, anyway—and spend some time with Google, hunting down a new place with an oven.
On the forty-minute drive to Cozy Valley, I call my brother to see if he knows anyone, like some of the private chefs who work with the players, who might have access to a kitchen. But Theo doesn’t answer. Maybe that’s for the best. What if he suggested Corbin as someone who could hook me up? Then I’d have to act all nonchalant with the hot hockey star, like I don’t want an extension of yesterday.
Now, I’m wondering, though—does Corbin even have a private chef? Nah. I bet he does everything himself. He’d consider it a failure to hire out cooking. He’d want to be excellent at it, like he’s excellent at hair braiding.
A spark shimmies through my shoulders at the memory.
Great. I’ll walk into Garth Funkle’s office with a flush.
But as the miles tick off and the pastel yellow sign for Cozy Valley looms over the hill, a knot of tension wedges into my chest. When, at age twenty, you’re single-handedly responsible for the Cozy Valley Sanctuary llamas knocking over the pancake breakfast fundraiser at the town’s fire station because they were jacked up on the sugar cookies you left in the back of the fire truck…well, you can become a bit of a local laughingstock.
Small towns have long memories.
I flick the turn signal for the exit and swallow my dread. Too bad the lawyer’s office isn’t on the outskirts of Cozy Valley. He’s smack dab on Main Street in a white clapboard building marked with one of those old-fashioned signs hanging on the porch, saying,Funkle and Son, Esquire.
I park on a side street to be safe and pop on my sunglasses. As I hustle down the main drag, hoping no one notices me, that uneasy feeling in my chest intensifies. I don’t hate Cozy Valley. Objectively, it’s a cute town, with quirky shops, cute boutique hotels, and a fantastic bookstore, but I feel more at home in the city. I’ve become accustomed to the anonymity, and I enjoy the way my trail of trouble doesn’t follow me like a skywriter’s message.
I fly past Whiskers and Kisses, where the store’s tuxedo lounges in a cat tower. After turning the corner, I trot up the steps to the law offices, a bell tinkling as I push open the door.
“Come on back,” calls a squeaky voice. I follow it and find Garth hunched over his desk, a wad of tissue stuck to his pale jawline—a shaving cut, presumably. He’s sorting through old banker’s boxes and…is that one of Grandma’s jewelry boxes?
A pang of nostalgia hits me square in the heart. But I’ve cried enough around Garth. “Fine, if you can’t locate a Van Gogh,” I say, trying to make light of the situation, “I’ll take a diamond ring. I could sell it and use it as a down payment for a bakery.”
Looking up, all baby-faced and nicked, he smiles. “The number of rings my clients have sold…the stories I could tell you.” He shakes his head, and I arch a skeptical brow. He’s barely out of high school. How many stories could he have? But it’s not my place to judge.
He pats a well-worn box. “Listen, Mabel, I thought we were all set, but the new owners of Betty’s house called about a couple of boxes we must have overlooked in the attic, including this one.” The jewelry box is covered in minty green fabric with illustrations of flowers all over it. Grandma loved her girly stuff. We always had that in common. “I was about to put all this jewelry in the estate sale when I found something in the jewelry box.”
My pulse spikes with worry. “Something. That sounds ominous.”
He plops down in the desk chair, the shoulders of his jacket puffing up. “One person’s ominous is another person’s treasure,” he says.
“I don’t think that’s a saying,” I begin, but it doesn’t matter.
Garth pats a manila folder on his desk, then takes out a sheet of paper with a neon pink Post-it note on top. I can’t read the handwriting.
“I’m thinking she meant to give this to you, but since her stroke was sudden, she didn’t have the chance,” he says.
The room goes quiet. My heart beats louder. A sense of foreboding cloaks me. But maybe also, strangely, hope? What am I hoping for? A message from the afterlife? A piece of wisdom only Grandma could pass along? A reminder to keep my chin up even when shit gets hard?
Yeah, that’s what she would have said, and it’s almost embarrassing how much I’m craving a hug from beyond from the one person who always believed in me.
