Which is good, because in precisely forty-seven minutes I have to be at the lawyer’s office.
Handsome Lawyer Brian, Aimee always called him. I always call him the Lawyer with the Chin. He is Central Casting chiseled attorney guy. Tall, dark hair, square chin, broad shoulders. He’s been handling our business and personal legal stuff for the past five years. I find him annoyingly attractive. Aimee always said he was all face and no heart. He’s not overly warm, very businesslike, the consummate professional. We always liked that he wasn’t a schmoozer, no fakey cheek kissing or outfit praising like some lawyers we’ve met. Just straightforward, clear legal advice and support. For an exorbitant hourly wage. In five years I don’t think I’ve met with him more than once or twice without Aimee, and I know we’ve never had a conversation about anything but business.
But apparently there are things about Aimee’s estate that I have to deal with; I know she made me the executor, but luckily according to Brian, she was very specific about bequests . . . educational trusts for all her nieces and nephews, lump sums for her brothers, jewelry to her sisters-in-law, local charities that get their share. I’m assuming that this meeting is about whatever she might have left me, and after everything I have been through, and the emotional drain of my meeting with Nancy, I just want to find out if I have to find a place for that horrible sculpture or not.
Brian’s office is in one of those monolithic downtown marble and glass monstrosities, and I always get lost trying to find it. Luckily for me, Brian’s assistant, Dawn, happens to be coming in from a Starbucks run just as I arrive, and she ushers me right to his door.
“Jenna.” He reaches out a hand, warm and strong, which envelops mine briefly, and then retreats. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
He looks a little puzzled, but what does he expect? Should I burst into tears?
“It was a lovely service, and your eulogy was very moving.” There seems to be very genuine concern in his voice and manner, and it disconcerts me more than a little.
“It was so nice of you to come.” Like he wouldn’t attend a six-figures-a-year client’s funeral.
“Of course. And you’re hanging in there?” And then, it happens. The fucking head tilt. At once patronizing and paternal. I’ve had THREE YEARS of fucking head tilting and it makes my ass twitch. If one more person head tilts at me, I’m going to start making everyone strap on a neck brace before they can speak to me.
Good grief. Literally! Can’t I just be okay? “Of course. You know, it’s hard, but it is what it is, and I’m just glad she’s out of pain.” Which is the truest thing I know. The last couple of months were ugly and horrible and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone who had not committed genocide.
“Well, that must be a comfort.”
“Yep.”
There is a weird pause. I find myself staring at his hair. He has politician hair. That hair that is so perfect it is almost creepy. Stepford hair. I must really be staring because he suddenly runs his hands over it, as if worried that it’s somehow out of place. Like that could happen.
“But you seem to be hanging in there,” he says.
“Yeah, you know, it’s been weird, but you just do what you do.”
“Well, if you need anything . . .”
Um? Emergency legal advice?
“I’m good, really, thanks.”
“Good. Staying busy?”
“Not so busy, things are pretty quiet.” Not really sure what he is aiming at here.
“Well, maybe we can have dinner or something sometime soon.”
Oy. He must really want to be sure he keeps all the business. I guess I can’t blame him. In this economy, keep the clients happy. Maybe there is a new mandate from the other partners to wine and dine more.
“Yeah, sure.” What else can I say. We pause again, and I wait for him to move things along.
“So, Jenna, I think you know that you’re the executor of Aimee’s estate.”
“She told me she was going to set that up.”
“She did. And the good news is that mostly, it is very uncomplicated and straightforward. I know you already know about her bequests for her family. Her remaining shares in Peerless SBE revert to you, so you now vote those shares in combination with your own as a larger partner. She has also left you her handbags, jewelry, and other personal effects to keep what you want, and distribute the rest to her sisters-in-law and nieces. She has made small cash gifts for all of the employees of The Larder Library, and has bequeathed ownership of the Lincoln Square apartment she rented to your employee Benjamin to him outright. The house, and its contents, as well as the rest of the money, the life insurance payout, all go to Wayne.”
Hallelujah. No sculpture abomination for me! Dodged a bullet on that one. And I get both of her Birkin bags, the big chocolate brown one and the smaller taupe one, which I have to admit I’ve always coveted. Of course I don’t really have anywhere to carry them, but that is beside the point. They are so much better than neon artwork.
“But . . .”
Oh crap on a cracker. There’s a but.
“The way she set up Wayne’s portion of the estate is a little bit unusual.”
And suddenly, looking at his uber-Grant (Cary meets Hugh) face, with its furrowed brow, and such kindness in his impossibly teal blue eyes, something tells me that unusual is code for you’re utterly fucked.
3
The letter is on heavy cream cotton paper, with Aimee’s beautiful, rounded, swirly handwriting in charcoal gray ink, one of her signatures. Aimee was a fountain pen girl from the minute we got to college. Part of her transformation from rural Indiana cheerleader to elegant city sophisticate. I’ve read the letter six times since Brian gave it to me yesterday.
Jenna,
Well, isn’t this just a huge bucket of suck? I’m so sorry to have gone off and left you, and in such a terrible, ugly way. Awfully inelegant of me, I know. We were supposed to grow old (but never gray!) together. We were supposed to take amazing vacations and have indulgent spa weekends, and if you had left me like this I would be so fucking angry with you that I would be red-faced and impossible forever.
Since you’re already mad at me, I’m going to do something that will make you even madder. And no, I’m not giving you that sculpture from Miami that you hate so much.
I’m giving you custody of Wayne.
If I’d had kids of my own, you’d have been their fairy godmother, and I’d have needed you to be there for them, to be their memory of me, and go all Beaches for me. I just have Wayne, and I need you to take care of him for me. I know that you never really understood him or liked him very much or got why I loved him, and that we never talked about it. On the one hand, I’m so grateful that you never made me defend him, you were never snarky or eye-rolly about him and you never once said “What the hell were you thinking?” even though I know you thought it more than once.
And on the other hand, I wish that during my life you could have gotten to know him enough that you would have never even thought that to begin with. I always thought we’d have plenty of time to talk about it, or that one day it would just click and that would be that. But then this stupid thing happened and there were just no words and no time.
Here’s all you need to know. I loved him with all my heart. He made me laugh every day, and I could always be completely myself with him. He was the best man I ever knew, after my dad, and my deepest wish for you is that someday you will find someone with whom you can have a love affair like I had with Wayne. We were real and powerful and deep and true, as real and powerful and deep and true as you and me, and it’s time for you to start to comprehend that. He needs you now, and now that I’m gone, I need to know that the two people I loved most in the world stay connected to each other. And selfishly, I need to know that you finally understand the only part of me that you never did. For the things that will be annoying and frustrating and maddening, I’m sorry in advance. I know he isn’t p
erfect and that I’m the only thing you have in common. But I love you. And I’ll be watching out over both of you forever.
Handsome Lawyer Brian will tell you the legal details, but essentially, Wayne is your new charge. The regular household bills, Noah’s support payments, and all of that stuff is on automatic with the accountants. You don’t have to worry about any of that. But any expense over $1,000 that Wayne wants to make has to be cosigned by you. His one credit card has a maximum $999 charge limit per month, and the banks won’t let him open a new one using my accounts, so he’d have to get a job if he wanted more. But I have no-limit cards in your name that you can use on his behalf. The bank knows that there is a $999 maximum monthly total check approval, anything bigger you have to cosign. I worked my ass off to create this business with you, to leave this legacy. You were there when the dream first began; I need you to be there to ensure that our dream continues.
And while it makes me very happy that I can give Wayne the gift of financial independence, you and I both know that he doesn’t have a lick of business sense. I don’t worry for his being able to support himself and Noah while he can work, but I need to know that when he’s old, he’s taken care of. That he will never lack for health insurance or proper care or a decent roof over his head. I want him to find love again, but I need to know that he isn’t taken in by some bimbette with champagne wishes and caviar dreams. Someone sane needs to be there to tell him that his buddy’s new restaurant concept is crappy and won’t last a month, that independent movies are never a good investment, and that Noah needs a Honda and not a Hummer when he turns sixteen.
All I ask is that you really listen to him when he comes to you for something, and that every decision you make about how you deal with things takes into account his current happiness as well as his future security. You know me. You know how I handled Wayne and his desires, when I said yes and when I said no. You can’t just say no all the time and leave it at that; if you know I would have approved, even if I would’ve thought it ridiculous, you have to say yes.
Brian has all the details, but the gist is this: You have to save Wayne from himself; you have to be there for him, you have to stay connected. And if after a year, you really truly can’t take it anymore, you can hand him back over to the estate lawyers.
I know it’s a lot, I know your head is spinning; I know this is the last thing you think you need. But you do need it. Like it or not, Wayne is the only person in this world that knows me the way you do, that gets me the way you do, and no one else is really going to understand what you are going through.
I love you with my whole heart, and I miss you already, and I am so, so sorry for the pain you are in right now. In the meantime, take a deep breath, make a big batch of your carbonara, and prepare to be strong. Be strong for yourself and strong for Wayne. I’m watching.
Your Aimee
Wayne. She gave me custody of Wayne.
So much worse than the horrible Miami sculpture.
If she weren’t dead, I’d fucking kill her.
And she’s right about one thing. I’m making a double batch of carbonara, and I’m going to eat every bite right out of the goddamned pan.
4
Volnay whines at the door, deep and insistent.
“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” The morning walk is very important. I think somehow she knows that her arthritis loosens up after some exercise, and she’s so stiff these days when she wakes up that she’s less and less patient with my dawdling. I don’t know what it is; I was always the on-time-with-Swiss-precision girl. Aimee was the one who never managed to get out of the house at the right time. It used to make me nuts, her assing around when we needed to be somewhere. But she had personal magic for avoiding traffic and finding parking. I could leave a half an hour before her and arrive somewhere at the same time, because whatever route I take? Traffic and construction and street closures and detours and endless block circling, looking for a parking space. Arriving at my destination to see Aimee’s huge Audi SUV parked right in front. Maddening.
But apparently I have learned how to ass around the house myself of late, puttering and futzing and finding strange projects to obsess about. I’m not really sure what it is, maybe it’s that I generally sort of have nowhere to be, not in any serious way. And my self-imposed errands and life maintenance that are supposed to get me out of the house, I plan for certain times or days, and then suddenly I have to clean out the freezer or redo the spice rack.
Volnay gives a little bark, and I pop out of my head, looking at her sitting by the door, her little blue leash in her mouth. Poor thing.
I lean over and attach the leash, and open the door. She pulls me outside, down the front stoop, and out to the gate. I turn right, but she growls and I look back at her. She is leaning back into the leash, pulling me to the left.
“C’mon, NayNay, this way.” I give her a little tug. She tugs back. And I know exactly what she wants.
If we go right, we take a long winding stroll through the quiet neighborhood side streets, looking at the houses, seeing the occasional dog or a mom out with her kids. But if we go left, we head up the boulevard to the Square, and that is where The Larder Library is. It’s been almost two weeks. And my dog misses her friends and the home-baked dog treats and her comfy sleepy spot in the sunny window. I give one more halfhearted tug in the other direction, but she will not be moved. She has a lot of gravity for a thirty-pound dog.
“Fine. Let’s go see everyone.” We head up to Logan, walking by the big houses and towering trees. Volnay is prancing, head up proudly; her squat little bowlegs producing a smooth gait that would make the dog show people preen. She carries herself like a supermodel. Weiner dog or no, she is a fairly perfect specimen of her breed. And I know I’m supposed to be all about the rescue mutts, and I give money to PAWS every year, but there is something about having a dog with a pedigree that makes me smile. Her AKC name is The Lady Volnay of Côte de Beaune. The French would call her a jolie laide, “beautiful ugly,” like those people whose slightly off features, sort of unattractive and unconventional on their own, come together to make someone who is compelling, striking, and handsome in a unique way. I’m always so proud that I’m her person.
As we get close to the Square, which is oddly really more of a circle, my chest tightens. My breathing gets shallow. My palms slick over with sweat. My stomach turns over.
I pull back on Volnay’s leash and walk over to one of the outdoor chairs in front of La Boulangerie on the corner. I try to get a deeper breath, so annoyed with these little attacks that come upon me out of nowhere. It’s ridiculous. I thought it might be perimenopause, but my doc said my hormones are fine, and that it sounded to her like panic attacks. Which is ridiculous because I have nothing to be panicky about. But they keep happening, out of nowhere, my bowels turn to liquid, and my legs go all noodley. Volnay puts a paw on my knee. I sit and wait for it to subside. Finally my breathing gets smoother, and my rib cage unclenches.
Frankly, I want to go home. To crawl back into bed and go to sleep and not wake up for a year. But I know that as much as Volnay wants to go to the Library, deep down, so do I. Eloise and Andrea have called and sent e-mails, and little Benji keeps sending the funniest snarky e-cards, and poor Lois keeps leaving tins of pastries on my porch. We are a strange little family, but I know they are worried about me, and I didn’t have much time at the funeral or at the house after to do more than hug and accept the usual banal sentiments of condolence, and the last two weeks have been full of paperwork and phone calls and business crap, and with not getting good sleep, I’ve just had very little energy.
I stand up, less wobbly, and, pretty sure that pants-shitting is not in my future, head in the direction of the Library. Weirdly, I want to be able to see Nancy tomorrow and tell her that I did it, even though I know that she cares less about what I do and more about how it makes me feel to do it or not. But it will feel like a small victory.
The Voix pipes in. “Good lord, ju
st get there already. It will make you feel better. Or it will make you feel worse. But so the fuck what? Put on your big-girl panties and do it, because we always had brave faces for the team, and like it or not, they need to see you and be with you and know you are okay.”
As soon as we turn the corner onto Kedzie, Volnay starts to pull on her leash, half dragging me down the block. We zip past Lula Café and City Lit Books, waving at Teresa, the proprietor, who is doing a display in the window as we pass.
Just on the next corner sits The Larder Library, a three-story gray stone Victorian lady with a wide stoop leading to the porch, the dark green sign with its gold lettering carefully weathered to look like it has been here forever. The heavy dark wood double doors are open to let in the soft unseasonably warm autumn breezes, and the sweet vanilla scent of something delicious is wafting out into the street.
I let go of the leash and Volnay tears up the steps ahead of me like a bat out of hell, careening into the shop, and skidding on the worn wooden floors, tumbling ass over teakettle and landing in a wriggling lump at Lois’s feet in their ubiquitous clogs.
“Well, my word, look who’s here!” Lois bends her round form down and scoops my pup up in her arms like she is a mere feather, snuggling her to a Teutonic bosom and letting the dog lick her wrinkled cheeks.
“Hello, Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle.” I go over to accept the bone-crushing embrace. Lois is only barely five feet tall, but is strong as an ox with a milkmaid’s peaches-and-cream complexion, water blue eyes, and the pinkest Cupid’s bow mouth I’ve ever seen on a grown-up. Her hands and arms are strong from years working in her family bakery, kneading vast lumps of dough into submission, and whisking dozens of eggs to fluffy clouds by hand. Two of her sons run the bakery now; the third is a butcher at Paulina Market. But Lois was never one for retirement. She had been a widow for over twenty years and a neighborhood resident her whole life; we hadn’t even gotten the sign up before she wandered by with a strudel to offer her part-time services. One bite told us all we needed to know, and we hired her on the spot. She treats us all like errant nieces and nephews, and we dote on her.
Out to Lunch Page 3
