We hang up, and I check the date on my phone. It’s February 14. Valentine’s Day. Is that a real holiday?
The time jumps out at me. It’s about ten minutes after five and I’m supposed to meet the estate attorney at six. There’s no way I’ll make it there in time.
I scroll through my recent calls and find the number for the attorney’s office. I set up the appointment last week with a receptionist named Quinn who heavy-sighed after every sentence and sounded like she was over dealing with humanity.
A text comes through right before I can click the number.
* * *
Are you still in Boston?
* * *
The contact is listed in my phone as Mother Dearest.
I swipe the message away. How does she know I left Boston? I swear she has spies following me. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with my mom. Not now, not ever. If avoiding her was an Olympic sport, I’d get gold every day.
I call the attorney’s office. It rings. Four times.
Shit.
Five. Six.
Someone answers after the seventh ring. “Spencer here.” The voice is deep, gravelly, and a little raspy. And young.
This is definitely not the bored receptionist or the town attorney from my youth. I met him once, when he and his wife came to Beverly’s for dinner. He was as old as she was, maybe older.
“Uh, Mr. Montgomery?” I raise my voice, trying to be heard over the noise in his background.
“Yes?” A crowd of indistinct voices clamors over the line, along with high-pitched laughter and yelling. I’m not sure where he is, but it can’t be his office waiting for me to show up. Unless his office is a zoo. Or a daycare. Or both.
Maybe he’s having his business line forwarded to his cell and he’s a single father to a dozen children.
“Hi, it’s Vivien. Vivien Hart. We have an appointment?—”
“What? You’re breaking up. Did you say ebullient fart?”
The words are so unexpected that it takes a few long seconds for them to register. “What? No, Vivien Hart.” I speak my name loud and slow. “Why on earth would I call you and say ebullient fart?”
A child’s voice breaks over the line. “You said fart!” Followed by a series of hyper giggles.
“Fart isn’t a bad word,” he says. “Everybody farts, it’s a biological necessity.” His voice grows distant. “Have you seen the Valentine’s eagle? She has my watch.”
“Mr. Montgomery.” I am yelling into my phone now. “I am supposed to meet you at six, but I’m stuck outside of town, and my car broke down and?—”
The dull roar of background noise ceases as the line clicks. Dead.
I draw the phone back from my ear and stare at it. Did he . . . hang up on me? To seek out a Valentine’s eagle?
Has the whole world gone mad?
I hurry back to the car. The mild snowstorm is turning into an outright blizzard.
An hour later, headlights sweep through the now pitch-black night, pulling in front of me before reversing into position.
Thank the heavens.
I step out into the driving snow as a hooded figure approaches, the glare of the headlights and the jacket bundled up around them obscuring their features. “Ma’am, you can have a seat in the truck while I hook up your vehicle.”
