Page 87 of This

The sleigh bells tied tothe door of the real estate office wake me from one hell of a nap. I lift my head to the town’s one and only lawyer walking in. Mr. Butteman works with Katie Sayer, The Home Slayer, often enough that I barely bat an eye until he stops at my desk.

“Can you stop by this afternoon?” he asks.

I sit back, figuring it has to do with Maggie since he’s in charge of her estate. “Is this because I’m still at the cabin? Because I leave for Virginia Beach the day after tomorrow.”

Maggie arranged for her land to pass to a group interested in starting a nature preserve. They’ve been out a few times already, scouting the area. The cottage will serve as the visitors’ center, and they’ll drag paths to the river and the wooded area along the back of the property. She talked about it a lot when she forced me to experience nature on our first go-around. Before I was a master woodswoman with a designated walking stick I fished out of the river on my own.

“No, no,” he says. “You’re fine to stay as long as you’d like. No one’s in a hurry to kick you out. Maggie left you a little something, so I need you to sign a few papers.”

“Oh.” I scratch the tip of my pen on my desk, creating a mark I’ll have to wash off.

“Just whenever you get a second, pop in. It shouldn’t take long at all once I get the DVD player hooked up.”

And any thought I had of conveniently forgetting he asked goes right out the fucking window.

“DVD?”

“Yes, ma’am. I finally convinced her to quit recording updates to her will on VHS tapes last year.” Mr. Butteman raps his knuckles on my desk a few times. “I’ll tell my secretary to expect you.”

After he walks out, I glance around the empty office. Unless someone shows up with a house-buying emergency, no one will know if I duck out for a bit. Even if they did, tomorrow’s my last day.

I quickly lock up and sprint after him.

Within fifteen minutes, we’re across from each other at a large conference table in a room surrounded by glass walls. Behind Mr. Butteman hangs a flat screen with wires strung down to a media cart. He turns his chair to face the TV and points the remote at the DVD player, bringing the screen to life.

A pressure releases from my chest when I see Maggie in high def. She is in the exact chair I’m in, wearing the shawl she knitted before I left for LA. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled into a bun.

She sits without moving or talking for so long that I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

Finally, she scrunches her nose. “Is it on?”

I throw my head back, cackling hard enough Mr. Butteman pauses the video until I’ve wiped my eyes. I hold up a hand in a promise to stay quiet, and he presses the button again.

“Bennett,” Maggie says.

Fuck. And now I’m legit crying.

“You were a light late in my life. I only wish I could have had more time with you.”

My freaking heart.

“Now, with that out of the way, I’ll cut to the point.” She readjusts, leaning forward toward the camera. “You can’t be centered unless you know where center is, so it’s time you pick one. I’m leaving you enough money to get started. Open a business or put a down payment on a house. I don’t care what you do with the damn money, so long as you stay put and really make a life for yourself. Then you can go, explore, find new experiences. And when you’re tired and you need a place to rest, go back to your center.”

She stops talking, back in her motionless state. I shake my head, not sure I understand, but Mr. Butteman’s attention remains glued to the TV.

“Oh,” Maggie starts again, causing me to jump, “and for God’s sake, donotlet Betty from the church go through my George’s things. She won’t know what anything is, and she’ll pitch it, all willy-nilly. Most of that stuff is in good condition. Box it up and take it to Wilber, the guy who repairs watches. He’ll know what to do with it. Be happy, whatever you do, my dear.”

Mr. Butteman pauses the video then. Maggie has her hands folded in her lap, an easy smile on her face. The way I’ll remember her with all her kindness on display.

“So, if you can just fill out these papers saying how you’d like the money transferred, we’ll be able to get this moving and have a check or deposit ready within the week.”

He pushes over the forms, and I glance down, my eyes bulging when they land on digits.

“Eighty fucking thousand dollars?” I shriek it, then cover my mouth because holy overreaction.

“Shit, sorry.” I cringe, then slip in another, “Shit.”

Oh my God, Bennett. Stop swearing at this man!

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