2. Parker
Parker
I’ve moved every year for the past ten, but this one feels different. More important, maybe. Bigger.
It’s the closest I’ve come to settling down in my adult life.
The condo echoes. No rugs, no furniture, just a coffee table, a wrapped mattress against the wall, and a vague sense that everything’s about to shift.
Hopefully not another box. My back’s already shot.
“You know most people hire movers for this kind of thing, right?” Kip, one of the rockstar residents at Good Shepard, says. He kicks the condo door closed with his heel and balances a box labeled KITCHEN MAYBE?
I grunt and drop the two boxes I’m carrying on the counter. “Well, I have free help from a strapping young resident, why would I hire?”
“Ah. Shameless exploitation. I see you.”
“Hey, you offered.”
“You’re right. I have no one to blame but myself.”
“I’m not hauling everything at once,” I say. “Figured I’d chip away, a few boxes at a time. Appreciate you offering to follow when you saw me trying to cram that box into the back of a 4Runner.”
Kip snorts. “You looked like a guy one hinge away from a breakdown in the parking deck. I figured at least one box might survive better in my backseat.”
Kip eyes the empty living room. “This place is giving serious serial killer vibes. Anything I should know?”
“Only closed two days ago,” I say. “Still have the rental through the end of the month, so I’m taking my time to get it livable. Patience, Grasshopper. Geesh. Kids these days.”
He glances around again. “Didn’t peg you for a three-bedroom guy.”
“Investment.” I wipe sweat off my neck with the hem of my shirt before pulling it off and tossing it on the counter. “Palm Beach real estate holds. Figured I should put some roots down. Sort of.”
“Roots, huh?” Kip raises a brow. “You sticking around?”
“Temporary roots,” I say. “I’ve been renting for ten years. I’ve lived in Virginia, South Carolina, New Orleans, and now Florida. Always in transition gets old. I wanted something that felt like mine, even if I don’t end up here long-term.”
Kip cracks open a bottle of water and leans against the counter. “You liking Good Sam?”
“Five months in, absolutely. ER’s chaos, but it works for me. The plan is to move into surgery eventually. Maybe here, maybe somewhere else if something opens up.”
“You’re hard to read, man. You sound like you want to settle down, but then you talk like you’ve got one foot out the door.”
I shrug. “Fake it ’til it feels real, right?”
Kip smirks. “Deep. ”
I ignore the comment and lean on the edge of the counter, the stone cold on my skin. My eyes sweep the bare walls and unopened boxes. It’s got that eerie silence of a not-yet-lived-in place.
Kip’s phone buzzes. He glances down. “Damn. Gotta run. I’m on the hook for a post-op debrief in thirty. You good?”
“You bet, man.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Thanks for helping. Owe you a six-pack.”
“You owe me a barstool to sit on next time,” Kip calls on his way out.
I lift a hand in lazy agreement as the door clicks shut behind him. The silence rolls in fast.
I lean against the counter, drumming my fingers on the granite. The kitchen still smells like cardboard and new paint—the sterile, untouched kind of calm that makes it obvious I don’t belong here yet.
My phone rings.
I grab it and answer, even though I don’t recognize the number. With all the deliveries coming, I can’t afford to miss something important.
“Matthews.”
“Dr. Parker Matthews?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Anders Blankenship. I’m an attorney in Vermont, calling on behalf of the estate of Roger Matthews.”
My spine straightens, and suddenly I'm on high alert. This is about my uncle.
“Oh, right. Yes.”
My father called this morning to tell me his brother died unexpectedly last night. He knew I would want to know because Uncle Roger and I were especially close.
That conversation was brief. It was cordial and distant, like most things between us. It’s been hanging over me ever since. A dull weight I can’t shake.
Roger died in his sleep. It was a heart attack, and it was peaceful, apparently. At least there’s that.
I still haven't fully accepted that he's no longer here. We had plans for him to come to Palm Beach to visit once I got settled, but we never put them together.
"Why Vermont? My uncle lived in New Orleans, Louisiana."
"Your uncle owned a significant amount of real estate in Vermont. Quiet acreage, some rental properties, a small retreat near Lake Willoughby."
"Well, I'll be damned. Good for him. He never said anything about that."
I thought I knew everything about 'ol simple Uncle Roger.
"He chose to file his will in Vermont intentionally.
From what I gathered, he preferred the legal structure and, more importantly, the privacy.
Louisiana probate can get tangled, especially with extended family.
Vermont gave him more control over how things would be handled and who would be involved. "
"Oh, okay. So it was strategic?"
If Roger was anything, he was painfully strategic. Of course he would pick an obscure state and attorney to handle his affairs after death.
"You got it. Roger was very deliberate. He didn’t want noise or interference.”
“Right,” I murmur, stomach tightening. That tracks.
Roger didn’t just cheer me on through med school.
He made it a game. Notes tucked into textbooks, riddles scribbled on napkins, cryptic quotes taped to my fridge like I was living inside some Ivy League scavenger hunt.
He had a way of turning everything into a puzzle, like life only counted if you solved it.
He personified the adage of playing chess while others were playing checkers.
I've never had a close relationship with my father. Roger was more that figure in my life. He believed in me before I even believed in myself. When I wanted to quit med school, he told me genius runs in our blood, and if I wasted mine, he’d haunt me.
Honestly, he probably still will. He had a dark sense of humor like that.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
The man’s voice is professional but not cold. I don't answer right away, trying to decipher why he's calling me.
“I won’t keep you long. Your uncle left very specific instructions regarding the execution of his will. You’ve been named as a primary beneficiary.”
I sit up straighter. “Me? I have?”
“Yes. In fact, you’re the sole beneficiary of his estate, pending a condition that must be fulfilled.”
My brow furrows.
“Estate?” I repeat, not because I doubt it, but because I had no idea. I guess Vermont wasn't the only thing he kept secret.
He never gave any indication he had anything more than enough to get by. The man practically lived off ramen and Goodwill. He never held a regular job, as far as I knew.
He also didn’t have children or a spouse. He was a quirky loner, and I loved him for it.
My father was the successful one in the family. He built an empire worth several hundred million dollars and made sure everyone knew it. Every chance he got. It cost him his marriage and any kind of personal relationship outside of work.
Maybe that's why Roger chose to take a different route. The brothers couldn't have been more different.
“Yes. He had a private portfolio that outperformed most hedge funds for two decades,” the attorney says. “In addition to his stocks, he owned three significant parcels of land across the state of Louisiana, plus the holding I mentioned in Vermont earlier.”
Silence stretches between us as my brain continues to absorb all of this.
“How much are we talking?” I finally ask. More curious than anything else. I don’t need the money, but this whole call has the feel of a top-secret British spy drop. Which is so Uncle Roger.
“North of six hundred million. Not including the properties.”
I almost choke on my tongue. “Jesus.”
“He and I worked on how he would structure this for you, hoping you'd treat this as a challenge, not a chore,” the man adds calmly but with precision. “That’s how he phrased it.”
My chest tightens. A challenge? What the fuck. Jesus. Did he die, or is this an episode of Punk'd?
Uncle Roger might’ve had more money than Leeland. That’s fucking hilarious. I laugh under my breath, already picturing the aneurysm my father’s going to have when he finds out.
And then it hits me.
I don’t want my father to find out. I'd rather keep it to myself, like Roger did. It's all very clear to me now why he would, having a brother like Leeland Matthews.
“I have an odd question,” I say, straightening in my seat. “Is this common knowledge? I mean, now that he’s gone, will the family be notified about the estate? That he left it to me?”
“Not odd at all,” Anders replies. “It’s a common concern in these situations.
And to answer your question, no. Vermont doesn't require public notice unless someone files a claim or requests access. Only named parties are notified. Otherwise, someone would have to know where to look and have a reason to dig.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“There is one stipulation I need to inform you about,” the attorney adds, his voice careful now. “Before the estate can vest, the primary beneficiary, meaning you, must be legally married.”
I blink several times as his words digest. “Married? Uncle Roger knew I wasn't married or seriously dating...”
“Yes. Not engaged, not cohabiting. You have to be legally married. And the marriage must last a minimum of six months.”
“Wait. What? I don't understand what you're saying. Why?”
“He didn’t give a reason, at least not to me. But he was very specific. The language he used was interesting, to say the least.”
“How interesting?”
A rustle of papers. “Quote—‘with genuine intent to uphold the union for the foreseeable future.’”
I rub a hand over my face, savoring the roughness of my five o'clock shadow against my hand. For Christ's sake, of course he did. This has Roger written all over it. Not a test of love. A test of execution . And if I know him, there’s a loophole tucked somewhere out of sight.