Chapter 7
Morgan
Hunter’s proposal niggles my mind all the next day, which is ridiculous. What is there to think about? I don’t have the money. Even if I did somehow have the money, I doubt any of the rest of the guys are going to be able to dredge up enough.
Or at least, that’s what I thought. But Wednesday morning, a few hours before I meet my uncle for lunch, I get a text in the new group chat.
Save Sirens Valley Lodge
Silas
Bailey and I are in.
I’m surprised, obviously. But good for them. And yes, Hunter changed the group chat name after our meeting. He’s enthusiastic.
Okay, so that makes three people. Still doesn’t mean the rest of us are gonna find the money.
It does encourage me to think more about trekking out to my brother’s place. I just have to find the time between working both jobs.
On the walk to Main Street, I shift my attention to Uncle Robert.
He’s my mom’s only sibling, and if you knew my mom, you’d be wary.
But that’s just Mom. I’ve only met Uncle Robert a few times and he seems nice.
I follow his two daughters on Instagram and they post wholesome family stuff, the likes of which my mom and my brother don’t even aspire to.
The last time I saw him was at my grandmother’s funeral last year. Just like my uncle, I didn’t know Grandma McKinney well either. She and Mom didn’t get along. Mom called her stingy when she was being nice, worse things when she wasn’t.
I regret not knowing my grandmother better.
Now that I’m old enough to have learned some hard truths about my mom, I think maybe we would have gotten along and it would have been nicer to have a relationship beyond the occasional phone call and a birthday card in the mail stuffed with cash my brother could steal.
We’re meeting at Kinnara, Tuan’s Vietnamese restaurant. It’s the nicest place in Here, and the food’s great. Also, dogs are allowed on the patio, so I’ve got Princess with me.
I arrive first. Uncle Robert’s driving in from Buffalo to meet with me, and he said he’s running a few minutes late. That’s a long drive to make when we probably could have just talked over the phone, but whatever.
“Hey man.” Tuan claps me on the back, bringing a bowl of water over for Princess. “How’re things at On the Rocks?”
We shoot the shit for a bit. We use a lot of the same suppliers, and while I don’t order the food for the bar, Tuan and I have always exchanged notes. He and Hunter are close, too.
Suddenly, he gives me a funny look, glancing at something over my shoulder and then back at me. “That’s not your dad, is it?”
Tuan knows I don’t know who my dad is, but I turn around and understand the question. My uncle’s here, and since I take after my mom, I’m not surprised he can see the resemblance. I wave him over. “My uncle.”
Uncle Robert arrives at the table and I stand. He offers me a firm handshake, and I introduce him to Tuan, who excuses himself, giving Princess one last head pat.
“Who’s this?” Robert bends down to greet my dog. He’s dressed in slacks and a polo: your typical dad look. He does look like me. Full head of sandy dark hair, the same nose shape my mom and I used to have—me before I broke it in a fight in high school, my mom’s before . . . well . . .
“Princess,” I say. “Careful, she’s a—”
Princess sticks her nose in my uncle’s crotch and he lets out a high-pitched “oof.”
“—crotch sniffer.”
“Not used to that,” he says. “My dog only comes up to my knee on her hind legs.”
“A little one,” I remark, and we take our seats.
“What’s good here?”
I throw out a couple suggestions, Tuan comes back to take our order, and the two of us sit back in our chairs.
“Do you see your mom much, Morgan?”
“She calls me every once in a while,” I say carefully.
“She lives near here, right?”
I nod and point away from the ski lodge. “Just outside of town.”
“How’s she doing?”
Well, she’s usually hanging out with bad people, when she calls she asks me for money, and she fucking enables my brother. I shrug. “You’ll have to ask her.”
Uncle Robert grunts. “Fair enough. How about you? You work at the ski lodge, right?”
I tell him about my job, and he asks a few questions. I remembered correctly; he’s an accountant. Not a lot of common ground.
“You’re a skier, then?”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “Grew up on that mountain. Used to bus us over right after school.”
Our food comes, and Uncle Robert tells me about skiing out west, places like Steamboat Springs and Whistler.
He’s dismissive of skiing here, which, like, fine, we’re not deep snow and powder, but it’s beautiful in its own way.
And when you grow up out here, you’re used to it.
If we traded places, we’d both probably be out on our asses—I’ve never skied in powder before, but no one complains about that.
Put a Colorado skier on our slopes and they become whiny little babies about the ice.
It’s a nice chat, but I can’t help but wonder why we’re here.
Our plates get cleared, and I decide enough bullshitting. “Uncle Robert, why are you here? Not that I’m not enjoying our chat, but . . .”
He grins. “You’re wondering why the hell I drove all the way here just to take you out to lunch?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
Uncle Robert leans forward, folding his hands together. “As I’m sure you know, I’m not close with your mom. She’s . . . complicated.”
I nod. That’s putting it mildly.
“She and your grandmother barely talked. That wasn’t your grandma’s choice, but that’s the way it played out. So I wanted to talk to you personally and give you a heads-up.”
I brace myself.
“The bad news is that your grandmother passed away with a fairly comfortable portfolio.”
What a rich-person thing to say. Portfolio. Also, that doesn’t sound like bad news, but I wait for the other shoe to drop.
“Your mother and I inherit the money fifty-fifty, but there are stipulations. I’m both the executor of Ada’s estate and the trustee of the trusts.”
I stare at him.
“I’m responsible for stewarding the money your mother inherits and making sure she follows the requirements of the will. She’s not going to be happy about that.”
I have a guess on what the will stipulates, and saying Mom won’t be happy is probably an understatement. “What happens if Mom doesn’t follow the rules?”
“If five years pass, the trust falls equally to you and your brother, with the same stipulations.”
“Okay. So . . .”
“Unless your mother and brother significantly clean up their act, you stand to inherit a good bit of money in five years, and then double it in ten.”
That stuns me. I knew Grandma was richer than we were, but a “good bit of money” coming from Uncle Robert sounds like maybe a lot?
“A word of advice, son?” he continues.
“Yeah, sure.” I gesture for him to go on.
“Don’t count on the money.”
My face falls.
“Not because I don’t think you’re going to get it,” he adds.
“Although . . .” He shrugs. “You never know. People have gotten clean for a lot worse reasons. But I’m just saying, the general advice is that you don’t plan your finances around having an inheritance.
It’s a good way to ensure that if you don’t get it, you’re screwed, and if you do get it, you’ve already earmarked it for too much and it gets away from you.
Have you read any financial literacy books? ”
I shake my head. I just chuck money into a savings account.
“I’ll send you some of my favorites.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “I have faith that you’re a smart man and you’ll learn.”
I don’t know what gave him that idea. I am my mother’s son after all.
“There’s one more thing.”
More? I’ve just learned that I might have an inheritance from my grandmother. That’s a lot to process, even if it’s down the road and maybe . . . if Mom has to stay clean, I think it’s ninety-five percent likely to happen. Those odds are pretty fucking good.
Too bad it’s not coming in time to chip in to buy the lodge.
Uncle Robert reaches into his pocket. “Your grandmother had a codicil. Do you know what that is?”
“No, sir.”
He pulls out a small box. It’s blue and velvet, like a jewelry box.
“It’s a handwritten addition to the will that your grandmother wrote, laying out what personal effects go where.
It’s easier to execute than a will. Estates take a while to close when they’re as complicated as your grandmother’s, and I have a feeling I’ll be hearing from your mom and things will get nasty pretty quickly.
But, I’m able to give you this, which your grandmother left directly for you. ”
He sets the box on the table. I glance up at him, bewildered, and he nods at it. “Go ahead.”
I pick it up. It is a jewelry box, and it’s heavier than I expected. I flip open the lid and . . .
There’s the biggest fucking diamond ring I’ve ever seen in my life. Not that I’ve seen many diamonds in person. But this one’s huge; no wonder the box is so heavy. It’s even bigger than Mrs. Gardiner’s, who still wears the ring her late husband gave her.
It’s a rectangular shape, surrounded by light blue stones.
I try to think of what stone is light blue, but I have no idea.
Sapphires are dark, right? And the diamond is the size of a disco ball for ants.
Seriously, the sun catches the light and it sparkles and glitters on the tablecloth like a tiny party in . . .
Wait a minute.
I sit up straight. “My grandmother left this for me?”
“Yup,” Uncle Robert says, a faint smile on his face.
I snap the box closed and put it back on the table between us, like if I can’t see it, I can’t lose it or break it or otherwise damage this family heirloom. “Why?”
“Well, you are her oldest grandchild, and I think she feels . . . felt. I think she felt guilty about not knowing you better.”
An uncomfortable feeling sits in my chest. Money makes people weird. She couldn’t spend time with me in real life, so now I get this ring instead? That’s ridiculous.
Uncle Robert reaches into his pocket again and I eye him warily. Is there more? Matching earrings? A fancy watch? What the fuck?
Instead, it’s an envelope.
“The ring was appraised a few years ago, the last time Mom updated her will. If you’re going to keep it, you should insure it, and they may take this appraisal or they may ask for a new one.”
I open the envelope, which is unsealed, and pull the stack of papers out. I scan the official-looking letter until I arrive at the number at the bottom.
“Holy shit.” I jump to my feet, my chair hitting the ground behind me and my hips knocking into the table. It’s enough to tip a full glass of water over, which spills through the mesh table and onto Princess. I lunge for the glass but accidentally send the ring box flying.
Princess is barking, and Uncle Robert, brushing water off his lap, laughs.
Tuan comes out to help us clean up and by the time Princess is settled and somewhat dry, I finally think about the ring.
I look around and spot it at one of the tables nearby in the hands of another patron. The box is open and three sets of eyes ping-pong back and forth between me and the ring.
“Janet. Willow. Mrs. Gardiner.” I nod at all three of the older women. Just my luck that they’re here today.
Miss Mullins and Miss Bright (Janet and Willow, respectively) insist I use their first names, but they’ve been Miss Mullins and Miss Bright since I was a boy, so it’s hard to think of them as Janet and Willow.
(Mrs. Gardiner has never told me to use her first name.) Miss Mullins is the one holding the ring box, and she snaps it closed.
“Morgan Law. I didn’t know you were dating someone.
” She peers at me with curiosity. Today she’s wearing a shirt that has Ruth Bader Ginsburg on the front and says, “Fight for the things you care about.”
“Who?” Miss Bright asks, her braids over one shoulder and her movements languid. Not even a giant diamond ring can faze the chillest woman I’ve known in my life.
“Is it Melissa?” Miss Mullins asks, making me do a double take. Melissa and I had a discreet hookup a few months ago while she was broken up with her on-again-off-again boyfriend. How the hell does Miss Mullins even know about it? “She’s such a nice girl.”
“Good grief, Janet. She’s back together with Charles,” Mrs. Gardiner snaps. “A nice girl shouldn’t have taste that bad.”
Kind of mean, but also true. Charles is a walking red flag.
“Women date according to their self-esteem,” Miss Mullins says sadly. “Think about that.”
“It’s not Melissa,” I say, and put my palm out for the ring box.
Miss Mullins reluctantly places it in my hand and I deflect their attempts at further conversation and turn back to Uncle Robert. Once I get settled back into the seat, I look at the appraisal again, just to make sure I didn’t misread it or imagine the number.
Nope. Still huge. Still five figures. Still a fucking engagement ring.
“Holy shit,” I say again. “This is enough to buy . . .”
It’s more than my car’s worth. It’s more than I was trying to save up for a down payment on my own bar. It’s more than Hunter was asking me for on Monday.
Holy shit. We could buy the lodge.