Page 11 of Never Been Matched
Coffee. Focus on coffee.
I make my way over to the coffee bar, and it only takes a minute to fill a single-serve mug.
The leather sofa is worn soft with age, and I try not to think about how many asses have settled down into it over the past fifty years as I slump into it.
Blowing on the coffee, the mug warming my fingers, I take in the rest of the space.
It’s a typical attorney’s office, heavy wood furniture, high quality, but out of date. The walls are various shades of beige and dotted with fancy diplomas.
Exhaustion presses down on me from all sides. I sink deeper into the depths of the sofa. Could I just sleep here?
Spencer appears in front of me out of nowhere, and I almost jump out of my skin.
I press a hand against my racing heart. “Holy crap, you scared me. I was becoming one with your couch here.”
“Sorry to startle you.” He holds up an envelope. “Before you can read this, there are some things I am authorized to tell you, and a couple of questions.”
“Authorized. Sounds ominous.”
He sits on the couch next to me. “Not ominous, but serious. Beverly has some very precise instructions. One of them is to give you a series of letters at specific intervals. There are certain things I am not privy to. I don’t know what is in each of these letters, but I do know each letter has an assignment for you, to retrieve a specific object or perform a specific task.”
“Like a treasure hunt?”
It was a game we would play. Beverly would give me a list and let me roam the theater and the surrounding area. She had an old Polaroid camera, and I had to take a picture of each item, since some of it was little magical places, built into the walls and fixtures of The Palace itself.
His head tilts. “I’m not entirely sure. All I know is when you bring me the item, I have to open a letter that will confirm if what you gave me is what she’s requested, and then provide additional instructions on the next steps.”
I set my coffee down on the table next to me and angle my legs in his direction. “Why is it so complicated?”
“To ensure that you’re the one doing the work to complete the tasks and claim the inheritance. You can seek assistance from others, you may even have to in some situations, but since I am the administrator, I cannot interfere. I have to remain impartial to ensure the will cannot be contested. Beverly expressed some concerns about that.”
Wait. Beverly was concerned about the will being challenged? Why? Mother wouldn’t care about some dusty old reel or random keepsakes. “What exactly did she leave me?”
He blinks and then chuckles. “I guess I forgot to mention, she left you everything.”
Maybe I’m more tired than I thought. “I’m sorry, I think something is wrong with my hearing because did you say everything? Like The Palace and everything?”
He nods. “The theater, her house and all of its contents, and her investments and bank accounts. The liquid assets are worth somewhere around a half million.”
Shock echoes through me. Everything? As in everything?
After a few long seconds, I manage to unhinge my jaw. “But we aren’t even related. Not really.”
He taps the envelope against his thigh. “There is one question you have to answer though, before I can hand this over. Now that you know the inheritance involves ownership of the theater and all of her assets, would you keep it and stay here and manage it? Or would you want to sell it?”
“Is that relevant?”
“Yes. If you aren’t staying here, I have a different letter.”
This is wild. I can’t believe it. “I have to give an answer now?”
“No. But I can’t give you this letter until you can say definitively. Would you rather wait until morning so you can sleep on it?”
I pick up the coffee and take a sip, stalling. Maybe I should sleep on it. It’s so much to take in. But owning the theater . . . the thought shoots sparks of excitement through my veins. What do I want? It’s truly the ultimate question.
Do I want to go back to Boston to hide away? Continue my self-imposed exile and eventual decline into obscurity and insanity? Nothing about that sounds appealing, even though it’s a multimillion-dollar Beacon Hill luxury condo.
I don’t care about the money. I have money. Well, enough, anyway, to get by. I could sell my place in Boston. I still get residuals that are put into a trust, managed by some firm that sends me a monthly stipend, and I don’t spend a lot beyond living expenses.
