“Bud’s real good to us about bringing in our animals,” she said.
Bud and his family were the owners. I hadn’t met them, but I’d bet they knew who I was, since everybody else did.
“Shortcut.” Stacy opened the back door and held the three little dogs out with her foot, gesturing for me to go in. We passed the bathrooms on one side and a copier/fax machine the size of an eighteen-hundreds printing press on the other. Then we entered the tiny dining area. The scent of beef flooded my olfactory system and sent it into a virtual orgasm. The tables were small, and the space between them even smaller. Stacy had to turn sideways, and even then it was a tight fit between chairs. My shoulder knocked against a piñata hanging from the wall. The decorations inside made the outside look mentally stable. Every speck of the ceiling and the walls was plastered with T-shirts, letters from customers, posters, drawings, and other lighthearted Texas paraphernalia.
Stacy made her way to the divider between dining room and kitchen. Colorful T-shirts hung along it from the ceiling like nautical flags. “You need a table, right, hon?” she asked me over her shoulder.
“Actually, I’m meeting someone here. Um . . . Greyhound . . . I mean Mr.—”
She pointed to a table for six where five people were sitting, across the restaurant. “I’ve got you guys down there on the end. See Greyhound?”
Seating at Royers was family style. Greyhound had to be the sixtyish guy, sipping a Shiner Bock and reading the menu. Everyone else at the table was involved in an animated discussion.
“Yes, thank you so much. And nice to meet you.”
“You, too. I’ll be watching for that book to come out.”
Greyhound hadn’t seen me yet, so I detoured back to wash my hands. When I reached our table, I put a hand on the back of my chair to hide its slight shake. I was nervous to meet legal royalty and about finding out what Gidget had left me.
“Mr. Smith, I presume.” I smiled.
Greyhound stood, pushing his chair back as he did so. It bumped into the wall, and he knocked into the woman seated next to him. She flapped her hand as if to say she’d pay it no nevermind. The table in front of the lawyer shook. Ice cubes surfed in glasses of tea. All this from a man who couldn’t have been more than five six or so and probably didn’t weigh a lot more than me.
Once he looked at me, I recognized his face from thousands of TV interviews and state bar association promotional fliers for seminars that bore his name. He looked exactly like his photos, just older.
“And you must be Michele Hanson.”
We shook, then he proceeded to knock about the table and chairs as he sat back down. A one-man wrecking crew.
“I took the liberty of ordering you a sweet tea,” he said.
I would rather die than drink sweet tea, but I didn’t tell him that. My mother’s Southern manners instead brought out the words “How kind of you.” I took a diminutive swallow. I was a Dr Pepper girl. Diet Dr Pepper as I got older and Dr. Zevia when Adrian had entered my life and convinced me of the dangers of chemical sweeteners. I was a far cry from the unhealthy woman of six years ago, pre-Adrian. And in some ways more extreme than when he was alive. Carrying on his legacy, I guessed.
I picked up the menu. “What’s good here?”
“Everything. You won’t find a better restaurant, even in Houston.” He took a long swig of his beer. Moisture rolled down the bottle. His eyes had a satisfied gleam when he put it down.
Since Houston was the restaurant capital of the state and, to some, the world, I took that as a ringing endorsement. I set the menu down. I’d spied the beef tenderloin sandwich, and that was all she wrote.
Stacy swooped down to our table, her hands splayed on its top. “What’re y’all having?”
I pointed to the beef tenderloin sandwich and potato chips. “Medium rare, please. With a water, and, oh, a Shiner Bock, too.”
Greyhound ordered a salad with beef and another Shiner.
“So, of course, I’ve heard of you, and it’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Smith.”
“Please, not Mr. Smith.”
“Should I call you Greyhound or Eldon?”
“Either one’ll work.” He gave me a tight, small grin and fiddled with his silverware.
“So, you said you wanted to see me about Gidget, that she left me something. I don’t know which is stranger to me. That she left me something, or that you’re her attorney. She had to be a pro bono client. And I’ve always thought of you as a litigator of huge cases, not as an estate lawyer.”
Stacy plunked a glass of water and two uncapped amber bottles on our table. Foam bubbled up to the lip of mine. I reached for it. A midday beer was decadent—not how I usually rolled. I tipped it back. Delicious. And within seconds, my nerves were less of a problem. Greyhound put his elbows on the table and leaned in. I mirrored his motions.
His voice was barely a whisper in our tight quarters, although the raucous conversation next to us continued unabated. “When I moved out here, I gave up my city practice. It’s mostly about community now.”
“That’s great.”
“Gidget came to see me after she met you. She had me change her will to leave her house, land, and most of her personal property to you. As payment for writing her story.”
My mouth dropped, and I sat up straight again. The sounds in the restaurant magnified—the clatter of silverware, the whop of bodies against the swinging door into the kitchen, voices, voices, so many voices all around me, with words jumbled together in nonsense. Nonsense like Gidget leaving me her house and her land.
“You’re kidding me!” I laughed, a brittle sound.
My teeth found my thumbnail and chewed it ferociously. He shook his head but didn’t say anything. I watched the motion of his head, back and forth, back and forth, like the swinging door to the kitchen. The frenzied movements inside the restaurant seemed to make the floors and walls tremble. Around me chunks of ceiling fell to the floor and onto our table. A waiter fell, screaming, and a table toppled over, sending plates, silverware, and drinks crashing, splashing over.
I closed my eyes to clear my vision. Not helpful. Tension meter reading: 7 out of 10. I felt a stab of pain and realized I’d bitten my nail down to the quick. In my mind I heard my mother’s voice: “Get your hands out of your mouth, Michele.”
I dropped them to my lap. “So, she left me everything?”
Greyhound’s voice was calm. “Almost. She left an old Jaguar and its contents to a daughter.”
I grabbed my beer and swallowed. When I set it down, my hand jerked and sent it on a crash course for the floor. The twenty-something guy next to me caught it before a drop spilled, returning it to the table without a break in his group’s conversation.
“A daughter? Gidget had a daughter?” It was hard to name my emotions. Excitement about the story. Sadness for Gidget, who had lived alone, with no mention of a daughter to her friends. Pain, as another parallel to my mother stared me in the face. And much more. I grabbed my beer like it would anchor me.
“She claims she did.”
“So, who is she? Where is she?”
“I have no idea. Neither did Gidget. I’m not even sure the daughter exists, but that will be up to the independent executor to determine.”
I listened with every bone in my body because Greyhound was whispering so softly now, I had basically been reading his lips. “Ralph,” I said, and he nodded.
“Did she give you any clues that could get Ralph started?”
“She claims to have left plenty of evidence behind for Ralph to find her. So, if she’s real, I trust that he will.”
“For Gidget’s story, the one I’m writing? The daughter’s a big part of it.”
He shrugged. “Could be.” But he didn’t offer any more information.
My heart hammered in my ears, drowning out the laughter of our table mates and other restaurant sounds. Those letters I’d seen. Unopened, “My Darling,”—they might have been to her daughter. Why would
she write letters to a daughter unless she was real? As real as the brother my mother had given away. A burbling sob rose in my throat, but I fought it down. A daughter. It was she who should inherit, not me. I wasn’t entirely sure how much property Gidget had, maybe twenty acres, plus a house and farm buildings and equipment. Sure, it was old, but I did a rough number in my head based on the $200,000 Adrian had spent on our place. Gidget was giving me a gift worth possibly twice as much as Nowheresville.
Greyhound interrupted my thoughts. “I want you to understand something, Michele.” He drummed his fingers then motioned me so close his lips were at my ear. “Gidget was of sound mind, sound enough to write a will, but that doesn’t mean the daughter is real. Gidget was messed up for a lot of years. It’s common knowledge and she didn’t deny it. In and out of rehab. Gallivanting around the city on the arms of artists, athletes, and celebrities, not a one of them tethered to reality.”
It was like I was in a trance, still close to him, but looking out over the other diners. “But, if she had this information, how come she never found her herself?”
“Exactly,” Greyhound said, sitting back. He knocked over my barely touched sweet tea glass. The liquid flowed across the table and waterfalled into my lap. I squeaked and jumped up. So did Greyhound.
“Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry.”
I grabbed my napkin and started blotting my cream-colored dry-clean-only skirt. After I did the best I could on my clothes, I sat back down, right into a lake of tea. I decided not to make a big deal of it. I lifted my tush and tucked napkins under it. Greyhound mopped tea up from the table where it had run toward our table mates. They laughed all the harder for it.
Stacy arrived with our food. “Can I get ya anything else?”
A dry outfit. The name and number of Gidget’s daughter. And a psych evaluation for myself. “I’m good.”
Greyhound added, “Me, too.”
She gave us the okay sign with her finger and thumb.
“What is the rest of Gidget’s estate?” I waved my hand in the air toward all the other stuff that might be out there.
Greyhound didn’t answer. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and prayed softly, although I couldn’t understand him with the background noise. Then he took a bite of his salad. My tenderloin sandwich languished unattended, growing cold. Just when I thought he’d forgotten my question, he answered.
“Who knows what she’s got stockpiled in there? She lived off Social Security and a meager savings account that will be exhausted by her final trip in the ambulance.” He took a sip of beer as I wondered if he knew about her art collection, then he directed his attention to his salad while he continued talking. “You know, you don’t have to write her story. It’s not a requirement of accepting the bequest. Nobody’s going to care what an old druggie has to say about ancient history.”
Old druggie? His words made me wary, and angry. Very angry. My tension meter shot up to a 9. Not care what she had to say? Everyone I ran into was dying to hear Gidget’s story.
So I decided to deflate the giant, blow up the elephant in the room. “If I say I won’t write the book and can’t take the bequest, and nobody can find the daughter, then who gets it?”
He shrugged. “Nobody. Or, rather, the state does.”
I had a thought. “What if she has another will—an older will?”
He shook his head. “Completely superseded by a new, valid will.”
“And, if the will you did for Gidget isn’t valid?”
He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. “Well, anyone contesting it would have to overcome my testimony to do that. And they won’t.”
“Yes, I understand. But what if they did?”
“Then, I guess, if there’s an old will, it might be valid.”
I nodded. “So, was there one?”
He looked away from me. “I honestly have no idea.”
I pushed my food away, suddenly not hungry. “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I said. Not the least of which was Greyhound’s reason for meeting with me to tell me things that Ralph could’ve told me himself. “If there’s nothing else you have for me, I need to leave. Unfortunately, I have another . . . thing I have to get to.” I signaled Stacy. “Can I get a to-go box, please?”
“Sure thing, hon.” She whirled with a tray over her head and started distributing dishes at a table next to us.
“I’m sorry. I’ve upset you. I think that last bit came out differently than I meant it. Please accept my apologies.”
He was smooth, but it did help. “Thank you.”
“It was all I had for you. And I’ve got lunch.” Greyhound called after Stacy, “Check, too, please,” and she shot him a thumbs-up. Greyhound pulled out his wallet. “Decisions like these are a lot like Band-Aids, Michele. Best just to rip them off quickly.”
Chapter Seven
I sat in the car with Gertrude, trying to process everything I’d just heard and failing miserably. Operating on autopilot, I thumbed through the messages on my phone. I came to a text that made me freeze up: Rashidi.
“Google Map show Brenham halfway. I want to see the land round there.”
I had blocked Rashidi’s dinner invitation out of my mind. I slumped over the steering wheel. How was I going to wiggle out of this? Instead of answering him, I hit speed dial for Katie. She answered on the first ring, out of breath. I reversed out of the parking space and pointed the Jetta toward home.
“Hello,” Katie said. Pant, pant.
“What’s got you hot and bothered?”
“I’m chasing”—pant, pant—“Thomas.” Pant, pant. “He’s run off with”—pant, pant—“a pair of scissors.”
I heard a long, drawn-out scream and “No, mama, they’re mine!” in a young voice.
Katie’s voice was firm. “You’re going to time-out.”
Loud crying. Very loud. Meanwhile, Gertrude, worn-out from her impromptu playdate, snored in harmony with the crying. Forte.
“Do you need me to call you back?”
“No.” Pant. “I’m”—pant—“putting him in his room.”
I heard a plop and then a scream of “I don’t want to,” followed by Katie saying, “I’ll be back when your time-out is over.” A door shut with a click.
“Okay,” she said. Pant. “Where were we?”
Gertrude bicycled her legs, dreaming.
“You were reliving my past.”
She laughed.
I turned left toward Carmine. “And I was calling one of my oldest and dearest and hopefully much wiser friends.”
“Well, I’m sorry, you dialed the wrong number,” she said. “But you’ve got me now, so what can I do to help?”
“You can tell me why you gave Rashidi my phone number, and if you’re aware that he’s trying to get me to meet him this weekend.”
“Oh, that,” she said. “I, well, I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“You mean you were sure I would, and that’s why you didn’t ask me.”
“Possibly something like that.”
An enormous John Deere tractor was chugging along half on, half off the road in front of me. I eased out to pass. The road was clear, so I went around. Inside the cab, a teenage boy was singing at the top of his lungs and banging the steering wheel. He waved at me with a grin, and I pulled past him, waving back.
I sighed. “Katie, it’s too soon for me. I may never be ready to date again. I’m good. I have my memories with Adrian and—”
“Michele, I thought you wouldn’t mind because Rashidi is a nice man, who doesn’t know anybody in your area of the world and would like you to be his friend.”
I winced. When she put it that way, I should get over it and be nice to Rashidi. Sweet voices babbled in the background.
“Are they walking yet?” I asked. Katie had twin daughters who were about a year old.
“Nearly. I’m thinking about tying them up and putting that off for a couple of months.”
“You could go t
o jail for saying things like that.” I entered Carmine, didn’t blink, and made a turn onto 290.
She snorted. “Not if the officer who answers the call is a mother.”
“True,” I said. “And I’ll be nice to Rashidi. But please be sure he’s not coming here with ideas that will lead to awkwardness and disappointment.”
“Rashidi is a big boy, Michele, and you’re a big girl. The two of you will figure it out.”
“I don’t know why I continue to let you believe that you’re my friend,” I said.
“Shhh,” she said. “Your voice is hurting my head.”
I gave up. “How is Nick doing?”
“Nick,” she said, and lowered her voice. “Is wanting to have more kids. That man is barking up the wrong tree.”
“Whoa,” I said. “I think three is a really nice number to end on.”
I heard thuds, thumps, and clanks. I pictured her unloading the dishwasher.
“Well, he is pretty cute. So I’m not going to say an accident couldn’t happen, but I’m trying to get him in to see a really nice doctor who could end all my worries.”
About that time, I heard a shattering of glass.
“Oh, shit!” she said. “I gotta go before the girls crawl into broken glass. Love you. Be good to Rashidi.”
“If I even end up seeing him. Love you, too.”
We hung up.
I looked at Gertrude, who was stretching herself awake. “That wasn’t a lot of help.”
She wagged her tail. Ten minutes later, we pulled up to the Quacker, which I had completely forgotten had no air conditioning for the last few hours. It was like stepping into an oven, which made it hard to breathe. Gertrude whined, and her tail drooped. I threw the breaker under the bench seat and turned the AC on, but I knew it was going to be a long time—nightfall, maybe—before it cooled off.
I turned to the dog. “Gertrude, let’s give this rust bucket time to cool and go get the My Darling letters from your old house.”
We fled the Quacker, and Gertrude’s tail flew back up to its normal height. From the air-conditioned comfort of the Jetta, I texted Ralph for permission, and within seconds he agreed to meet me there. Soon we were passing the smelly chicken farm and making a right turn toward Gidget’s. The trees were less thick on this road than on the one to Nowheresville, because it was more recently farmed and “improved.” As we rounded the last corner before reaching Gidget’s place, a large white passenger van passed us in the other direction. It had a door magnet on it that read KOUNTRY KLEANERS. All they needed was KLUB at the end and the message would be crystal clear. The driver was a woman about my mother’s age, with shoulder-length dark hair, but she didn’t look at me or wave. Not local or just rude?
Fighting for Anna Page 9
