Page 14 of A SEAL's Heart
So why has he left me his goddamn house?
“Look.” The lawyer’s expression softens. “If you want to contest it, you can. Or you could take the property and do with it what you will. Sell it to the family for a dollar if that makes you feel better. But my advice is, unless you have a sound reason not to, you should respect the wishes of the deceased.”
He’s right. Jake wanted this. I will never know why. But it was his wish.
I grunt once and hold up my fingers, miming signing.
The lawyer smiles, relieved I’m letting him do his job and not going to cause problems.
“If you come back to my office, we can sign the papers and I’ll hand over the key.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of number 34 Willis Road. It’s a two-story brick house, tall and thin with an attic window.
The grass out front is cut short. Someone’s been taking care of the place, and I bet it’s Jake’s parents. I spin around 180 degrees in time to watch the Monroes pull up into their driveway.
Jake is the only person I know who would buy a house directly opposite his parents. Most grown up kids want a little distance, but not Jake. Family was everything to him. I guess he was thinking of the days when he had a wife and kids and the support a military wife would need from his folks.
That was Jake, always thinking three steps ahead.
The white picket gate swings open, and I walk up the well-kept path. No blade of grass is out of place, and someone has cut the edges around the path with military precision. I’ll bet that’s the admiral’s work, keeping a tidy ship.
I hold the key in my palm, feeling the weight of it before sliding it into the lock.
The door opens without a creak, and I step into my new house. The place smells musty, as if it hasn’t been aired out in a while. There’s a stack of letters on the kitchen counter. But it’s clean.
The furniture is homey, IKEA couches and a wide screen TV on the wall.
Next to the TV is floor to ceiling shelving with ornaments, picture frames, and knickknacks.
One shelf contains books, and I finger the spines as I read the titles.The Guns of August, The Art of War, American Sniper. Jake loved reading about the military almost as much as he loved being in it.
A shiver runs down my spine. This was Jake’s house, the place he made into a home. The place he wanted to fill with a wife and kids.
I pull my hand away from the books, not wanting to disturb anything.
Even my footfalls on the wooden floor feel like an intrusion. I don’t belong here. This isn’t my space. It’s Jake’s.
I take the stairs to the second level. The carpet is soft under foot, and I pad into the primary bedroom.
A gray comforter covers the bed, and the pillow is fluffed, waiting for Jake to come home. By the bed is a nightstand with a worn copy ofBravo Two Zero,a bookmark left between the pages.
I back out of the room and bump into a table in the hallway. This all feels way too weird, too intrusive.
I close the door to his room. No matter if I decide to stay or not. There’s no way I’m sleeping in Jake’s room.
There are two other rooms on this level. One is a home gym. The other is a spare bedroom with the bed made up.
There’s always a bed for you at my place.
How many times had Jake said that to me? I thought it was a friendly gesture. I didn’t realize he was being literal. Did he keep this room made up just for me, or did he have other guests?
It still doesn’t feel right being here. None of it feels right.
Jake wanted you to have it. It’s yours.Amos’s word echo through my mind.
Jake left this for me. Did he know I’d need it? Did he know I’d be sleeping in a racoon-infested shack in the woods?
Was it pity, or was it an observant friend with a bigger heart than most?
