by Gayle Hayes
"I see you're not leaving another heart attack up to chance," Phyllis said.
"And how's Nurse Ratched this afternoon?" Harold laughed.
"I'll be around to spit on your grave," Phyllis said.
"Now, you two behave yourselves," Carole said. "Babe, did you hear about Franny?"
Carole sat in the chair next to Phyllis. Harold started rearranging the pile of papers on his desk.
"I have a letter here from her attorney in New York City," Harold said. He dropped into his chair and then remembered he'd put the letter in his jacket pocket.
"Here 'tis," Harold said. "It's the damnedest thing. Frances stipulated most of her assets go to her granddaughter. Did you two know she had a granddaughter?"
"Goodness no! How old is she?" Carol asked.
"Don't know. Her attorney only sent the address. I need to write the girl a letter. She's in Colorado. Frances stipulated she has to come here to claim her inheritance. I expect that'll come as an unwelcome surprise to her," Harold said.
"Leave it to Frances to be dead and demanding," Phyllis said.
"Phyllis, did you know about Franny's granddaughter?" Carole asked.
"What makes you think I'd know something you and Babe didn't?" Phyllis asked.
"Well, you don’t need to bite my head off," Carole said. She acted more wounded than she was. "I don't understand how you can be so cold about losing Franny. I always felt like a fifth wheel when the four of us were together, and I feel just terrible to think she died like that." Carole's eyes filled with tears, and she reached for a tissue from the box Harold kept on his desk for distraught clients.
Phyllis rolled her eyes and nodded toward Carole while giving Harold a knowing look.
"I guess you know more about how she died than I do. Her attorney didn't give any details," Harold said.
Carole blew her nose. "She died in the gutter on a street in New York," Carole said.
Harold looked shocked. "Was she murdered?" he asked.
"Carole's being a little melodramatic, Babe. Frances was hit by a delivery truck when she was crossing the street. The impact threw her to the curb. She died almost instantly," Phyllis said.
Harold was quiet. "I guess I just assumed it was the cigarettes that killed her," Harold said.
"She gave those up a long time ago. The booze was her worst enemy," Phyllis said.
"Frances was her own worst enemy," Harold said.
"I hope you two don't go on about me this way when I'm dead!" Carole said. She blew her nose as if to punctuate the sentence.
"Maybe you should sue the trucking company for negligence," Phyllis said.
"As I recall, the law in New York limits awards to compensation for medical expenses and lost wages. We might get enough to cover her cremation expenses, but I don't think she was still with the ad agency. The cost of pursuing the case would outweigh any benefit to her granddaughter," Harold said.
"What makes you think she wasn't with the ad agency?" Phyllis asked.
"Her attorney said she retained him to handle an unlawful discharge from the ad agency."
"Isn't that unethical?" Phyllis asked.
"Unlawful means it's illegal," Harold said.
"I mean, isn't it unethical to tell you why she hired the attorney?" Phyllis asked.
Harold laughed. "Where do you think all those lawyer jokes come from? Nobody can make that stuff up."
Phyllis got up abruptly and headed for the door. She was satisfied Harold was not as grief stricken as she imagined. "If her granddaughter decides to come to Buffalo Jump, tell her she can stay at my place no charge," she said.
"Yes, Babe, do let us know if she plans to come. She's the only connection we have to Franny now," Carole said.
Harold walked to the door with Carole. "You gals have a nice afternoon, now. I'll be sure to keep you in the loop," he said.
Phyllis was already out of earshot, but Carole turned around and smiled sweetly, giving Harold a little wave of her hand.
CHAPTER THREE
Emma Favager shook hands with her client and headed toward her car. The attorney for her client's wife had been ill prepared, and the settlement conference dissolved into irrational and emotional outbursts. Emma tossed her briefcase on the passenger seat of her Jetta and checked for messages on her cell phone before pulling away from the curb. The settlement conference was the last item on her agenda. The temperature was in the low sixties, and Emma looked forward to spending time outside over the coming weekend.
The Six Pack parking lot was nearly empty as usual on Friday nights. Emma made it a habit to work out Sunday and Friday nights when most of the regulars were too busy starting or finishing their weekends and the gym was deserted. Emma had belonged to the gym for a year and could feel the difference in her energy and strength. She was not overweight, but she could tell her metabolism changed when she turned thirty. She showered, changed back into her street clothes, and headed home.
Emma dumped a portion of the bag of spring mix greens into a bowl, sliced a tomato on top, and sprinkled everything with fresh grated parmesan cheese. She poured a light vinegar and oil dressing over the salad and put the bowl and a glass of water with a lemon slice on a small tray. Then she stuffed the odd assortment of mail into a copy of the Harvard Review, which also had been in her mailbox, and headed out the door to the balcony, which was as long as her living room was wide.
Before eating, Emma took a deep breath and savored the fresh evening air. The balcony looked over the parking lot for the apartment complex, but the scene was an improvement over her last apartment with a view to a Kentucky Fried Chicken and McDonald's drive-up combo.
As she chewed, Emma sorted the mail. Most of it was either bills or junk. One envelope was from an unknown attorney in Montana. She tapped the envelope on the table, held it up to the light, and then ripped off one short end. As she unfolded the letter, a business card dropped into her lap. Harold B. Lowe, Attorney-at-Law, Buffalo Jump, Montana seemed to be one of a vanishing breed. He had no specialty. Emma held her breath and hoped she was not being sued.
Dear Ms. Favager:
It is with great regret and sorrow that I hereby notify you of the passing of your grandmother, Frances. Although I have not seen her these past twenty years, I still consider it my great good fortune to have met her.
Frances passed away in New York City after a tragic accident. I have since received a copy of her will along with a memorandum outlining her wishes for the allocation of her assets. In addition, I have a family heirloom Frances left to you.
Since Frances required that you appear in Buffalo Jump personally to claim your inheritance, I suggest you set aside at least a week if you are able. I have enclosed my card and will be happy to help you make these arrangements.
I look forward to meeting you.
Warm regards,
Harold B. Lowe, Attorney-at-Law
CHAPTER FOUR
Marilyn Tucker watched as members of The Good Shepherd Rescue Mission packed Frances Favager's earthly possessions to the elevator. Then she found the remaining items on her list and put a check mark by each of them.
Fortunately, the sun streamed in the two large living room windows. Otherwise, this would have been a sadder undertaking. Frances was Marilyn's best friend. In addition to losing a bridge partner and confidante, Marilyn was forced to face her own mortality. Unlike Frances, she had children to whom she would leave her treasures. Would they fly across the country to dispose of her most personal items or hire someone to hold an estate sale? There was no one else in the apartment building to whom Marilyn was more than another aging Boomer. Again, she considered her son's plea that she live closer to him in California. She was raised in various states on the east coast and viewed California as if it were an eccentric cousin that one needed to tolerate but with whom one would not choose to spend much time. Now, she watched strangers handle items that had been precious to Frances. She knew they would be sold for a pittance to support the Good Shepher
d's soup kitchen and meager overnight facilities.
Marilyn had let most of the houseplants go, but she kept the Dwarf Schefflera, African Violets, and English Ivy. She found the perfect corner out of direct sunlight for the Schefflera. She'd bought a hangar at a thrift shop to display the ivy in the kitchen. The end table would be perfect for the violets. She had given them to Frances to boost her spirits the day she received the prognosis from the cancer specialist.
Frances had recently purchased a new Buchanan sofa in pearl. Marilyn's sofa was worn and not worth covering. She donated it to the rescue mission and asked the volunteers to move the Buchanan to her apartment. The only other piece Marilyn kept was a mahogany secretary with a pheasant and foliage carved on the top and vines carved along the front at the base of the two drawers. Marilyn had sat at the desk to write the personal letters to Carole and Phyllis.
Marilyn and Frances had begun to shrink in height with bone loss, so they resorted to buying petite trousers as well as the newer jackets ending slightly below the waist. Both were a size eight, because they were obsessed with their weight. In spite of that, Marilyn decided not to keep Frances' clothes. It seemed a terrible waste to give them away after Frances hired a tailor to amend articles from higher end stores. Still, Marilyn's sensibilities recoiled at the thought of wearing something so personal. It was less difficult to give away the jewelry, because Marilyn still wore clip-on earrings, and Frances' necklaces were heavier than Marilyn liked.
The last box carted to the elevator contained the various kitchen utensils Frances had acquired. She spent hours at kitchen boutiques. Marilyn was fairly certain most of the patrons of the rescue mission thrift shop would not know what to do with egg rings, a melon baller, garlic peeler, stainless steel food loop, and lemon zester. Marilyn preferred to make do without such one-purpose utensils, especially given the smaller kitchen and lack of drawers in her apartment.
Once the volunteers from the rescue mission departed, Marilyn sat on Frances' sofa and sank into the generous cushions. Then she kicked off her shoes, stretched out while leaning against an embroidered pillow, and began looking through a box of letters she found on the floor of Frances' closet.
For the most part, the envelopes were well preserved. Some bore a postmark date of 1981 or 1982, and a return address of HBL with a post office box number for the Buffalo Jump, Montana Post Office. There was no indication that Frances considered these items to be private, so Marilyn began reading with the same interest she might have had in a conversation with Frances about the intimate details of her life.
The envelopes were bound with a red ribbon. The first one was dated July 1981. The writer took great pains to draw his letters in the ornate script one sees in legal documents archived on fragile paper.
My Dearest,
For the first time in my life, I find myself wishing the long-awaited Montana summer would fade to fall. My only hope is your mention that Claude might relent and bring John back for hunting season.
Last night I sat by the lakeshore on our wishing rock and wondered if you were enjoying the full moon. You are everywhere I look now. The natural wonders that were sufficient to my happiness are now bereft of their splendor.
Once peace loving, I find myself hoping for an international incident so Claude will leave for an extended stay.
Longing for and missing you,
Babe
CHAPTER FIVE
Harold Lowe sat behind his desk staring at the image on his laptop. It had been four months since he wrote the letter to Emma Favager suggesting she set aside a week to fulfill her grandmother's wishes. During the preceding months, Harold was visited by visions of Frances while he slept. Her memory continued to haunt him even when he was awake, catching him unaware as he shaved, walked to the office, waited for the occasional client who was late for an appointment, or stared out the window at Billy's Balsamroot Café. Now, he was entranced by the profile picture of Emma. She had sent him the link to her Facebook page so he would know what she looked like when she arrived on the flight from Denver to Great Falls.
At the airport, Harold recognized Emma instantly. She was tall and slender with a layered bob of auburn hair, some of which was tucked behind her right ear. As she chatted with another passenger while they descended the stairs, Harold heard Frances in Emma's laughter. As she drew nearer, the resemblance to Frances was even more striking than the Facebook profile. Her large brown eyes, button nose, and smile were Frances all over again. Emma was ten years younger than Frances was when Harold met her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and, instead, held out his hand.
"You must be Emma. You are the image of Frances," Harold said.
"Since you're smiling, I'll assume that's a good thing," Emma said.
The two walked toward the baggage claim while making small talk about the weather in Denver, the comfort of the flight, and the amenities of the airport. Emma had not expected the terminal at Great Falls to be so modern. She'd never been to Montana and was pleasantly surprised. Bags were already showing up on the carousel when they arrived. Emma recognized the large black bag with a hot pink pompon on it. She checked the name tag to be sure someone else did not use the same identifier and released the wheels for the trip to the parking lot.
Harold was glad Emma was preoccupied with texting and returning calls on her cell phone as they travelled to Buffalo Jump. Driving required more concentration. His home was within walking distance of everything he needed in Buffalo Jump. He never took the car out of the garage unless he stocked up on groceries or visited with a client outside of town.
In the days prior to Emma's arrival, Harold felt some anxiety about dredging up old memories of Frances. He sensed something familiar about Emma when he saw her. He began to relax, enjoying the feeling of kinship.
When they arrived in Buffalo Jump, Harold parked on the street in front of Billy's Balsamroot Café. Emma was ending a call on her cell phone when Harold opened her door.
Emma laughed. "Nobody does that anymore," she said.
Harold closed the car door and held Billy's door for Emma. She thought his old-fashioned chivalry was charming. Billy told them it would be about a five-minute wait, so they got comfortable on the bench in the foyer. Harold knew everyone who was waiting for a table with the exception of a salesman who'd come from Phyllis Carle's Buffalo Jump Inn and Art Gallery. The five minutes passed quickly. Harold asked about the grandchildren of an elderly couple for whom he had won a handsome settlement from a big insurance company. Then a teenager who'd benefitted from Harold's high marks as a judge during a recent speech and debate competition introduced Harold to his parents.
When they were seated in Harold's favorite booth, Emma commented on his conversations in the foyer.
"You must know everyone in a small town like this. Don't you wish you could go out and be anonymous?" Emma asked.
"Why would I want to be anonymous?" Harold asked.
"I just like the idea of living in a bigger city where I can go anywhere and blend in," Emma said.
"On the other hand, your picture and personal thoughts are on Facebook for total strangers to see," Harold said. Although he'd heard of Facebook, he'd never considered going there until Emma suggested it. He was selective about technology. Once he learned how much faster he could generate legal documents on a word processor, he was hooked. Sharing the most trivial activities and mundane thoughts with the world on Facebook seemed like a waste of time.
"Some people post things they shouldn't, but I like to connect with people without having to take time to meet them somewhere. I can stay in touch with people I knew while I was in school. It's a good way to find out the current buzz and what people think about it," Emma said.
After asking the waitress about her family, Harold ordered a Big Horn Burger, and Emma chose the Beaverhead waffle. A dozen other diners said hello or stopped to chat with Harold as they passed.
Emma laughed. "Isn't there anyone here who doesn't like you?" she teased.
&
nbsp; "You should've been here a few weeks ago. People were pretty upset at me for representing a California developer. The project's been put on hold while they do an EIS, so the town has calmed down a little," Harold said.
"What kind of development?" Emma asked.
"My client wants to carve up that big mountain behind the town for skiing. People are concerned about losing their quality of life. Some people say it will have a negative impact on the environment. And there's a historic pishkun up there that's important to the Indians."
"What's a pishkun?" Emma asked.
"The Indians herded buffalo there hundreds of years ago. They'd gradually coax the herd to the edge of the cliff. One of the Indians actually pretended to be a buffalo to get them to follow him. Other Indians would start a stampede. The lead Indian jumped to a rocky ledge below the cliff. The stampeding buffalo charged over the edge and dropped some fifty or so feet to the ground. Other Indians waited for them with spears and arrows to finish them off."
"I'm sorry I asked," Emma said.
"The Indians didn't do this for sport. They didn't waste anything. The buffalo was food and clothes. The hide covered their tipis. It's pretty interesting. I'll take you up there, if you'd like," Harold said.
Emma shrugged. "Sure. I've got nothing but time."
Billy waited impatiently for a couple to arrive at their table while they chatted with Harold. Then she interrupted by telling them their table was ready whenever they were.
"You wouldn't want to be having an affair in this town," Emma said. "How did you know my grandmother?"
Harold had difficulty swallowing a bit of his French fry and hoped Emma didn't notice her observation and question caused him some discomfort.
"We met at a political rally at the courthouse. Your grandpa hired an outfitter to take him and your dad into the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Frances wasn't interested in roughing it, so she stayed in Buffalo Jump. She was a pretty dedicated Republican. We met at a Rally for Reagan event. I was and still am an Independent when it comes to voting and most everything else. I was curious about the people at the rally, so I slipped in close enough to observe. The local Republican women served punch and cake for people to enjoy while they visited about politics. Frances and I reached for the same plate of chocolate cake. I don't remember much of what we talked about then. I thought Frances was the prettiest gal I'd seen around here in a long time."
