by Sara Rosett
Felicity’s forehead wrinkled into a frown. “That’s it?” she hissed. I ignored her and smiled across the table at Mitch. I knew from his quickly closing down expression that he was touched that Grandpa Franklin had remembered those days when he and Dan had ridden the dirt bike at his house.
Felicity was vibrating like a plucked string as she whispered something in a fierce tone to Dan. He put a hand on her arm, which she jerked away. I could tell Gus was nearing the end of the will. “And I hereby give all the rest and residue of my estate, including my house, to my grandson Mitchell Steven Avery.”
Felicity exploded to her feet, the chair shooting out behind her. “What!”
Gus skewered her with a look sterner than the ones Aunt Nanette had been shooting at her. “Sit back down. I’ll finish and I think any questions you have will be answered.”
Felicity remained standing until Dan yanked on her hand and she collapsed back down into the chair he’d pulled back for her. “Not Mitch,” she said under her breath. “Dan. It’s supposed to be Dan.”
“I have arranged things this way because my children are settled and prosperous and I believe my house would be more of a burden than a benefit to them. My children have done me proud and are well established in their chosen careers. Mitch has the steady common sense to make good decisions regarding this bequest. He may keep or sell the house. There are no requirements on this bequest. I hope it provides financial security for him and his family.”
“No!” Felicity said, jumping to her feet again. “Not Mitch! We were supposed to get the house.”
The silence evaporated as excited chatter broke out around the table. Mitch? Grandpa Franklin’s house? My thoughts didn’t seem to be connecting too well. Mitch inherited the house? I looked at Mitch across the wide expanse of the conference table. He looked as stunned as I felt. Normally not one to show extremes of any emotion, his eyebrows were crunched down over his dark eyes and he was shaking his head from side to side as he said, “He never said anything.”
Felicity’s impatient whine grew louder. “There’s been a mistake. He knew how badly we need that house. It should have been us!”
Mitch broke out of his reverie. He twisted toward Gus and pressed his hand down on the table. “You’re sure? He didn’t have another will? Another version?”
Gus stood up, speaking loud enough that she overpowered the swell of voices, even Felicity’s shrill tone. “This is Mr. Avery’s final will and testament and it conveys his express wishes. He did not make these bequests lightly. I know there was long consideration about the distribution of his possessions and assets.” She looked directly at Felicity as she said coldly, “There was no duress involved and he was of sound mind when he made this will. He was absolutely sure of what he wanted to do.”
Felicity sputtered, “There’s got to be some mistake. I know he wanted us to have the house.”
“There is no mistake, I assure you. This document was witnessed and signed in this office and it will hold up to the closest scrutiny.”
Felicity dropped down into her chair and threw an evil look at Mitch, who didn’t notice because he was still stunned. “How could he? How could he give it to you?” Felicity asked, switching her venom to me. “You didn’t even visit him. He hardly knew you!”
Smarting at her vicious tone, I opened my mouth to reply, but Uncle Bud’s deep voice said, “That’s enough.” At the same time, Dan leaned over and said, “Felicity, for God’s sake, hush.” His face was flushed and his gaze darted around the room. He looked like he wished he could be anywhere but in this room.
“No, I won’t hush,” Felicity said. “What about his money? Mitch gets the rest of it, too?” she demanded of Gus.
“What do you mean?” Gus asked.
“His money,” Felicity snapped. “He had gobs of it. Besides the seventy-five thousand,” Felicity seemed to choke on those words. “The rest of his cash goes to Mitch?”
Gus gazed at her steadily, her face completely blank and professional, but I could see a vein in her neck throbbing just above the collar of her suit. “There is no additional money. It is my understanding that Mr. Avery lost quite a bit in the recent economic downturn. He liquidated his assets, except for the house, then used the money to pay off debts and pay for the funeral preplanning arrangements.” She turned to Bud, dismissing Felicity. “I’ll have a packet to give you today.”
“But that can’t be right!” Felicity said. “He was rich. Rich! He had a lot of money.”
Dan stood up and took her arm. “That’s enough.” I’d never heard him sound so firm.
She tried to shake him off. “Where’s the rest of it? We’ll hire an accountant and have you audited!” Dan pulled her forcibly to the door.
“There is no more,” Gus said flatly.
Right before Dan managed to propel her out the door, Felicity shouted over his shoulder, “Then he took it to the grave! He always did like to have cash. It’s probably in the casket—that’s why it was stolen. We’ve got to call the police . . .”
Dan finally managed to get her out of the room. He banged the door shut behind them and the rest of us sat there in the sudden silence.
“Utter nonsense,” Gus said, blowing out a breath that made her bangs flutter. “Now, I think we’re about done here . . .”
Gus wrapped up the meeting and everyone began to stand up, except for me and Mitch. Aunt Christine made her way over to Mitch. He immediately stood up to talk to her. She hugged him and then said, “Congratulations . . . I don’t know if that’s the appropriate word, but I’m glad Dad left you his house. He was right. It would have been a burden to the rest of us. You and Ellie are young and have so much energy.” She smiled across the table at me and said, “And what better person to coordinate everything than a professional organizer?”
I felt like a twenty-pound barbell landed on my shoulders. All that stuff. Except for the items listed in his will, we owned everything in Grandpa Franklin’s house. From a long distance away, I heard more relatives echoing Aunt Christine’s words as they trickled out of the room. Numbly, I moved around the table and met Mitch at the far end. Caroline was hugging him. “He made a good decision, I think,” she said. “I have to run. I have a showing in half an hour, but let us know if there’s anything you’d like us to do.” Bill echoed Caroline’s words as he patted Mitch on the back on the way out of the room. Gus was the last person to leave. She paused with her hand on the door. “I have some paperwork for you, but take as long as you want in here. Let it sink in a little before you make any decisions. Stop by my office before you leave.” She closed the door behind her.
“He left me his house.” Mitch still looked shell-shocked. He leaned against the table. “I didn’t expect . . . I mean, I never even thought . . .”
“I know. It never crossed my mind, either. We own a house now.” Our house in Georgia was a rental. “It was sweet of him to think of you. We own a house—a house that’s got to be at least, what, fifty years old?”
“Probably closer to eighty. I think he told me it was built in 1930.”
“An eighty-year-old house.” I sank down beside him. “Think of the maintenance,” I said, remembering the older bungalow we’d owned in Washington state. I loved the older homes with their loads of charm and character, but after living in one, I now knew they also came with old pipes and wiring, smaller rooms, and miniscule closets. “And it’s in a city we don’t live in. What are we going to do with it? And with all his stuff?” I closed my eyes at the enormity of the job we’d just been handed. “We can’t live in it. Should we sell it? Rent it? Could it be a . . . a vacation home,” I stumbled over the words because they were so absurd. Us owning a vacation home? I wanted to laugh, but sobered as another thought struck me. “Taxes. What will this do to our taxes?”
“I don’t know.” Mitch drew in a deep breath and said, “We’re going to approach this as he intended, as a gift.” He took my hand as he spoke. “A huge, unwieldy gift, but we’re go
ing to accept it in that spirit. We’re going to take things step by step and figure out what’s best.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, studying his face for a moment. He looked more like his old self, a bit calmer. Taking things slowly was his normal operating procedure.
His steadiness made me feel a little bit better, but the enormity of the whole situation . . . a house and everything in it. “It’s such a huge gift, Mitch. What are we going to do?” I asked.
“First, we’re going to follow my wife’s excellent organizing advice. You always say to break the big projects into smaller jobs. We’re going to divide this massive thing into smaller pieces and work on each one. What should we tackle first?”
“I suppose that would be making sure we find all the items Grandpa Franklin wanted to give to people. Once those things are out of the house, we can clean out . . . or sell . . . or give away . . . or store . . . everything else. What will we do with the rest of his things?”
“Don’t know,” Mitch said, and pulled me up to stand beside him. He wrapped one arm around my shoulders as we walked slowly to the door. “We’re going to take care of the bequests. That’s our first order of business. One thing at a time, remember?”
“Right. Good plan,” I said as Mitch opened the door and we walked down the hallway.
“Hey, besides the house, you’re also the owner of a sword and a dirt bike.”
Mitch’s face broke into a grin. “I know. Nathan is going to love that dirt bike.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Not now. In a few years. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”
“We’ll see,” I said, determined to keep that dirt bike stored in the garage. The garage! I hadn’t even looked in there, but Mitch had said Grandpa Franklin was using it for storage since he sold his car. I shuddered. Who knew what had been crammed in there?
Ellie Avery’s Tips for Preserving Family Treasures
Storing Photographs
• Organize photos into albums or boxes. Use archival quality plastic sleeves and boxes so that the photos will last longer. As you organize photos, jot down the time frame or theme of each album or box (“London trip” or “kindergarten through third grade”), then you can create a master list with the location of all your photos.
• Negatives will last longer if stored in special archival sleeves.
• Due to the extreme temperature variations of garages, attics, and basements, these are usually not ideal places to store photographs. Store photographs in a low-humidity area with a fairly constant temperature.
Another option is to scan your photos and save them digitally. Make sure you back up your data.
Chapter Fourteen
“Oh my goodness,” I said, holding onto the heavy wooden garage door I’d just shoved open. Gus had given us a set of keys when we left the attorney’s office and, after a quick stop for a sandwich, we’d driven straight to Grandpa Franklin’s house. Mitch had unlocked the padlock and wrestled the other door open. He stood opposite me, his hands braced on his hips. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t that the garage was messy. Everything was arranged in tidy lines. Row after row of identical boxes took up the left side of the double garage. A cleared path ran down the middle from front to back. On the right side, groupings of items were arranged in exact order. The lawn equipment, a mower, leaf blower, edger, and various rakes and shovels were near the door. Tools were arranged on a peg board beside a large workbench. There were sections of lawn furniture, appliances, and bicycles.
“It’s almost like being in a department store,” I said as I walked down the cleared aisle, pausing to look at an arrangement of boxes labeled for the kitchen. I read the precisely lettered writing on the side of one box, “Backup toaster, coffeemaker, can opener.” I looked back at Mitch, “He had spare appliances?”
“Yep. Always wanted to be prepared. If he found a deal on something, he bought it and saved it in case what he was using broke.”
I spun in a slow circle, trying to take it in. I stopped and rubbed my hands over my eyes. It was too much. Too much stuff. I couldn’t comprehend it all and that surprised me. I moved my hand down over my mouth and just stood there, dumbfounded. I’d helped people organize all kinds of different things and the size of the job had never made me feel like I’d been steamrolled.
“Ellie, you okay?” Mitch asked, walking toward me.
“Ah—not really. Mitch, all this stuff is ours,” I said. “Ours.” I worked hard to keep our lives light and sleek and efficient. There was no need to move extra stuff every time the military packed us up and sent us to a new address, but in just a couple of hours the things—the stuff we owned—had doubled. Maybe tripled. I turned to the rows of identical boxes lined up with military precision on the left side of the garage and read one of the printed labels. There was a string of numbers and the word “Avery.” I read the final line aloud, Stars Fall: Memoirs of an Alabama Boy. Mitch, what is this?”
Mitch looked up from a paper he’d pulled from his back pocket. “Those? Copies of Grandpa Franklin’s memoir. He wrote it a few years ago. Remember, he sent us a copy? It was pretty interesting. All about him growing up.”
I did remember the book. I’d read it, too. I looked over the conglomeration of boxes. There were so many rows that I lost track when I tried to count them. Stacked to the height of my shoulder, the rows of dusty brown cardboard seemed to stretch out across the garage as numerous as the Xi’an warriors. “Why are there so many boxes?”
Mitch didn’t look up from the paper this time. “He self-published. The company printed the books and he stored them here. Last year, he was trying to get the local big box bookstores to carry them.”
I looked at the label again. “There’s forty per carton . . . that’s more than I can count.”
“Probably a couple thousand copies.”
What were we going to do with thousands of copies of the same book? I turned away from the stacks of boxes. I paced down to the far end of the garage, then back to where Mitch was standing by the open doors. Okay, it wasn’t as bad as it could be, I told myself. It could be a jumbled mess that I had to sort out first. At least Grandpa Franklin had been an organized pack rat.
“I can’t believe we own all this stuff,” I said. I knew I was repeating myself, but I was really thrown for a loop.
“We don’t own it all,” Mitch said as he tugged open the flaps of a box. “For instance, this box full of photo albums goes to Aunt Nanette.”
In the parking lot of Gus’s office, Uncle Bud had given Mitch a list with all the bequests. He’d asked us to find and distribute the items. “Right,” I said, dusting my hands off. “Let me see that list. What else can we get out of here?”
An hour later, I stretched and arched my back. My fingers were numb and my nose was running after being in the cool air so long. Inside the garage, the air was still chilly and I could see my breath, but the sun was beating on the stiff, yellow grass outside the garage doors. Mitch waved as he backed out of the driveway. Grandpa Franklin’s will was a game-changer. It had pushed away the tension and stress between us and made us focus on working together instead of struggling with each other. I knew those differences, those conflicts, were still there, but for now, we had the house to deal with and that was our focus.
Mitch made a three-point turn, which kicked up a few bits of gravel and a little dust before the minivan lumbered away. Besides the photo albums, we’d also loaded the tools into the van. Mitch was going to drop those things off and return for another load.
I’d found a box of old newspapers and a stack of flattened boxes. I searched the area around the tool bench until I found a roll of packing tape. I avoided looking at the boxes as I left the garage. They still overwhelmed me.
What did you do with that many books? Could you give them away? I hated the thought of throwing books away, but what else would we do with them? Everyone in the family already had copies and, apparently, the bookstores weren
’t interested in selling them. We’d figure it out later, I reminded myself as I lugged the packing supplies to the house, leaving the garage doors open. I could pack up Aunt Nanette’s china. The furniture in the guest bedroom and the roll-top desk would have to be moved another day.
I was unlocking the front door with the keys Mitch had left me when a black Camry crunched over the gravel driveway. The door stuck and I leaned into it with my shoulder as I watched Detective Kalra step out of the car. Today she was dressed in a wool jacket over a thick blue sweater and tan corduroy pants.
“Hello,” she said as she climbed the steps. “Moving things out already?”
“Not for me,” I said as I picked up the flattened boxes. “Would you like to come inside?” I asked. “I think the temperature is dropping.”
“Thanks.” She picked up the box of newspapers and followed me inside. “A cold front’s coming through. There’s a possibility of frost tonight.”
I hid a smile. From her tone, you would have thought that a blizzard was on the way. I still couldn’t get used to the thought that a hard frost was a big deal, but here, like in middle Georgia where we lived, an overnight low of thirty-two or below was a major weather event. If the temperature was forecast to go below freezing, the local weather forecasters warned viewers as if a tornado had touched down. We’re talking extensive coverage of the freeze warning with news anchors reminding people to bundle up. Did they really think we were such idiots that we couldn’t figure out when we needed to wear a coat? And the plants. The forecasters would advise viewers to cover plants. It was almost a battle cry, “Hard frost possible—save the begonias!”
