Chapter 52
Miles
Monday
I enter Mr. Mandela’s office. I’ve never been here before, but I know exactly where it’s located.
Mr. Mandela is part of a long lineage of lawyers in Evermere.
I’m not familiar with the entire family tree, but I do know that his father and grandfather were lawyers.
All of them practiced law in this very office.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mandela.” We shake hands. “How’s the family?”
“Good afternoon, Miles.” He sits back in his chair and gestures for me to sit across from him. “Everyone’s great, thank you for asking. Forgive me for not talking to you yesterday. There were just so many people there. Truly touching.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. It really was a beautiful ceremony. Just as she deserved.”
“And I’m sorry I had to be the one to break the news to you, Miles,” he says in his slow, low voice, the same one he used on the phone to tell me about Miss Amara’s passing.
“No, please, don’t be sorry. I appreciate you calling me right away. It gave me the chance to come here in time for the ceremony. I thank you for that.”
He nods and gathers up some papers. I stand silently, observing the quiet pause he seems to be creating.
“Just out of curiosity, how did you get my phone number?”
I was in shock during our phone call. He caught me on my way to a meeting. I didn’t even think to wonder how Mr. Mandela had my cell phone number.
“Miss Amara left contact instructions. You know, she’s always been a cautious woman,” he says, and we share a quiet chuckle. “She made sure long ago that I had clear instructions on how to contact you two.”
“Us two?”
“Hello, Mr. Mandela.” Ella is suddenly a figure at the door, clearly caught off guard, just like me. “Can I come in?”
“Of course, darling,” Mr. Mandela says. “Let’s begin.”
Ella walks into the room and sits in the spare chair next to me. “Hi, Miles.” She looks at me and gives me a shy smile. I can’t help but smile back.
“Well.” Mr. Mandela clears his throat. “I contacted you both and asked you to meet me here because Miss Amara left specific instructions regarding a few personal items she wished to pass on to you.”
Ella and I exchange a look, uncertain of what’s to come, touched by this gesture of hers.
Mr. Mandela turns to Ella. “She wanted you to have her piano. She wrote that there was no one else she’d rather hear playing its keys or laughing on its bench.” He slides a small key across the desk. “It’s still at her house. You’re welcome to arrange a time to collect it whenever you’re ready.”
I look at Ella in her stillness. She’s emotional, holding back tears. I think about telling her it’s okay if she lets them out, but before I can, Mr. Mandela shifts his attention to me.
“Miles,” he says, taking a small wooden box out of one of his desk drawers. He opens it carefully, revealing a delicate engagement ring. “This is for you.”
I stare at it, and Mr. Mandela explains, “She hoped you would remember a conversation you had about it. And she wanted you to have it.”
My mind reaches back through the years, searching for that conversation, until finally landing on the one she meant. I’m sure of it. A long time ago, at the CIC, the first time ever she told me about her husband.
Ella observes the whole scene quietly. Little does she know, she is implicitly part of that memory too. I raise my eyes from the ring. Ella and I look at each other for a full minute. Or maybe it’s only five seconds. However long it lasts, it’s heartbreaking. Shattering. Gut-wrenching.