Chapter 3 #2
My shoulders lift, still processing the question. Sell? What? The building. “I have no idea. And you’re sure she left it to me? I liked Kitty and everything, but this feels like…a lot.”
Niles sets the paper down, his expression softening as he lifts one of his hands. It hovers over mine almost as if he’s contemplating a comforting squeeze, but something makes him decide against it, and instead, he sets it down next to his teacup.
“Kitty was a complex woman, but I assure you she was of sound mind when she made this decision. She meant to leave the building to you. She wanted you to have it. But I should warn you…” Niles shifts in his seat. The brief pause in his sentence sends up a red flag. A catch.
Niles picks up the paper again and hands it to me but grips it tightly between his fingers until I meet his eyes.
“Kitty’s estate still needs to go through probate.
It’s a legal formality for any will and testament,” he explains.
“As I mentioned earlier, she had three children, all of whom will have the ability to contest the contents, including your claim, especially considering she was vulnerable at the end of her life and you were her caregiver—”
“ One of her caregivers,” I interrupt as I infer precisely what he is insinuating. “And I never asked for this. I would never—”
“I know, Ms. DeMarco.” He finally does place his hand on top of mine.
“I wasn’t implying anything more than that this document has yet to be approved officially by the courts.
And to be very honest with you, I don’t anticipate anyone will contest it.
I know the family well. Kitty’s children are all financially well off and will be considerably more so when Kitty’s estate is settled.
I just wanted to suggest refraining from celebratory shopping sprees until things are finalized.
You never want to count your chickens…” He leaves the analogy half-finished.
I nod along as if I’m following his train of thought.
As if I know how these things go.
As if I’ve lived a life where frivolous chicken counting might be something I’d even consider.
“Do you have any more questions?” Niles removes his hand as I shift my gaze from his to the safety of his mediocre scone, half-eaten on his plate.
I have a million questions. I can’t formulate them into actual words, so instead, I shake my head and say, “Not right at the moment.”
Niles reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a small white business card identical to the one he gave me last night.
“Well, if any questions arise, please don’t hesitate to reach out.
I’m returning to Toronto today, but you can call or email me anytime.
I’d like to file with the courts this week.
However, they get backed up this time of year.
Assuming things go smoothly, you’ll probably hear from me before Christmas. If not, then January.”
I think I stare at the scone for another minute until Niles clears his throat. I look up in time to see him glancing at his watch. My eyes follow his to the ticking second hand and then grow wide as I register the time.
“I have to go.” My knee hits the underside of the table as I stand, causing the silverware to rattle and the heads of the other diners to turn in my direction.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping away from the table, realizing mid-step that there is a proper exit protocol here, and I’m not following it. “Um…it was great to meet you. Officially. In daylight.” I thrust out my hand.
Niles James stands and takes mine in between his. “Take care, Ms. DeMarco.” He pats the back of my hand twice before letting go.
“Thanks. You, too.”
I paste what I hope is a pleasant expression on my face.
That forced half smile stays as I retrace my way out of the restaurant, past the woman with the bob and pleated pants, into my car, and out of the parking lot.
Right up until I pull out in front of a transport truck while turning onto 13 and catch my reflection while glancing in the rearview mirror.
I look discombobulated.
I feel discombobulated.
My stomach is as tight as if it’s done a 360-degree flip, and my hands are so sweaty I have to wipe them on my scrubs twice to keep my grip on the wheel.
What the hell is wrong with me?
All that has happened is that Kitty St. Clair has left me a building in her will.
Possibly.
A building that could be valuable if I were to sell it.
Maybe.
My lungs swell with something that feels a little too much like hope until I remind myself of the last time I thought an inheritance would better my life, and I remember how well that turned out.
I was eleven and my great-grandmother had just passed away from cancer. Great-grandma Gillian, or Gigi as we called her, didn’t have much. But what she did have was a tiny green two-story cottage a block from the lake. Gigi had raised my mother there after her own mother passed away.
The little cottage was old. It was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, but as a preteen girl who had lived in small one-bedroom apartments her whole life, I thought all of my dreams were about to come true.
My mother, however, had different plans.
She sold the house to the first person who offered and moved us two towns over to rent a luxury condo overlooking a tennis club, which she proceeded to join—though she had never swung a racket in her life.
She bought herself new clothes, leased a new car, and introduced herself as “Julia Jane,” letting strangers assume her middle name was her last.
“It will be good networking for my business,” she said when I sobbed at the idea of leaving Zoe and the rest of my friends behind.
Two weeks later, when the tears didn’t stop, she scolded me.
“You’re just like Gigi,” she said. “So content to live in that Podunk town. I’m showing you that there’s bigger and better out there. ”
The bigger and better lasted until the end of August and petered out entirely by October. The dinner invitations waned, as did the sales of the German-engineered stainless steel knives that crowded half of my bedroom.
By Christmas, we were back in West Lake, in our one-bedroom apartment next to the laundromat. I was ecstatic to be back in school with Zoe, but my mom barely got out of bed for weeks.
We both avoided driving past Gigi’s little green cottage for years after that.
The new owners painted it white and added a large family room off the back, but it remained a visual reminder, for me at least, that hoping for something better only leads to disappointment when it doesn’t work out.
Life is a lot easier when you don’t let yourself want something in the first place.