Page 93 of Que Será, Syrah

And for you, I think, feeling a stab of guilt. God he must hate this. And me.

“Now, the first thing we need to do is to have you sign these papers and actually accept your grandmother’s bequest. Because, otherwise, there’s really nothing to talk about.”

Hmm. A thought has begun nudging at the back of my brain, causing me to zone out and miss some of what Jimmy is saying.

“…and while it’s true that I drafted them myself,” he continues. “I would still encourage you to read through the document before signing it.”

“Jimmy,” I say, slowly, still wrapping my brain around a new idea still taking shape within my brain. “What if I didn’t sign that?”

“What? Oh, no, no, no. As I explained, leaving the estate in limbo is not in you or your sisters’ best interests. I don’t wish to place blame, but this really should have been attended to last April.”

“Yeah, no. Sorry. That’s not what I meant. What I should have said is, what if I didn’t accept the bequest? Or, what if I transferred my share—or whatever it’s called—to someone else? My Uncle Geno, perhaps. Or maybe one of my cousins. Or perhaps all three of them? Would something like that be possible?”

“Well…ye-es. I see what you’re saying. There would be ramifications, to be sure. And I would want to be very clear about that. But theoretically, it would be possible, I suppose.”

“Great,” I sigh. “Let’s talk about it then. But first, would it be possible to get something to eat?”

Chapter 20

Allegra

Reaction sets in immediately. By the time I get to my car, my hands are shaking so hard, I almost can’t drive. Even just opening the door, fastening my seatbelt, and putting the car in gear is problematic. All of which is just sooo ironic. The contrast between last night, when Clay was so worried about whether I was safe to drive. And now, when I’m actually having difficulty—drifting out of my lane from time to time, nearly missing stop signs that have been in place my entire life, braking too late when lights unexpectedly turn red, and then failing to notice when they finally turn green again. And there’s no one to notice or care at all.

Well, that’s not completely true, is it? I’m sure Jimmy’s a little worried about me right now. And probably more than a little disappointed. I could read it in the set of his mouth, hear it in the way he cleared his voice—repeatedly—as he unnecessarily tapped the papers I’d signed into order…

* * *

“So that’s that?” I asked, clutching the arms of the chair so hard that my nails dug into the leather, leaving little crescent shaped marks that I could only hope would go unnoticed. I don’t know why I’d even asked the question. I already knew the answer, didn’t I? I’d walked in here today fully prepared to sign my life away, if need be; and I’d done it. I was just having a little trouble accepting it.

I shifted restlessly in my seat, anxious to leave, wondering, why am I here? It was done. It was over. There was no going back.

Oblivious to my rising panic, Jimmy spent the next few moments squaring the papers until they lined up perfectly with each other. And then arranging them on his desktop so that they were perpendicular to the edge—all prior to sliding them into an envelope, which probably undid all that work in an instant. And through it all, I sat there and watched, still in that same state of disbelieving panic.

To be honest, I felt kind of bad for him. For having put him in this position, forcing him to do something he so clearly did not want to do.

Same, bro; same, I thought to myself.

I could tell he felt like he was letting my grandmother down. I could see it. I could feel it. I recognized it instinctively. Because that’s how I was feeling, too.

Finally, after another long moment, he raised his eyes and fixed his gaze on me. “Yes,” he said in answer to my question. “That, as they say, is that.” But then he leaned forward and folded his hands on top of the envelope, and added, “I think we both know that this is not what your grandmother would have wanted, not in the slightest. All the same, I do think she’d have been proud of you right now. For having the courage to prioritize your family’s well-being above your own.”

“Th-thank you,” I said as my throat closed up and tears began to obscure my vision. “I hope you’re right.”

“I hope so, too.”

* * *

Anyway, I do make it home, eventually. Still in one piece and without killing anyone in the process. Yay me. But even as I park my car, I feel myself moving into a new stage of grief—anger.

That anger’s at full steam as I grab my purse and Jimmy’s envelope off the front passenger seat, swing myself out of the car and slam the door shut. I stride toward the house, under the startled gazes of my sisters and Jake who are gathered in a worried-looking knot on the front porch.

“Is he here?” I demand when I get close enough to be heard without raising my voice. “Have you seen him?”

“Legs…where have you been?” Rosa asks. “You can’t keep disappearing like this. We need to be able to get in touch with you.”

“Why?” I ask as I cross the porch. I plop myself down on the porch swing, toss my purse and the envelope on the bench seat beside me and regard my family’s faces. “What did I miss? Has something happened?”

“No. Nothing. But that’s not the point.”

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