I want to wake up at dawn for coffee on the porch while Doris sings bits of old musicals and eats her fruit salad; he wants to sleep in and get donuts at noon with his dog, Zeke, who can’t decide if Doris is an intruder or a squeaky toy and won’t shut up about it. I want to spend weekends tidying up the house and watching rom-coms about secret princes; he wants to go out on his cousin’s Jet Ski and drink a case of beer. I want to take aboiling-hot bath with a book and go to bed early; he wants to stay up until midnight lifting weights and fall into bed covered in sweat and smelling like greasy metal. And you can guess who ends up having to fold the sheets, recycle the beer cans, and vacuum the muddy pawprints out of the carpet.
We’ve tried everything—living together, casually dating, being friends with benefits. But it always ends up with him raising his voice, Doris screaming, and me crying, swearing that all the roses and chocolates in the world aren’t worth finding his whiskery shaving scum in my sink and realizing, as he and his friends watch football in my den with their work boots on my coffee table, that we’re just not compatible.
“I think that’s a bad idea, Billy,” I say with the sort of smile that says I’m sorry about it.
He pushes his sunglasses on top of his beautiful hair and stands up; he never has taken rejection well, not since I first dumped him in tenth grade. “Oh, come on, Rhea. You got to settle down. You’re only twenty-six, and you’re starting to look like a librarian. I’m right here, and the clock’s ticking, girl.” He snaps the white box shut and jiggles it in his hand.
“I love librarians.” I sigh and put my hand on his just to stop the jiggling. “Billy, come on. It’s the same old cycle. We get together, we have fun, we break up. Do we really need to go through that again? Aren’t you sick of finding the same cardboard box full of stuff on your doorstep?”
“I don’t want to break up anymore. I want to settle down, Rhea. I want the kids and the baseball games and the fence and a golden retriever—”
“Zeke would kill it.”
“Fine! No yellow dog! But don’t you want all that other stuff, too?”
God, it doesn’t even feel like a proposal. It’s just a last-ditch effort. His heart’s not even in it. He just wants to be taken careof.
Before I can come up with the right answer that’s sweet but still assertive, he snorts. “You don’t even know what you want, do you? You just know it isn’t me.” Shaking his head, ring box in his fist, he turns his back and stomps over to his brother, pushing the phone down and whispering fiercely. Whatever he says to Jimmy, it’s not good. After giving me the finger, my ex-boyfriend hops back in his tow truck and peels out at a speed that would have any other cop salivating. Instead, Jimmy puts his phone away and saunters over to my window, his sunglasses hiding his eyes but not his frown.
“License and registration.”
“I’m literally holding them out to you, Jimmy.”
“That’s ‘Officer’ to you. Ma’am, did you know you are impeding the flow of traffic? That’s a serious violation.”
When I see the cost of the ticket he tosses at me—$190—I know it’s over with Billy for good.
Billy knows just how little money I have, and he still asked his brother to punish me because he wanted me to hurt like he was hurting. My roof is leaking, and the septic system is bubbling threateningly in the side yard, and I’m pretty certain I’m about to be told a raise is out of the question.
But it’s even worse than that. When I get back to the office with his lunch, Mr. Buckley gives me the bad news.
I no longer have a job.
His favorite niece, Sylvie, is about to finish her degree, and he promised her my position.
“You understand, sugar,” he says, unclipping his tie and tucking a napkin into his collar. “Family is important.”
I do not remind him that I am also supporting my family. Itwouldn’t matter. If a Buckley needs a job at Buckley Insurance, who needs a Wolfe?
He tells me to close his door and write up a list of all the “little jobs” I do to make things easier for Sylvie, but instead I pick up the letter I received this morning.
The envelope is nice, but its return address is very, very suspect.
I slit the envelope with my Buckley Insurance letter opener. The paper is thick and creamy, the message typed on an actual typewriter.
Dear Ms. Wolfe,
I am writing on behalf of my client, your grandmother, Mrs. Margaret Lowell Kirkwood. I regret to inform you that she passed on recently as the result of an automobile accident. As her closest living relative, you are set to inherit a nice piece of property, a business, and all of her assets. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. My condolences for your loss.
Sincerely,
Colonel Roy Gooch, Esq.
Attorney at Law
Arcadia Falls, Georgia
It sounds good, right?Inheritanceis a juicy word, especially when you’re in dire straits. But here’s the thing: I’m not supposed to accept it. Mama made us all promise to never, ever return to Arcadia Falls and especially to never talk to our grandmother.
