by Jeff Shelby
Her face fell and she couldn't hide her disappointment. “Oh.”
I told her everything Wellton had shared with me, including the point about how we sometimes drive differently alone than when other people are in the car. She listened closely, nodded occasionally, and sipped at the coffee. When I was done, she stared at her cup without saying a word for a few minutes.
“Okay,” she finally said, looking up. “I guess that's it.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I know you thought there might be more.”
“Which might not have been a good thing, either,” she admitted. “Not like it would've brought him back.”
“No, it wouldn't have,” I said. “You're right.”
She leaned back in the chair. “Thank you for trying. And for not treating me like I was loony.”
“Never thought it for a moment,” I said.
“What do I owe you?”
“Not a cent,” I said. “It was literally two five-minute phone calls to a friend. It was no trouble at all.” Apart from referring to Wellton as a friend, this was all true.
Her mouth set in a firm line. “Alright. Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”
“Like I said, no trouble at all.”
She started to say something else but her phone vibrated on the table next to her coffee. “I think this is my dentist. Excuse me.”
“Of course.”
She picked up the phone, tapped the screen, and answered it.
I looked out the window. I could just make out the sign for The Blue Wave down Mission. It was nearly hidden by the sign for the twelve-story condo building next to it, but you could see just enough of it to know what it was. It seemed symbolic.
“Alright,” Anne said, sounding unsure of herself. “Yes, if you'll send me the address, I can come over. Of course.” She paused. “Thank you.” She took the phone from her ear, stared at the screen for an extra moment, then punched it off.
“Bad news?” I asked, watching her. “Cavities?”
She started to laugh, but the sound never quite made its way out of her. “No. It was an attorney.” Her voice wavered just a little. She took a breath. “He represents Mitchell's estate. He asked if I could come to his office. They are reading his will and I'm supposed to be there.”
I frowned. “And you didn't know that?”
She shook her head. “No. I had no idea. The attorney said it was part of the process that was laid out by Mitchell.”
I nodded, not sure what to say.
“The office is over in La Jolla,” she said, glancing at the phone. “He wants me to come now.”
“Right now?” I repeated.
She nodded and looked down at the phone again, fiddling with it. Her brow was furrowed.
“What's wrong?” I asked. “You don't want to go?”
“I don't know why I'm going,” she said. “It's weird. And...this is going to sound really strange, but attorneys give me PTSD. Stems from my divorce. Makes me ill to even think about stepping foot in an office.”
“Understandable,” I said, nodding.
“Why would they want me there?” she asked. She sounded as puzzled as she looked.
“I'd assume he left you something in his will,” I said.
She thought for a moment, then smiled. “There was this painting. In the front office.” Her expression turned almost dreamy and I could tell she was picturing it in her mind. “Did you ever see it?”
“I don't recall.”
“It was of the pier and the beach on the other side of the motel,” she said. “He paid a guy on the boardwalk to do it. I loved it, and he knew it. Teased me about stealing it. He said, ‘If I ever come in one day and find this missing, I’ll know exactly who took it.’ I wonder if that's it.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Very well could be,” I said. It would be a sweet, sentimental gesture, and very much in line with the type of guy Mitchell Henderson was.
She laid her hands flat on the table and it was easy to see they were shaking.
She noticed me noticing. “I wasn't lying about the PTSD thing,” she said. Her voice and expression had hardened, all memories of the painting now gone.
“I didn't think you were.”
She folded her hands together. “Could I ask a huge favor of you?”
“Sure.”
“Would you mind driving me over there?” she asked. “I just...I just don't trust myself to get behind the wheel when I feel like this.”
I had other things to do and I really had no interest in traversing the traffic to La Jolla. But I could tell she was in bad shape.
I stood. “Yep, let's go.”
ELEVEN
The Law Offices of Kirby Renfroe were tucked into a small center near Fay and Pearl, in the middle of downtown La Jolla. The shingle outside was white with blue lettering and I'd managed never to see it before. I found a parking spot across the street and we crossed toward the offices.
On the way over, Anne expressed her anxiety over walking into a law office and tentatively asked if I'd go in with her. My inclination was to say no because of what she was walking into, but she was in fairly bad shape and I didn't want to make it more difficult on her.
I held the door to the office open for her and we stepped inside. The office was actually just a single room, no reception area or entryway. Considering what rent probably cost, this didn’t surprise me. It was a small space, and the man behind the desk on the far side of the room looked up when we entered.
So did the several other people seated in the chairs in front of him.
“You must be Ms. Sullivan,” the man behind the desk said. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with a thick shock of hair that was slightly more brown than gray.
“I am,” Anne said, her voice shaking.
The man stood and came around the desk, maneuvering past the other people sitting there. He offered his hand to Anne. “I'm Kirby. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I failed to realize you hadn't been contacted. Completely my error.”
He turned to me. He was thin, just short of six feet, and wore a very expensive-looking navy suit with a white shirt and a purple tie. He held out his hand. “Hello, I'm Kirby Renfroe.”
I shook his hand. “Noah Braddock.”
He looked me over, studying me through his rimless glasses.
“I asked him to come with me,” Anne said. “I needed a ride.”
“Ah, I see,” Kirby said. “I don't mean to be indelicate here, but unless you are a named party in the estate, you cannot be present for the reading.”
I nodded. “I understand. I'm happy to wait outside.”
He seemed relieved that I was not putting up a fight.
I looked at Anne. “I'll be right outside. No rush.”
She touched my elbow. “Thank you.”
I nodded at her, then smiled at Kirby Renfroe. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” he said. “And thank you for understanding.”
I walked back outside and he pulled the door closed behind me.
There was a small bakery next door, a business I had noticed before but had never visited. I went in and bought a bagel sandwich and a bottle of water, and parked myself at one of the two small metal tables out front.
I ate my sandwich.
I drank my water.
I scrolled through my phone.
I watched the people on the street.
Forty-five minutes later, Anne walked out.
Her face was pale and she almost didn't seem to comprehend where she was. She looked in my direction, but it was like she was looking through me.
I stood up and tossed my garbage in the can near the table. “You okay?”
She blinked several times, her eyes elsewhere. “What?”
“Are you okay?” I asked again.
“Um. Yeah,” she stammered. “Well, no. Can you come in here for a minute? I just need...can you come in?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
I follow
ed her back into Kirby Renfroe's office.
Everyone in the room was standing: Kirby, the woman I recognized from the funeral who was at the end of the receiving line, a younger woman, and another man in his seventies.
They all had the same look Anne was wearing when she came outside.
Renfroe smiled at me. “Mr. Braddock. Did Ms. Sullivan share the news with you?”
“She did not,” I said.
All eyes turned to her.
“He left me the motel,” Anne said. “Mitchell left me The Blue Wave.”
TWELVE
I looked around the room, then back to Anne. “What?”
She laughed. “Mitchell left me the motel. It's mine.”
“Wow,” I said, not bothering to hide my surprise. “Okay, then.”
“It's true,” Renfroe said, his hands clasped behind his back. “Mr. Henderson left the motel to Ms. Sullivan. It's now hers.”
“Unbelievable,” the older woman whispered.
The older man was smiling.
The younger woman didn't seem to be paying attention, her eyes focused on her phone, her thumbs tapping at the screen.
Anne held up an envelope. “He left me a letter.”
I wasn't sure what to say. “Oh.”
“Mr. Henderson was clear that he wanted the letter delivered specifically to her on this day, whenever it occurred,” Renfroe explained.
Anne was crying now. “He said he was leaving it to me because I loved it as much as he did. He said no one else would know what to do with it. Just me.”
Renfroe pulled a tissue from the box on his desk and handed it to Anne. She took it and wiped at her eyes.
“There are, of course, some legal formalities,” Renfroe said. “The deed of ownership, tax documents, things of that nature. But as soon as those are completed, the motel will be Ms. Sullivan's.” He looked around the room. “This will be the same for all parts of Mr. Henderson's estate. There will be paperwork for everyone to complete.”
The older woman frowned.
The older man continued smiling.
The younger woman continued typing.
Anne looked at me. “I don't know what to do.”
“I don't think you have to do anything today,” I told her. I looked at Renfroe. “Is that right?”
Renfroe nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Of course. It's perfectly fine to take some time, absorb it all, get your ducks in a row. I'll be available whenever needed.”
I nodded and smiled at Anne. “So maybe the best thing to do is to take a deep breath right now and set up a time to do the paperwork later in the week.”
Renfroe nodded in agreement.
“I guess,” Anne said. She looked a little shell-shocked. “I can't believe I own the motel. I've never owned anything like this before. I don't even know what to do.”
“I'm sure Mr. Renfroe will be able to provide some guidance,” I said.
“Absolutely,” Renfroe said, a warm smile on his face. “I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
“Great,” I said. I turned to Anne. “So maybe we can get you out of here so you can get some air and gather your thoughts?”
Anne Sullivan looked at me and laughed. “I can't believe I fucking own The Blue Wave.”
THIRTEEN
We stood outside for a moment. Anne's eyes were still huge and I was more certain than ever that she was in a state of mild shock. She was blinking and looking at me, but it was like she wasn't really seeing me.
“Is this real?” she asked. “How can this even be real? Why would he leave me the motel?”
I shrugged. “I guess he just thought you were the person who would know what to do with it.”
“But I don't,” she said, shaking her head. “I don't know the first thing about running a motel.”
“Mitchell obviously thought differently.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled. Her hands were shaking and the letter Renfroe had given her was trembling in her fingers. “I...I don't know what to do.”
“You don't have to do anything right now,” I said. “Like we said in there, there's no rush. You can take some time.”
She nodded, but I wasn't sure she was comprehending what I was telling her.
The door to the office opened behind us and I turned around.
The older woman led the procession out, with the younger woman behind her, eyes still glued to her phone, and the older gentleman bringing up the rear. The older woman turned and said something to both of them. They both nodded and continued past her and around the corner.
She faced us and her eyes moved from Anne to me. “I don't believe we've met,” she said to me. “I'm Rose Henderson.”
She wore a light gray dress with matching flats. Her gray hair was nearly as short as mine, and the dark makeup she wore accentuated the sharp angles of her face. Everything about her was severe.
“I'm Noah,” I said, offering my hand. “I'm sorry for your loss.”
Her hand was ice cold. “Thank you. You knew my husband?”
“I did,” I told her. “For a long time.”
She studied me, then nodded. “And you're a friend of Anne's?”
“We went to high school together,” I said.
She blinked, waiting for me to tell her more. Her eyes were the color of her hair.
I didn't say anything.
“I asked him here for moral support,” Anne said, quickly. “We were having breakfast when Mr. Renfroe called. I was confused. I asked Noah to drive me.”
Rose Henderson pursed her lips. “I see. Well, alright then.” She forced a smile in Anne's direction. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“I...I don't know what to say,” Anne stammered.
“I'd imagine not,” Rose said curtly. “You weren't aware that Mitchell was leaving you the property?”
“I had no clue,” Anne said. “I'm still in shock.”
“Yes,” Rose said. “Of course. As am I.”
We stood there awkwardly for a moment.
“I won't pretend to be otherwise,” Rose said. “I was under the impression that all of Mitchell's estate would be left to me.”
“Oh,” Anne said.
“And I'll be frank,” Rose continued. “My plan was to sell the motel.”
“Sell it?” Anne said, her eyes widening. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Rose said, irritated. “I do not envision myself as a motel proprietor and the sale of the motel would've provided me with enough to cover our debts, as well as provided me the ability to take care of myself for the remainder of my years.” She lifted her chin. “But I guess that was not what Mitchell intended.”
Rose was very clearly angry at the fact that her husband had left the motel to Anne. I wasn't sure what her angle was, though. There was a letter from Mitchell and Renfroe had the instructions. It wasn't Anne's fault.
“What will you do with the motel?” Rose asked.
“I don't know,” Anne said. “I really don't know. I wasn't expecting any of this.”
Rose nodded, pursing her lips again. “Clearly.” She paused and adjusted the purse on her shoulder. “I'd advise you to sell it. And there are two routes you could potentially take.”
“I'm not sure now is the best time for Anne to be making any decisions about anything,” I said, breaking into their conversation. “As Mr. Renfroe said, there's no hurry to do anything.”
“You could sell it to me,” Rose said, ignoring me. “I'm certain that I'd be able to secure financing to purchase it from you in a way that would be fair for both of us.” Her eyes bore into Anne. “I think we can both agree it should be mine anyway.”
Anne gave her a confused look. “What?”
Rose made a grunting sound and shook her head, annoyed that she was having to explain everything. “I was married to Mitchell. You were not. I'm sure he had his reasons for leaving the motel to you, but you didn't share his life like I did. I was a part of that business. I've spent many hours there
and—”
“Anne worked there before Mitchell knew you,” I interjected. “Just to be clear.”
Rose's mouth hardened, an angry red slash on her face, and she stared at me for a good ten seconds.
I stared back. I could understand her being upset, but I didn't appreciate her trying to guilt and intimidate Anne into just giving her the motel. If she really wanted to challenge the will, there were legal channels she could pursue. But bullying her outside of the attorney's office wasn't one of those channels.
“I am aware,” Rose said with narrowed eyes. “My point is that Mitchell may have intended to change his will at some point and didn't get around to it. I've poured money and time into that motel. I feel a relationship to it.”
I didn't get that sense at all. “Great. You said there were two routes. What's the other one?”
“I think maybe you should let Anne speak for herself,” Rose snapped.
“What's the other one?” Anne asked, her voice with a sharper edge than before.
Rose must've heard it, too, because she stood up a little straighter, maybe surprised. “I'm merely suggesting that if you do not want the motel, you don't have to keep it. I told Mitchell the same thing when the developers came calling.”
“What developers?” Anne asked.
Rose sighed, still annoyed.
I was guessing that Rose was annoyed a lot.
“Surely, you can guess that the motel's location is highly valued,” Rose said, frowning. “There simply aren't many lots like that available with such proximity to the ocean. For years, developers made overtures to Mitchell, offering him more money than he could have ever dreamed of.” Her gaze softened for a moment. “But Mitchell always refused. Always.” Her steely gaze returned. “Recently, there were two particular groups that made formalized offers to him for the property. I'm not even sure if he looked at them.”
“He never would've sold The Blue Wave,” Anne said. “Never.”
“I am aware of that, dear,” Rose said. “I am so very aware of that. Even when it was in his best interest, he wouldn't even consider it.” She glanced down the street. “My daughter and my brother are waiting for me.” She glanced at me. “Like yourself, they accompanied me for support.”
