Wreathed (11 page)

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” he said. “You can tell he spent a lot of time on them. His favorite was the B-52 you’re looking at.”

“I guess everyone needs a hobby,” I said. Mine is thinking up ideas for disgusting cocktails and then drinking them, but I didn’t feel the need to tell Adam that at the moment.

“Did you find the letters? They’re in the drawer on the nightstand. I cleared out everything else, but I left them there just in case you or your mom wanted them.”

“No, I hadn’t.” I am not that much of a snoop.

He motioned towards the nightstand (a black HEMNES piece). “Check it out.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the drawer. I found eight or so yellowing letters, wrapped in a bit of old Christmas ribbon. I glanced at the first. It was dated December 28, 1962. I recognized Mother’s angular handwriting.

“She told me about these,” I said. “She wrote them after they started... dating, when her parents took her to Florida for Christmas vacation.”

I glanced at the top letter.
I love you
, she had written.
I ache for you, for the feel of your tender hands in delicate places. I want to wrap myself up in your strong arms and once again...
well, it went on from there. I felt that same squicky feeling I had felt on the drive down. You’re just not supposed to think about your mother having those kinds of thoughts and feelings, even though it’s the only reason any of us are ever born.

Paper that old should be crinkly and stiff
, I thought, but this wasn’t. These letters had been folded and unfolded, read and reread. I had no idea how many times Sheldon had picked up each of these letters, taking the time to underline every single one of the passages that read “I love you” in red ink.

“I just glanced at them, you know,” Adam said. “They are kind of... I guess
passionate
is the right word.”

“They’re alive,” I said. “Or they were alive to him.”

“I never thought about Uncle Sheldon being passionate. I mean, he was just this guy who would show up every other Christmas and give me weird presents.” Adam sat down next to me, the two of us together on the bed. “It feels wrong, somehow, to think of him of being young, and in love.”

I glanced at Adam, sitting next to me, in a friendly way, not even very intimate. But I heard a sadness in his voice, and it wasn’t just grief for his departed uncle. I didn’t know anything about Adam, but it sounded to me as though he was lonely. If so, it was the one thing we had in common—a void in our lives, a lack of not just togetherness but passion. And there we were, sitting together, with an opportunity to reach towards each other, and neither of us wanting to make the first move.

“Of course, I bet you feel the same way,” he said.

“Oh, I do,” I said. I hoped that my voice had just the right husky intensity.

“I mean, you don’t think about your mom that way, I bet.”

“I’m not thinking about her at all, just now.” He turned his head, just a little. It would be no effort at all just to kiss him, I thought, just to press my lips against his, just to unbutton that first button on his shirt. “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“Well, a couple of things,” he said.

I was thinking of a couple of things, too. I was thinking that my mother was right, that having a passionate desire in your heart was what living was all about. I was thinking about Adam’s body, warm and naked against mine. I was thinking about his hands caressing me, exploring me, right there on that bed.

“I’m thinking I have to get to the FedEx store in Sea Isle City before it closes,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, because you can’t say things like
that is the single absolute least romantic thing I have ever heard anyone say in my whole entire life up until right this minute.

”I mean, I want to make sure the urn gets to Alaska in one piece. I can’t just leave it in a drop box.”

When I heard that word, that short little word
urn,
a billion little hormone molecules that had been racing around my bloodstream died a quick, short, sudden death. “
Urn
,” I said, “as in ashes?”

“Well, yeah. I meant to drop it off before the funeral, but I was running late and I didn’t have time. The closest FedEx location is in Sea Isle City, and I need to finish getting packed here and drive it up there before they close.”

I touched the little silver cross pendant I was wearing. I felt the muscles of my chest tighten, just a bit, and then relax. I breathed in and breathed out, and did it again, and then again.
I am in a room with a corpse
, I told myself,
but it’s not a problem. It’s just a pile of ashes encased in an urn wrapped up in a FedEx box. It can’t hurt me in any way. And I will not run from the room like a scared little girl and embarrass myself in front of the cute guy. I will not I will not I will not.

“Are you OK?” he asked. “Can I get you some water?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “I just heard that the box had already been shipped, that’s all. I didn’t think your uncle was in there. I was a little surprised.”

“Well, he’s not getting out of the box, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried.” I’d made it through an entire funeral without having one bit of twitchy anxiety. I wasn’t going to let a FedEx box bother me, no matter what was in it.

“That’s good,” he said. “I didn’t think you were the type to be touchy about dead bodies. I mean, here you are, sitting on the bed where Uncle Sheldon died.”

Adam had left the bedroom door open, which was a good thing, because I would have done horrible damage to the door frame if he hadn’t. The front door was closed, but it was unlocked and it had a lever on it instead of a doorknob. I was able to fling it open, and I was just aware enough to keep from falling into the open maw of the U-Haul truck. I lost a bit of forward momentum in the process, which kept me from running full-tilt across the highway and onto the beach and into the deep blue water of Delaware Bay. As it was, I made a sharp right turn and collided with an elderly gentleman. He had a bristly white mustache and he was wearing a black suit.

He managed to both hold himself up and keep me from falling to the pavement. “Steady there, miss,” he said. “Steady. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Just calm down.”

I stood there, bent over, with my hands on my knees, trying to control my breathing enough so that I knew I wouldn’t die, because if I died I wouldn’t be able to kill that idiot Adam for letting me sit on a dead man’s bed like that.

“That’s right,” the old man said. “Breathe. It’ll be just fine, you’ll see.”

“Thanks,” I said, and took in another gulp of air. “I’ll be OK as soon as I have a chance to calm down. I just had a little scare, that’s all.”

“I understand perfectly,” he said. “By the way, your name wouldn’t happen to be Gwendolyn Jarrett, would it? Emily Thornhill’s daughter?”

Chapter 14

The old man’s name was Daniel Miller, and he was a partner in a three-man law firm that handled real estate issues in Cape May Court House, a mile or two up the Parkway from Cape May proper. He hadn’t been looking for me at all, he assured me, but he was very pleased to see me nonetheless.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Your mother,” he said, “is next on my list. After young Adam here. I take it that he’s the young man over there.”

Adam was making his way toward us, warily, the way a cautious person might approach an injured woodland creature. “Are you OK?” he asked, from a safe distance.

I could not kill him at that moment, because that would leave a witness, and Mr. Miller seemed like a nice old man who didn’t deserve to die because he was an innocent bystander.

“I am going to live a nice, long, happy, and fulfilling life,” I said, “no thanks to you.”

“I am sorry. I mean, I had no idea you would react that way.”

“You mean the completely normal way that anyone would react to finding out she was sitting on the bed where someone died?”

“I said I was sorry,” he said.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Miller said. “I have no wish to intervene in this highly entertaining and stimulating discussion you two are having, but I do have sensitive matters to discuss with the both of you, and it would be a courtesy to us all to take care of this inside. Yes?”

We all went back in Sheldon’s apartment. Adam took a moment to determine just who Mr. Miller was and why he was there, and then he rummaged around in Sheldon’s refrigerator, emerging with a large bottle of cranberry juice. I drank mine out of a “Strategic Air Command” coffee cup that Adam had retrieved from one of the boxes in the U-Haul. Mr. Miller took a courteous sip of his juice and then withdrew two envelopes from a battered black leather briefcase. “I apologize if this is a bit unusual,” he said. “But I had strict instructions from my client, Mr. Berkman.”

“So what is this?” Adam asked. “A last letter? Final instructions?”

“Nothing so exotic, I’m afraid,” Mr. Miller said. “It is just an ordinary codicil to Mr. Berkman’s will, with one specific bequest, based on one specific condition. What I am hoping to get from the two of you—or from Ms. Thornhill, if she’s available—is confirmation that the condition has, in fact, been met.”

“I don’t understand,” Adam said.

“A codicil is an amendment to a will,” I explained.

“I know that,” he said. “I went to college, you know.”

“You said you didn’t understand. I was trying to explain. To be helpful.”

“You’re not being helpful,” Adam said. “You’re being annoying.”

“Can we get back to the subject at hand?” Mr. Miller asked.

“Sorry,” I said, more to Mr. Miller than to Adam. I didn’t intend to let Adam off the hook for scaring me just yet.

“What I was trying to say is that I didn’t know there was a codicil, much less one that was conditional,” Adam said. “I’m the executor of the will. It seems to me that I should have been informed of this codicil beforehand.”

“I have to apologize to you both,” Mr. Miller said. “First, to you, Mr. Lewis. Your uncle drafted this codicil nine months ago. He gave it to me, and specifically asked me
not
to deliver the codicil to you before his death. I advised him against doing so, but he was very clear in his mind about what he wanted. I am sorry to spring this on you at such a sad time. Having said that, if I had followed my instructions to the letter, it might have been worse.”

“What instructions were those?” I asked.

“Well, this is a place where I must apologize again, this time to you and your mother, Ms. Jarrett. My specific instructions were to attend the funeral and deliver these envelopes, after I had documented the condition that triggered the codicil. Unfortunately, I had a family emergency and wasn’t able to make it to the church on time.”

“Is everything OK?” Adam asked.

“Perfectly fine,” Mr. Miller said. “Unfortunately, my inability to attend the funeral personally means that I was unable to determine whether or not the condition was actually met.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. “Was the codicil tied to the funeral in some way?” That would be a very odd thing to have in a codicil, but people had come up with stranger things.

“At this point,” Mr. Miller said, “I would prefer not to answer any questions until both of you have had the chance to review the document in question.”

I can take a hint as well as anyone. I ripped open the envelope and scanned the codicil. The key sentence read:
I do hereby bequeath the property known as 228 Idaho Avenue in Cape May, New Jersey, in fee simple to my former wife, Emily Thornhill, and her heirs and assigns, on the condition that she attend the funeral and/or memorial service held after my death.

“You understand my concern,” Mr. Miller said. “If I had been able to attend the funeral, I would have been able to personally verify Ms. Thornhill’s attendance at the funeral. As it is, I must rely on the good faith of both parties to confirm that the condition has, in fact, been met.”

“Give me a second,” I said, and pulled out my cell phone. I opened Safari, pulled up the voice prompt, and said “Gawker Curtains blog.” It took a second, but I was able to pull up the
Curtains
site, and sure enough, the story about Sheldon’s funeral was right there. “Mystery Woman Shows Up at Funeral of Cape May Man with Maudlin Obituary.” Vanessa’s picture, as she had said, was tremendous.

I handed the phone to Mr. Miller. “That’s my mother,” I said, “walking up the stairs to the church. The photo appears in a blog post, dated today. I can get an affidavit from the photographer if it’s strictly necessary.” I decided not to mention that I dearly hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary.

“It’s not necessary,” Adam said. “We both know your mother was at the funeral. We all sat together. That’s not what I’m worried about. What I want to know is what kind of property it is that we’re talking about, and when my uncle bought it.”

“I can look that up, too,” I said, and opened up the Zillow real estate app. The property at that address had been bought nine months ago for below market value—which still made it a princely sum, considering what market value was for property in New Jersey shore towns. “It’s listed as a fixer-upper,” I said. “Do you know if he was trying to flip the house, Mr. Miller?”

Mr. Miller folded his hands. “Ms. Jarrett, I hope I do not have to remind you of the strictures of the attorney-client relationship with respect to confidentiality.”

“Of course not,” I said. Flipping a house seemed an odd thing to want to keep secret, but why else would someone who was already living in a retirement home take out a huge mortgage on a dilapidated house that they didn’t need?

“So,” Adam said, “nine months ago, my Uncle Sheldon bought this house. And now he’s giving it to Wendy’s mother, just because she went to his funeral?”

“Without revealing anything confidential, having her come to his funeral meant a lot to him,” Mr. Miller said.

“Would you mind?” Adam asked, gesturing in the direction of my iPhone. I handed it to him so he could check out the Zillow listing. “This explains some of the charges on his Home Depot card. I couldn’t figure out what that was all about.”