Page 37 of Mourner for Hire
“Because she has someone living in her beach cottage. A stranger living in her favorite space. It’s not right.” I stand from the chair because I can’t bear it anymore. The concept. The execution. The deception of her job. I don’t care that I thought she was funny or pretty or the fact that I kissed her—and God, I loved kissing her. Up until she got all weird and started sobbing, but still. I’m shutting down my own humiliation by letting her charm me and ensuring she doesn’t get a dime from my mother. I whip around and practically shout, “The woman is a fraud—she attends random people’s funerals for money, Sully!”
“Trust me, you don’t want to contest it, Dunner.” Sully stays seated with his fingers interlaced as he calmly taps his thumbs against each other.
“Oh, but I do. You won’t change my mind, and if you won’t rep me, then I’ll have no issue going across town to have Bernadette do that job.”
My threat goes stale as Sully patiently stares at me before rolling his eyes and pointing at the chair across from his desk. When I sit, he buzzes Lynnette.
“Lynnette, can you bring in Annabelle Dunne’s will, please?”
My chest tightens. “I’ve read the will, Sully?—”
“You’re forgetting a part,” he says as Lynnette comes in with a thick manila envelope.
“I’m not. Trust me. I’ll never forget all the crazy stuff she wants her to do?—”
He flips open the will to the last page and spins it toward me, pointing to Section VIII.
I stare at him a beat before finally relenting and letting my eyes drift to the words on the page.
Contest
If any beneficiary or would-be beneficiary under this Will shall in any manner contest or attack this Will or any of its provision, then in such event I hereby give, devise and bequeath such contestant the sum of One Dollar ($1.00) only and specially revoke all other provisions hereof in favor of such contestant. Therein all provisions revoked by the contestant will be split evenly among the other beneficiary.
My blood runs cold by the time I finish reading. There’s no fucking way.
“Son, do you understand what this means?” Sully asks, and I nod reluctantly. “If you contest this will, thatwomanwhom you seem to detest so much will inherit all of your mother’s assets and money, and you will get one dollar.”
“Fuck!” I slam a fist on the will and stand again.
I pace the room—the rage coursing through me with a current that prohibits me from sitting down. Pressing my hands against my head, raking my fingers through my hair, I huff out a few breaths before willing myself to calm down.
“Like I said, Dunner. The will is ironclad.”
“The will is bullshit,” I huff. “And listen, I’m well aware I seem like a child throwing a fit, but surely, you have to understand why I’m angry and why this makes zero sense. You knew mymother. You know me. No one knows this lunatic, stealing from the grieving and disrupting our lives at the worst possible time.”
Sully sits back. “She knew you’d react this way, and that’s why she made sure I put in the section. She said it was the only way you’d agree to it. She said you aren’t greedy enough to care how much you get, but she knew you’d care about the legacy.”
I swallow. The saliva in my mouth has turned to sticky, sour sap. “She’s living in her cottage, Sully. I haven’t—” I choke over the words. “I haven’t even gone through the cottage yet, and I’m expected to let this woman do it for me.”
“Her name is Vada, and she is probably quite lovely.”
She is,my brain unapologetically reminds me, and steam billows out of my ears.
“But why?” I beg the question. I’m not remiss enough to ignore the ache in my voice.
“Your mother had her reasons.”
“Which were?” I lean over the desk, bracing the thick wood with enough force, it might splinter.
He blows out a slow breath. “She said you’d understand at the end of Ms. Vada’s time here.”
That’s it. My mother was nothing but cryptic, and a part of my soul is hurting because she’s doing this to me. Death already feels impossible enough. One day, she’s here, making pot roast and apple cider donuts while listening to Bonnie Raitt and begging me to settle down with a woman with a backbone. And the next, I’m walking through her empty house that still smells just like her; only now, there’s no pulse or rhythm. The music no longer plays and she’s just… gone.
I leave his office in the same way I entered, only this time, I’m even more angry.
“Dunner, calm down before you get too worked up?—”
I don’t listen. Each step until I hit the parking lot is fueled with rage and fire. I slam the door to my Jeep shut and squeal out of the parking lot.
