by JB Schroeder
Jonah had thought it was an awfully extravagant, overly generous gesture, but the fact was that Sohel had lost his wife long ago and had no children. Jonah had worked for Sohel so long that they considered each other family.
“You are the only one I trust to take care of everybody like I would,” Sohel had said. “I would have had to close up my establishment long ago if it wasn’t for you. Jonah, you have earned this.” And he swept his gnarled hand through the room—as proud of his narrow shop as if it was a palace.
“Still, Sohel, people just don’t hand over buildings and businesses like they’re a favorite piece of jewelry or furniture.”
“I am your boss, so you don’t argue with me,” Sohel said, and took the sheaf of papers into the back room. “This is what I want.” His accent had deepened with his conviction, and Jonah had known to drop it.
After Sohel had read through the document and declared himself satisfied, he’d again broached the subject with Jonah. When Jonah had finally been convinced that this was truly what Sohel wanted, he’d agreed.
“Thank you, Sohel. I promise to make you proud.”
Sohel had patted him on the shoulder. “You already do. Just don’t forget Mrs. Wojtiski’s triple bubble wrap.”
Now Nath said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Walker.” And he did sound genuinely regretful for Jonah’s situation. “It happens more often than we would prefer that clients discuss something with their families and friends that they never put into place legally. And a signed and notarized will is truly an ironclad document.”
“He showed me the will. He did take care of it legally.”
“Unless he signed and notarized with two witnesses present—a process handled in our office,” Nath said, not unsympathetically, “he didn’t.”
Jonah’s mind raced with possibilities and his breath was still shallow in his tight chest. Had Sohel used a different attorney? Who would that be? Could there be two wills in existence? If so, wouldn’t the one with the more recent date be honored?
Or—might Sohel have failed to complete the process?
Jonah rubbed his forehead with both hands and pushed his fingers into his temples as he cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder. The throbbing in his head continued.
“Additionally,” Nath said, “you should know that although we are still working through paperwork, Mr. Gupta does not want responsibility of maintaining the building or dealing with a renter. He is listing the property.”
The rest of the day passed in a haze of worry. A few more customers happened in. One was a local business owner who needed to reorder takeout menus. Another was an older man who always insisted on both faxing and mailing the same documents—in case one or another didn’t arrive. Old school for sure. The third was a nearby resident who needed to overnight ship a passport to her son at college for an employment background check because he’d lost his license.
Jonah knew that Sohel would have taken great pleasure in each visit, so he made sure to put on a smile and help everyone just as he would have before the rotten blow he’d received today.
Still—the visits cemented the fact that he had to find a way to prove Sohel’s intentions, so that Jonah could then honor his own promise to the man.
The one bright spot was that Willie Leon—the Willie Leon, lineman for the Pittsburgh Steelers, adored for his game-changing quarterback sacks—walked into the Print & Ship. He looked around and appeared a little confused when all he saw was racks of supplies, a wall of PO boxes, and a counter.
“Hey, man,” Willie said, “you know anything about that art in the window?”
“I’m the artist. What do you want to know?” Jonah fought the urge to go all fan crazy on the poor guy.
“That one of Kennywood—is that the only size?”
“I can make one bigger, if you want.”
“Yeah. For my son’s birthday, for his room. Real big. He’d love that. Loves that damn park. Me? If I have to ride the Jack Rabbit one more time…” Willie groaned.
“I’m surprised you even fit in those old cars.”
“I don’t. That’s the problem.”
They had a good laugh over that, sorted out sizing, cost, and pickup, and then Willie left.
Holy shit. Willie Leon’s kid would have one of Jonah’s creations hanging over his bed!
Jonah walked on air for only a few minutes before reality hit.
None of Willie’s teammates or friends or family would be buying any more of Jonah’s art. None of his son’s pals would be begging their parents for similar pieces. Nobody—famous or not—was going to be walking in off the street because they’d seen his art in the window and wanted to hang it over their bed or desk or even their guestroom toilet.
That was a huge problem. Jonah was only just becoming known for his art—in large part because of Sohel’s willingness to showcase that art in one of the front windows.
The Print & Ship was in a key location in Pittsburgh’s Strip District—arguably the neighborhood with the most foot traffic and the most tourists. And Jonah’s graphic designs of famous and not-so-famous Pittsburgh landmarks and iconic idiosyncrasies appealed to both the natives and tourists alike.
But it wasn’t just about Sohel’s windows. It was Jonah’s newfound pride.
While Jonah had always loved to draw and create, he hadn’t been at this very long. He’d always loved to draw and wanted to go to art school—but putting together a portfolio had seemed daunting. He didn’t fool himself into thinking he was all that talented anyway. His successful brothers, Jake and Jeremy, had both gotten practical degrees and made it look easy. Jonah had tried that route. But spending his parents’ money and racking up his own debt didn’t sit well when he couldn’t figure out what the hell he’d wanted to do with his life.
He’d intended to go back to school, but one year had led into another, and next thing he knew, he’d been working for Sohel for ages. A couple of years ago, after Sohel’s arthritis had gotten so bad that he could barely work a mouse, Jonah had taken over designing the business cards and flyers. He caught the bug and learned enough Adobe Illustrator to manage simple logos. Then he’d dived down the rabbit hole of Photoshop. He took a couple courses at a local college and simultaneously plowed through YouTube tutorials like he drank water after a workout. He played with effect after effect on landscapes, figures, scenery, icons, and anything that caught his interest—both during downtime at the shop and after hours.
The artist’s soul that he’d managed to ignore erupted like a vomiting rainbow, and he started creating wild, colorful things just for fun. Eventually he’d narrowed to a signature style that was all his own.
Jonah went out to the sidewalk, stepping almost into the street to eyeball the front window. He often did this in order to decide which pieces he might swap out for newer ones, which would look right in place of something that had just sold, or what he was missing.
Sidewalks in the Strip were narrow and crowded. Jonah looked right through the people crossing in front of him.
Normally it was a rush to see so many of his pieces up there all together in the shop window, and his brain would fire with ideas. Today, that feeling eluded him. Dread and worry were taking up too much space.
Because it wasn’t just the art and it wasn’t just his pride—it was that he’d started earning real money. Not an hourly wage, but an actual living. He had only just begun discovering his own worth.
He wasn’t going to tuck tail and slink off quietly. And he wasn’t willing to give up his best shot at a true livelihood without a fight.
“Fuck that,” Jonah said with all the vehemence he felt.
A woman crossing in front of him jumped, then glared.
“Sorry!” Jonah raised his hands.
Jonah navigated the pedestrian traffic and pushed back through the door.
He had to find the will that Sohel had shown him. Preferably before Kalpani and her jagoff cousin showed up again.
3
Kalpani dr
agged her depressed friend Darcy out to dinner, hoping to get her mind off her troubles. It was mid-December and the city was doing up the seasonal displays, events, and holiday music everywhere one turned—except for Darcy it only added insult to injury, because her relationship with Jeremy seemed to be over. Kalpani wasn’t sure there was much hope, and she hurt for her friend. Darcy perked up when they discussed her role in Kalpani’s future salon—but Kalpani knew even that was loaded. After her run-in with Jonah, she and Darcy had quickly put two and two together: Jonah and Darcy’s Jeremy were brothers.
Kalpani already knew what she had to do, but she needed a moment and excused herself. She went to the ladies’ room, washed her hands, and, as she was drying them, looked herself in the mirror. She puffed out her cheeks and blew out a harsh breath. Then she returned to the table, where Darcy pretended she hadn’t been checking her phone to see if Jeremy had called.
Kalpani slid into her chair and pulled out her hand lotion. As she slathered it on, she said, “I want to offer you an out of the investment in Xanadu.”
Darcy’s eyebrows shot up.
“I know you’re worried,” Kalpani said. “If Jeremy does call you, finding out you are helping me oust his brother is only going to tank things again.”
“You’d give up your dream on the slimmest chance Jeremy’s going to call me?”
“Well, no. That building is everything as far as my dream goes. But I will absolutely let you off the hook and scramble to find an investor or two. The terms surely wouldn’t be as good, but…” She shrugged. “I have some wealthy clients I could talk to.” She’d been at a high-end salon downtown for years, and many of her clients had become friends.
Darcy smiled but shook her head. “I’m okay. If Jonah had that will, or any leg to stand on, any shot at all to get the building, I’d back out. But all signs point to that building being sold fast, and from what I know, it won’t be Jonah bidding against you. Besides, I guarantee the damage is already done. If Jonah has even once mentioned your name—Jeremy knows Hellston Enterprises is helping you.”
“Because he knows how close you and I are.”
Darcy nodded. “And how strongly I feel about my work.”
Other than Jeremy, her investment business was the most important thing to Darcy. Without him? It became that much more important to her friend. Kalpani let out a big breath she didn’t even know she was holding. “Thank you.”
They’d already paid the check, so they slipped into their winter coats and grabbed their purses. They exited the restaurant into the dark and cold and headed toward Kalpani’s apartment. Darcy was parked just a block further away.
Kalpani felt Darcy looking at her and finally asked. “What?”
“You’ve never said why this salon is so important to you.”
Just then, as they approached the front of Kalpani’s building, Kalpani realized that even hidden under a large scarf covering her head and torso, she recognized the woman who’d just exited the glass door.
Kalpani called, “Meenu!”
The woman stopped, and the hunch of tension in her shoulders seemed to lift for a second—until she spotted Darcy.
“Hi,” Kalpani said, and hugged her friend. She introduced Darcy and Meenu. “Where are the kids?”
“At home. They’re fine.” Meenu spoke too quickly. “It was good to see you.” She turned to go, and Kalpani tugged on her sleeve. She wasn’t wearing a coat, or socks, or makeup. Just that big silk wrap over a sweater, jeans, and sneakers—no match for the raw chill in the evening air.
“I’ve missed you.” Kalpani did not want Meenu running off. Something was wrong—she could always tell. “Come into the lobby and get warm for a minute at least. You too,” Kalpani told Darcy.
She didn’t give Meenu a choice, simply buzzed them all in and tugged her inside. “How are the kids? Are they looking forward to Christmas? Your parents?”
Meenu supplied only single-word answers. Kalpani would have needed a magical spinning wheel to turn this into a real conversation. The harsh fluorescent light of the lobby made Meenu’s normally warm-toned skin looked wan and dull. The dark circles under her shuttered eyes stood out too, and Kalpani’s heart clenched.
Durga, she thought, give Meenu strength. It killed Kalpani that there was so little she could do to help her best friend. Maybe the Indian goddess known for strength had some ideas.
“I’ve got to go,” Meenu said. “We, umm, ran out of formula.” She rubbed her arms. “Idiot me forgot my wallet, so I’m going to have to go home and still try to make the pharmacy before it closes.” She gave Kalpani a tight smile and told Darcy it’d been nice to meet her.
“Wait—” Kalpani dug in her purse. “You’ll never make it home and back in time.” Meenu wouldn’t have been any more honest had Darcy not been here, but she wouldn’t have run as fast. Kalpani pulled a hundred dollars from her wallet and pressed it in Meenu’s hand.
“Thank you, I’ll—”
“No rush,” Kalpani cut her off. She didn’t care about the money. Meenu hadn’t yet paid her back, and she wouldn’t likely be in a position to do so anytime soon.
Meenu ducked her head and skittered away, and Kalpani’s shoulders dropped about three inches.
“Formula must be even steeper than I thought,” Darcy said.
Kalpani shook her head, watching the door close but seeing the empty space Meenu used to fill.
Finally, she turned to Darcy. “You wanted to know why?” Kalpani knew her voice was too fierce. “That’s why. Women from my culture…”
She shook her head. Meenu’s story wasn’t hers to tell.
“Not every marriage is a bad one, though, surely.”
“Of course not,” Kalpani snapped. She offered Darcy an apologetic look and let out a breath heavy with frustration and sadness. “But it’s rare for a woman to be independent or self-sufficient or even single—even here in the States. We’re always secondary and invariably under a man’s thumb. Father, then husband, and if the marriage is a bad one…” She shuddered. “It’s still very…acceptable.”
“That’s…”
“Yeah.” Kalpani thought again of her once-vibrant friend. Meenu had been college-educated, graduated summa cum laude with two degrees, accounting and economics, from Brown University. She’d even married outside of their culture—having pushed her parents to allow a love match.
“Can’t see you under anyone’s thumb,” Darcy said. Then she grinned. “Pretty sure you’d take your favorite hair shears and aim for the heart.”
Kalpani smiled. “And that is why I need to be a successful salon owner—so I don’t end up in jail for murder.”
“We’ll make it happen,” Darcy said.
“Damn straight.” Kalpani was more thankful than ever for Darcy’s support.
When Kalpani owned her own business, she’d be in a position to change things. She’d need an accountant, after all.
Saturday evening, Jonah tore the Print & Ship apart. No will.
On Sunday, he let himself into Sohel’s apartment to look there. Sohel had given Jonah a key during his last hospital stay. He’d wanted his chappals—leather slippers—his own razor, and his book. Afterward, he’d suggested Jonah keep the key.
“If I don’t show up at the shop in the morning,” Sohel had said, “you can find me before the flies.” He’d thought this funny, but Jonah hadn’t appreciated the visual.
It appeared that Sohel’s brother Ranji, or maybe his wife, had cleaned out the apartment of anything that would spoil—otherwise, the place looked much like it always did. Ranji had called Jonah to make sure he’d seen the announcement about Sohel’s services. They were nice people. Jonah would be sure to offer the Guptas his help if they needed assistance moving furniture. He could easily enlist his brothers or some friends to help.
It was hard for Jonah to be in Sohel’s private space, and he made quick work of looking through Sohel’s desk, bedside table, and bookshelf for any stacks of papers or fold
ers that looked like they could hold a will. No dice. Only a pained heart. He missed the old man terribly.
During the day Monday, he rifled through Sohel’s old-fashioned Rolodex and called the number on every card that listed a law office. Some had used their printing services at one time or another, but none had recently handled a will for Sohel.
By Tuesday Jonah was out of ideas and tried to concentrate on simply running the shop and creating art.
He closed the Print & Ship early Thursday, in order to shower and dress for the Thursday evening visitation hosted by the Gupta family at the funeral home.
Jonah picked up his mom en route. Rita Walker had fed Sohel almost as often as she’d fed Jonah over the years. Either they’d walk down to The Wanderlust for dinner after closing up, or she’d drop by with pints of soup just for Sohel.
She wrapped Jonah in a tight hug, her familiar mom smell making his eyes prickle.
“How are you holding up?” she asked, narrowing her eyes and scanning his face.
“It’s been…” He shrugged. “Strange.”
“As we both know, grieving goes through a lot of phases.”
“Grief I can handle.” He opened the car door for her, and she raised an eyebrow as she slid in.
Why had he said that? As Jonah rounded the car, he resigned himself to telling her everything. Well, not everything. The fact that he had the hots for Kalpani didn’t matter at all.
Sure enough, when he started the car, she said. “Tell me.” So, as he drove, he gave her the basics.
“Oh, hon.” Rita patted his leg. “I’m so sorry. Did you look through Sohel’s apartment, too?”
“Yes. Everywhere I can think of, I’ve looked.”
Jonah parked in the lot of the Hillendorf Funeral Home. He turned the car off. “Are you gonna be okay?”
He hadn’t been here since they’d buried his dad last spring. Hap Hillendorf, a longtime family friend had been as professional and supportive as possible, but the truth was that this place would now always hold memories of saying goodbye to Jonah’s father. At least the actual funeral and subsequent luncheon tomorrow would be held at locations he was less familiar with.
