Chapter 6 Black and White and Bright Pink #2
She was a woman who went after what she wanted, including my grandfather, a teacher she was friends with.
She loved to tell me I came from a long line of women who followed their hearts.
She’d often share bon mots with me in the postcards she sent me weekly.
You’ve got this. Life is short. Eat the cake.
That one was not a problem to follow. And If not now… when?
Grandma’s personal mantra must have been, If it can fit in a box, I’ll save it.
It’s made the management of her estate a long, complicated affair after she died twelve months ago, a few years after her husband.
When Garth tells me there’s one more box to go through, I can only assume it’s newspaper clippings about Betty’s mother, who was one of the town’s first female firefighters, or old macaroni artwork that Garth really should just feel empowered to throw out.
But that’s not how estates work, as I’ve learned. I’m the executor, which means she had good taste and liked me best. That also means I have to deal with everything, even when I should be dealing with my lack of a kitchen.
After I stop by the lawyer’s, I’ll dash out of Cozy Valley as fast as I arrived—ideally avoiding my parents, who’ll be busy penning world-class research papers for the university, anyway—and spend some time with Google, hunting down a new place with an oven.
On the forty-minute drive to Cozy Valley, I call my brother to see if he knows anyone, like some of the private chefs who work with the players, who might have access to a kitchen.
But Theo doesn’t answer. Maybe that’s for the best. What if he suggested Corbin as someone who could hook me up?
Then I’d have to act all nonchalant with the hot hockey star, like I don’t want an extension of yesterday.
Now, I’m wondering, though—does Corbin even have a private chef? Nah. I bet he does everything himself. He’d consider it a failure to hire out cooking. He’d want to be excellent at it, like he’s excellent at hair braiding.
A spark shimmies through my shoulders at the memory.
Great. I’ll walk into Garth Funkle’s office with a flush.
But as the miles tick off and the pastel yellow sign for Cozy Valley looms over the hill, a knot of tension wedges into my chest. When, at age twenty, you’re single-handedly responsible for the Cozy Valley Sanctuary llamas knocking over the pancake breakfast fundraiser at the town’s fire station because they were jacked up on the sugar cookies you left in the back of the fire truck…
well, you can become a bit of a local laughingstock.
Small towns have long memories.
I flick the turn signal for the exit and swallow my dread. Too bad the lawyer’s office isn’t on the outskirts of Cozy Valley. He’s smack dab on Main Street in a white clapboard building marked with one of those old-fashioned signs hanging on the porch, saying, Funkle and Son, Esquire.
I park on a side street to be safe and pop on my sunglasses.
As I hustle down the main drag, hoping no one notices me, that uneasy feeling in my chest intensifies.
I don’t hate Cozy Valley. Objectively, it’s a cute town, with quirky shops, cute boutique hotels, and a fantastic bookstore, but I feel more at home in the city.
I’ve become accustomed to the anonymity, and I enjoy the way my trail of trouble doesn’t follow me like a skywriter’s message.
I fly past Whiskers and Kisses, where the store’s tuxedo lounges in a cat tower. After turning the corner, I trot up the steps to the law offices, a bell tinkling as I push open the door.
“Come on back,” calls a squeaky voice. I follow it and find Garth hunched over his desk, a wad of tissue stuck to his pale jawline—a shaving cut, presumably. He’s sorting through old banker’s boxes and…is that one of Grandma’s jewelry boxes?
A pang of nostalgia hits me square in the heart. But I’ve cried enough around Garth. “Fine, if you can’t locate a Van Gogh,” I say, trying to make light of the situation, “I’ll take a diamond ring. I could sell it and use it as a down payment for a bakery.”
Looking up, all baby-faced and nicked, he smiles. “The number of rings my clients have sold…the stories I could tell you.” He shakes his head, and I arch a skeptical brow. He’s barely out of high school. How many stories could he have? But it’s not my place to judge.
He pats a well-worn box. “Listen, Mabel, I thought we were all set, but the new owners of Betty’s house called about a couple of boxes we must have overlooked in the attic, including this one.
” The jewelry box is covered in minty green fabric with illustrations of flowers all over it.
Grandma loved her girly stuff. We always had that in common.
“I was about to put all this jewelry in the estate sale when I found something in the jewelry box.”
My pulse spikes with worry. “Something. That sounds ominous.”
He plops down in the desk chair, the shoulders of his jacket puffing up. “One person’s ominous is another person’s treasure,” he says.
“I don’t think that’s a saying,” I begin, but it doesn’t matter.
Garth pats a manila folder on his desk, then takes out a sheet of paper with a neon pink Post-it note on top. I can’t read the handwriting.
“I’m thinking she meant to give this to you, but since her stroke was sudden, she didn’t have the chance,” he says.
The room goes quiet. My heart beats louder. A sense of foreboding cloaks me. But maybe also, strangely, hope? What am I hoping for? A message from the afterlife? A piece of wisdom only Grandma could pass along? A reminder to keep my chin up even when shit gets hard?
Yeah, that’s what she would have said, and it’s almost embarrassing how much I’m craving a hug from beyond from the one person who always believed in me.
I swallow down those emotions, though, as Garth hands me a crisp sheet of paper. There’s a four-letter word across the top.
Deed.
I blink. I wasn’t expecting that. I take the paper, but the words feel like they’re levitating off the page. It feels like someone else holds the paper, like someone else reads it, like someone else is wondering why my grandmother left me a deed for…a small firehouse in the town of Cozy Valley.
“She bought the abandoned firehouse?” I ask, taking my time with every word. “The…one?”
As in, the one where not only the llamas knocked over the pancakes, but a goat ate all the money raised, and a pig flipped the bacon table. (Well, that was understandable, and more power to his protest.)
“Yes, that one. She bought it about a week before she died. Bid on it at a property auction.”
“Why?” I ask, my voice trembling.
The answer is in black and white and bright pink. Now I can see the Post-it note, and it reads in her loopy, pretty handwriting: “For Mabel, as you see fit.”
My heart stutters. It’s a message. Short and sweet, but crystal clear. And it does feel like a hug from her. Especially those four words—As you see fit.
They’re full of a faith in me that I didn’t feel from Jonas, or Ronnie, or my ex. A faith I don’t feel from my parents. Maybe a faith I need.
I meet Garth’s eyes, grappling with this life-changing news. “Is this for real? My grandmother left me a…fire station?”
Not just any station. This is the station. The place where Grandma took the photos for the calendar. The station where my great-grandmother pioneered a place for women in the fire service.
“I didn’t think it was for sale,” I say, dumbstruck.
“It had been closed for a while, then some company bought it and began renovations, but when they went into foreclosure, it was put up for auction. Your grandmother won it. The deed was issued a few days later, after the payment was received.” He taps the paper with a well-manicured finger.
“Looks like she meant to give it to you before she died. It’s yours. As is.”
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m so shell-shocked I can barely process this gift from the afterlife. Except for one little detail.
Or really, one big one.
“Does it…have a kitchen?”