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Aunt Zee’s friend and lawyer, Bobby Cattrall, finds me anyway. I’ve known him most of my life, and I’ve always called him by his first name. After a brief word of condolence, he tells me that he’d like me to drop by his office later in the afternoon. Says I should come hear what’s in the will, since I’m in town.
I swallow a bite of broccoli casserole, which goes down hard. “Can’t it wait?” I’m not looking forward to cleaning out Aunt Zee’s house, but the sooner I start, the sooner I can leave.
Bobby pushes white hair off his forehead. “No, Miss Flora, it can’t. There are a few things in it that might surprise you. Come on by after the reception, and we’ll get into it.”
By 5 p.m. I’m ensconced in one of the worn leather armchairs in Bobby’s office, still wearing the only black dress I own, still a little shaky from the funeral service and seeing the man who is my husband. Bobby leaves his office door open, presumably so he can shout through it to his secretary, Rita. But Rita comes in with red eyes and pats my shoulder, telling me how she and Zinnia played bridge every week for years and years, and it just won’t be the same anymore.
I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. Bobby clears his throat, and Rita says she’s leaving for the day. The door stays open.
“So what’s so shocking in this will?” I ask. Aunt Zee had no other relatives, and no causes she was particularly devoted to. Three months ago, she’d started a renovation of her house, a big Victorian on Willett Street that had seen better days and was always too big for just the two of us. She told me on the phone that she’d begun planning to relocate to a retirement complex in Boone, and she thought she’d get her house ready to sell.
“I’ll read it. ‘I, Zinnia Jane Butler, being of sound—’”
I interrupt. “Summarize, please, Bobby. This day is long enough.”
He takes a long breath in through his nose. “Well. The upshot of it is that you inherit everything.”
“I expected that.”
“But only under certain conditions, Flora.” That’s odd enough that my brow furrows in confusion, and I wave my hand at the lawyer to get him to continue. “Three major conditions, as follows. Firstly—” He looks up at me again, over his reading glasses. “First, you must wait to sell the property until the house renovation Zinnia started is complete.”
“Oh lord. How long is that likely to take?” I’d taken two weeks of leave to deal with Zee’s stuff.
“It’s hard to say, exactly. Within the next six months, I expect,” Bobby says. “Secondly, your aunt wished for the contractor she hired to retain his quarters in the house until the renovations as laid out in the contract are completed. The contract is quite detailed, so I don’t think we need to worry about the criteria for when it’s ‘done.’”
I shrug. It’s an odd way to do business, but Aunt Zee was particular about things like that. “Fair enough.”
“And thirdly, you yourself must live in the house until it is ready to go onto the market.”
I stand up, suddenly so outraged that I feel like throwing my half-drunk cup of coffee straight across Bobby’s desk at him. “How the hell am I going to do that? I have a job. In California. I can’t live here!”
Bobby looks at me calmly. “Zinnia said you’d say that. She also said you mentioned remote work as an option for you now, and I’m afraid she was quite definite about her wishes. You must live in the house for the next six months, or the estate passes to various charitable organizations.”
I shake my head, dumbfounded and angry. “She can’t do that.”
“Actually, she can.” Bobby’s expression is sternly sympathetic. “She was within her legal rights to do so. I doubt very much you’d find a judge to overturn it.”
I turn around and look out the window at the bookshop next door, still doing brisk business. “So I’d have to live here for at least six months?” I ponder the possibility. I could work remotely, it’s true. I could do my job from here. “Who’s the contractor, by the way? Aunt Zee never said.”
“Well, that’s the other thing,” Bobby says, and now he sounds nervous. The outer door opens and I hear footsteps in the hall. “We’re back here,” Bobby calls, and three seconds later, my husband walks into the room. His dark blue eyes meet my stunned ones.
“Miss Zinnia hired Everett Hayes.”
