Page 7 of Six Month Wife
“Investment.” I wipe sweat off my neck with the hem of my shirt before pulling it off and tossing it on the counter. “Palm Beach real estate holds. Figured I should put some roots down. Sort of.”
“Roots, huh?” Kip raises a brow. “You sticking around?”
“Temporary roots,” I say. “I’ve been renting for ten years. I’ve lived in Virginia, South Carolina, New Orleans, and now Florida. Always in transition gets old. I wanted something that felt like mine, even if I don’t end up here long-term.”
Kip cracks open a bottle of water and leans against the counter. “You liking Good Sam?”
“Five months in, absolutely. ER’s chaos, but it works for me. The plan is to move into surgery eventually. Maybe here, maybe somewhere else if something opens up.”
“You’re hard to read, man. You sound like you want to settle down, but then you talk like you’ve got one foot out the door.”
I shrug. “Fake it ’til it feels real, right?”
Kip smirks. “Deep.”
I ignore the comment and lean on the edge of the counter, the stone cold on my skin. My eyes sweep the bare walls and unopened boxes. It’s got that eerie silence of a not-yet-lived-in place.
Kip’s phone buzzes. He glances down. “Damn. Gotta run. I’m on the hook for a post-op debrief in thirty. You good?”
“You bet, man.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Thanks for helping. Owe you a six-pack.”
“You owe me a barstool to sit on next time,” Kip calls on his way out.
I lift a hand in lazy agreement as the door clicks shut behind him. The silence rolls in fast.
I lean against the counter, drumming my fingers on the granite. The kitchen still smells like cardboard and new paint—the sterile, untouched kind of calm that makes it obvious I don’t belong here yet.
My phone rings.
I grab it and answer, even though I don’t recognize the number. With all the deliveries coming, I can’t afford to miss something important.
“Matthews.”
“Dr. Parker Matthews?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Anders Blankenship. I’m an attorney in Vermont, calling on behalf of the estate of Roger Matthews.”
My spine straightens, and suddenly I'm on high alert. This is about my uncle.
“Oh, right. Yes.”
My father called this morning to tell me his brother died unexpectedly last night. He knew I would want to know because Uncle Roger and I were especially close.
That conversation was brief. It was cordial and distant,like most things between us. It’s been hanging over me ever since. A dull weight I can’t shake.
Roger died in his sleep. It was a heart attack, and it was peaceful, apparently. At least there’s that.
I still haven't fully accepted that he's no longer here. We had plans for him to come to Palm Beach to visit once I got settled, but we never put them together.
"Why Vermont? My uncle lived in New Orleans, Louisiana."
"Your uncle owned a significant amount of real estate in Vermont. Quiet acreage, some rental properties, a small retreat near Lake Willoughby."
"Well, I'll be damned. Good for him. He never said anything about that."
I thought I knew everything about 'ol simple Uncle Roger.
