5. Annabelle #2
Stan came to Ann Arbor for the funeral, where we buried Nana in her pre-paid plot.
We cried and hugged and promised to stay in touch, but we were both hit hard by grief and we kind of folded into ourselves, letting our phone calls fade away.
I couldn’t even go Up North for Stan’s funeral, thanks to a burst appendix that put me in the hospital the week he died.
I sent the biggest flower arrangement I could afford and would have sent a condolence card, but Stan had outlived all his relatives and there was no one to send it to.
Which is why I’m here. I suppose I was the closest thing to family Stan had.
I stare at the stack of papers on Lia’s desk, held together with a rubber band.
A yellow sticky note in the center has my name scrawled on it in red ink.
I’m suddenly feeling very, very alone. No grandmother, no parents, no siblings.
Even one sister would be a blessing right now.
I wouldn’t care if she was the kind of sister who stole my clothes and gave me mean nicknames and poked me in the back seat of the family car.
I just want someone to share the emotional load.
Lia slides a box of tissues toward me. “You need a minute?”
I haul in a breath that seems to come from my toes. “I’ll be all right.”
“We’re going to handle this together,” she says. “I’m going to walk you through everything.”
“I thought I was meeting Mr. Sellers?”
“That’s my dad. He runs the firm. I’m the associate. He hates estate planning so I’m handling Mr. Piro’s affairs.”
I nod. Honestly, Lia’s dad seemed intimidating on the phone. Lia seems like someone I can talk to.
She pats the papers in front of her. “Stan willed most of his remaining property to charity. All he had left was the building next door. Probably because nobody wants it.”
I sit straighter in my chair. “I want it. I’m moving in.”
Lia’s eyebrows fly up. “Are you sure? It’s going to take a lot of money to rehab it. Not to mention the noise issue. The only reason Grant can stand to live in that building is because it’s above his business.”
I grab the collar of my sweater with both hands and pull it up, up, up until it hides my mouth and nose. “Did you say Grant?”
“Yeah. Grant.”
I let go of my collar and press my hands to my cheeks. “That’s a common name, right? Please tell me that’s a very common name around here. There was some ancestor, back in the 1800s when Echo Creek was a logging camp, and there was this famous man named—”
“The only Grant I know is Grant Neverly.”
No. It can’t be. I check my phone’s photos, opening the ‘recently deleted’ folder to find the picture of his driver’s license.
I study it for real this time. Not like last night when I was lust-addled and the exchange of IDs was merely a formality.
Not like this morning, when I was too angry to look.
This time, I skip past his handsome face and his Valentine birthday to zero in on the address.
My building is at 104 Elk. Grant’s address is on Bowman Street. There has to be a mistake.
I show Lia my phone. “This Grant Neverly?”
“Why do you have a picture of his license?”
“That’s not the question. The question is, why does his license say Bowman Street if he’s my tenant?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s where his parents live.” Lia puts her elbows on her desk and leans forward. “But why do you have a picture of his license? Because I can only think of one—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I squeeze my phone in my fingers as Lia agrees to move on, but I miss most of what she says next.
She’s telling me about the building, how the structure is solid, but it needs a new roof, and a new HVAC system, and a whole bunch of other upgrades.
She explains that there are two apartments on the second floor and a two-sided business below.
“The front of The Break is where you make things. People do mosaics, they do tiered trays, they make candles in old teacups. I made these.” She shows me a set of coasters made from broken bits of china.
What was once an old-fashioned floral pattern has been made modern by breaking, rearranging, and imbedding into grout.
“Those are cool.”
“Thank you.” Lia puts down the coasters and folds her hands on her desk. “The back of the building is a rage room.”
I blink at her. “A what now?”
“Picture this. You walk into a room stocked with breakable stuff like chipped mugs and printers that jammed one too many times. You’re given protective gear, and the green light to destroy at will.
A rage room is basically a playground for your frustrations.
Instead of bottling up stress, you get to literally shatter it. ”
“Wow, the things people will do to avoid going to therapy.”
“Some people just need an outlet,” Lia says. “Do you know how much business I’ve given Grant Neverly? He should send me a referral fee. Warring parties spend an hour in The Break, come back here, and suddenly, the two sides can have productive negotiations.”
“I guess I’ll have to see that for myself.”
Lia removes the rubber band from the stack of legal papers. “Let’s get through the formalities and then I’ll take you over there so you and Grant can discuss—”
“I don’t have anything to say to him,” I snap.
Lia doesn’t seem to notice my tone. “He might not even be there. Grant’s a night owl.”
“So the rage room is only open at night?”
“Hours vary by season. All I know is, if I’m still in the office when the music starts up, it’s time to go home.”