Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Julie
I ’m sitting at my desk with my second latte of the day, a handful of peppermint Hershey Kisses, and a complex trust I’m drafting open on my computer screen when the text comes in. Out of habit, I glance at the clock before reaching for my phone. Seven fifty-five a.m. Right on schedule.
Asher
[pic attached]
Morning Blondie. I met my cutest fan this morning. His name is Simon. I’ve decided dogs should always wear snow boots.
I open the picture of a grinning Asher, wearing running clothes and a knit beanie, crouching in the snow next to a golden retriever puppy. Fitting, since Asher is basically a golden retriever puppy in human form. The dog is clad in snow boots with the Renegades logo on them.
Me
Simmer down Hot Shot. Are you sure he’s a fan of yours, specifically? Not everyone likes a quarterback, you know.
Asher
Everyone likes this quarterback.
I don’t.
Tell it to someone who believes you. I bet my entire salary next year that you’re smiling right now.
Well, fuck.
I haven’t seen Asher in the two weeks since we kissed on my front porch like the world was ending, but he texts me after his morning runs. Like clockwork, my phone has pinged every morning a little before eight for the past two weeks. Sometimes he just says good morning. Sometimes he texts a picture of the latte art the barista at his coffee shop made for him. Sometimes he tells me about a cookie recipe he found that he wants to try—yes, the man bakes, Jesus take the wheel. Twice it was a picture of an hours old baby—apparently, he has two sisters who had babies within days of each other. And sometimes, like today, it’s a picture of something ridiculous he sees while he’s on his run.
I would rather give up spreadsheets and wear mismatched clothes every day for the rest of my life than admit I look forward to his texts. There’s something about knowing he’s thinking of me every day while he runs. That he takes the time to consider what to text me. That he takes the time to get in the pictures. I glance at the photo again and smile (again) before I catch myself. The warmth that swirls in my belly every time my phone pings is unsettling. I hate it. Except when I don’t. My phone pings again.
Asher
I’ll be at your office later today. Can I take you to lunch?
Startled, I drop my phone and sit back in my chair, scratching at my wrist as my mind searches out his motive. Asher has been texting every day for two weeks, but in all that time he hasn’t asked to see me once. It’s confusing as hell. After our kiss, I expected him to be relentless. I expected him to ask me out a million times and for me to have to find creative ways to turn him down.
He’s not what I expected, and I don’t like that at all. I always know what to expect.
I consider ignoring his text, but wonder whether that will just encourage him. Do I want to encourage him? No. I definitely don’t. Absolutely not. I don’t have time to be playing mind games with professional athletes. Also, why the fuck is he coming to my office?
Me
Why are you coming to my office?
Asher
Wouldn’t you like to know?
I would, actually. I own the firm.
I have a meeting with Emma, but never mind about that.
Lunch later?
I’m busy later.
I didn’t tell you when later.
I’m busy all of later.
That’s really too bad. Catch you later, Blondie.
Well, okay then. I guess that takes care of that. That’s not disappointment I feel that he didn’t press harder to see me. It’s relief that I can focus on my work for the rest of the day. Definitely relief. Picking up the phone, I dial Emma’s extension.
“You know you can just walk down the hall, right?” Emma says, with no preamble. Work mode Emma always makes me smile.
“I could, but then I would have to get up, and I’m busy.” More like I knew if I asked her what I’m about to ask her in person she would read me like a fucking book. No one knows about the kiss or the texting, and I’d rather it stay that way.
“Well, you’re not the only one. What’s up?”
“Why is Asher Hansley coming in to see you today?”
Emma pauses for so long I check to see if the call dropped.
“So that’s the reason you’re calling instead of walking ten feet down the hall.”
Fucking hell. She’s spooky sometimes.
“Just tell me Em.”
“How do you even know that he’s coming here?”
Shit.
“He told me, okay? He’s been texting me a little. He told me he would be here but didn’t tell me why.”
“I just bet that’s making you crazy.”
“Yes,” I mumble, not sure if she’s referring to the texting or the not telling me why he’s coming. Either way, the answer is yes.
“He’s coming in with Jeremy. I’m helping Jeremy with the capital campaign and funding structure for his sports camps. Asher is working with him during the offseason.” Emma’s practice focuses on non-profit organizations. Despite not being able to say two words to Jeremy when we’re in a social setting without her face turning bright red, she seems to have no problem communicating with him professionally.
“So…Jeremy’s coming in too. How do you feel about that?” I can’t help but needle her about it a little. I love her and I love Jeremy. If they would just do something about their obvious feelings for each other, they would be great together.
“Oh, sorry, my other line is ringing; gotta go, bye.”
The line goes dead before I can say goodbye.
A few hours later I’m typing out an email to a client transmitting the draft of the trust I worked on all morning when my office phone rings.
“Julie Parker.”
“Julie dear, it’s Cindy Erikson.”
“Hi, Mrs. Erikson, what can I do for you?”
The Eriksons are longtime clients of mine. I did their estate planning at my old firm, and they followed me here. They are friends of my parents, so I updated all their planning as a favor before we officially opened, and I’m glad I did because Bob Erikson died in November.
“I met with our financial advisor this morning to start consolidating and streamlining some of our accounts. He asked about the status of Bob’s probate so we could consolidate the brokerage account in Bob’s name with mine, and I didn’t know anything about that, so I told him I would call you.”
“No problem, Mrs. Erikson, but your financial advisor is mistaken. When I updated your planning, we transferred that account into the revocable trust I set up for Bob. Once Bob died, you became the trustee, so you have authority to manage the account. No probate is necessary because the account isn’t in Bob’s individual name.”
“Well, that’s just the thing. Our financial advisor says the account was never transferred to the trust.”
A pit forms in my stomach. That can’t be possible. I did the paperwork myself to transfer the account to the trust. The account worth millions of dollars. The account we specifically did not want to go through the probate process. My hands start to shake as sweat beads on my forehead.
Keeping my voice as steady as I can, I speak into the phone. “Mrs. Erikson, I’m sure this is a mistake. I’m going to go through my files and reach out to your financial advisor personally, and I’ll call you back.”
“Thanks, honey, you always know just what to do.”
I manage a polite goodbye. It takes me three tries to get the phone back in the cradle. Breathing heavily, I turn to my computer and click on the Erikson’s email folder. My clammy fingers slip on the scrolling wheel and my heart pounds. When I find what I’m looking for, it takes an extra minute for my eyes to focus on the words.
From: [email protected]
Date: November 17, 2023
Re: Erikson Account Documents
Ms. Parker,
This email is to confirm receipt of the scanned executed transfer documents to transfer account #767-458-9760 to “The Bob Erikson Living Trust u/a/d November 3, 2023.” Please send the originals by mail. Once we receive the originals, we can effectuate the transfer.
All the best,
James Vance, CFP
I stand up so fast my chair goes flying backwards and clatters to the floor. Opening my cabinets, I find the Erikson file. Still standing, I slap the file down on my desk and flip through it. My fingers are numb as I try to turn the pages and my arms weigh a thousand pounds each. My teeth are clenched together so tightly my jaw aches. I sent those documents. I know I did. Any second now I’m going to find the FedEx receipt with the tracking number.
Except I don’t find it. What I find is so much worse.
With numb and shaking fingers, I hold up the original account documents. The ones that the financial advisor needed to finalize Bob’s transfer. They’re here in my office, which means the account was never transferred to the trust. And it’s too late to make the transfer without going to court because Bob is dead.
Think Julie .
Except I can’t think. There is nothing to think about. There is only what I know.
I made a mistake. An enormous, unconscionable mistake. A mistake so stupid that even a baby lawyer wouldn’t make it.
My heart beats so fast I get lightheaded, and my teeth start to chatter so violently my already aching jaw clenches tighter to try and make it stop. My breaths are fast and shallow, and black spots race across my vision. I try and grip the desk, but my numb fingers just drag along the glass surface, knocking the Erikson file to the floor and scattering papers everywhere.
What the fuck is happening to me ?
I lean over and put my hands on my knees, attempting to take a full breath, but the vise around my chest tightens. The harder I try to breathe, the tighter it gets.
I’m dying .
The thought has my legs buckling. I sink to the floor on my hands and knees in the sea of paper that used to be the Erikson file. Blood rushes in my ears, and my chest heaves in a futile attempt to take in oxygen.
Breathe Julie. Take a fucking breath.
Except I can’t. All I can do is gasp for air as darkness seeps into the edges of my vision.