by Lisa Sorbe
Copyright © 2019 Lisa Sorbe
All rights reserved.
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design and Formatting: Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae & Allusion Graphics
Editing: Jessica Trier
ISBN-13: 978-0-9993480-9-3
ISBN-13: 978-0-9993480-8-6 (e-book)
Prologue
Winter
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Spring
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Summer
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Fall
Winter
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Epilogue
Other Books
About the Author
Word of my grandmother’s death was delivered to me in the same fashion that pretty much all relevant news is in this day and age.
Via text.
My feet were submerged in a foot bath, the water fizzing and bubbling over my toes, distorting the chipped pink nail polish I’d soon be swapping for a sultry red. Because I’d turned my phone down before entering the salon, no sound signaled the delicate news. Only a brief buzz followed by a pop-up at the top of my screen, a flashing notification that, after seeing it was from my mother, I immediately pushed aside with a groan before returning to the conversation I was truly interested in—the one in which Daniel Rodriguez was describing (in exquisite detail) what he was going to do to me after his parents’ anniversary party that evening.
It wasn’t until I’d finished with my pedicure, scored a latte from my favorite coffee shop next door, and hopped in my hand-me-down BMW an hour later that I even glanced at the message.
Lenora died last week. Funeral is tomorrow.
Now, I’m not gonna lie. The words didn’t hit me in the way one would think. My throat didn’t swell with grief, nor did my eyes tear up, threatening to ruin the non-waterproof mascara I’d accidently bought last week, but was too broke to toss out unused.
But I did feel a twinge of something, a flutter of sorts in my chest, right behind my sternum. Like my heart forgot, just for the briefest of moments, how to beat.
I immediately dialed up my mother, sipping my bittersweet drink while taking in words that held nearly the same taste, frowning as she laid out the details.
It seemed I was finally going to come into my inheritance.
Unfortunately, there was a price.
“You’re going where?”
I’m not looking at Kendra when she asks this, so I can’t read her expression. My eyes are trained to my phone, answering yet another message from Daniel, my thumbs flying over the screen as I apologize for having to cancel our date tonight. But I can hear the distaste in her words, can almost picture her nose wrinkled in disgust.
“You heard me.” I type Sorry again, and press send. When I look up, Kendra’s expression is just as I imagined it would be, her revulsion accompanied by a pouty-lipped grimace. It’s overexaggerated, considering she’s not the one that has to hop a plane last minute, trading in the warmth of southern California for the Midwest’s bitter cold. But, then again, everything about Kendra is overexaggerated, from her hair extensions to her bi-yearly lip injections…right down to her fake boobs. I pull a face of my own, one that has more to do with her reaction than my upcoming destination, and point at a sweater sitting next to her hip. “Hand me that, will you?”
She tosses it to me and then leans back into my pillows, kicking her long legs out and crossing them at the ankles. My bed jiggles with the movement, causing a pair of ankle boots to fall to the floor with a dull thud. “But Minnesota is so…Hicksville.”
I pick up the shoes and then fold the sweater, dropping them both into my suitcase with a sigh. “Minnesota is not Hicksville.” My phone beeps, and I reach for it without thinking, reading Daniel’s latest text while stating absently, “Minneapolis is cool.”
I think. I haven’t been to the state since I was eleven.
Kendra snorts. “Lenny, please. It’s not L.A.”
“No,” I say, my attention split between the two conversations. “It’s definitely not.”
She pulls a hair tie from her wrist and bunches up her dark locks, piling them into a bun on the top of her head. When she’s finished, she picks up her phone from where she dropped it on the bed and studies it for a second before propping it against her thighs. “And just what does Mr. Perfect have to say about this? Isn’t tonight the big anniversary party?”
I give a halfhearted nod while I type.
Kendra lifts her chin, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the screen from where she’s sitting. Though she’s never said anything, I know she thinks that she should have been the one to end up with Daniel. It is, after all, because of her that we even crossed paths in the first place.
Shifting slightly, I hit send before slipping the phone into my back pocket. As I glance up, my eyes catch Kendra’s legs—bare from her midthighs down—and I sigh again. I won’t be wearing shorts any time soon, that’s for sure.
“Daniel’s fine with it.”
Actually, he’s not. But it is what it is.
Kendra narrows her eyes like she doesn’t believe me. “I still don’t get why you have to be there. Can’t they just wire that shit or something?” She lifts her hips and digs around in the pocket of her shorts, eventually pulling out a stick of gum. The familiar smell of watermelon quickly overpowers my closet-sized bedroom as she unwraps it, pops it in her mouth.
I press my palms against the clothing in my suitcase—the warmest garments I could find in my closet—trying to make more room. The trip shouldn’t take more than a few days, tops. But I’d rather be overprepared than under. “Like I said, the funeral is tomorrow. And since she’s leaving me everything she owned, I should at least be there to pay my respects.”
“And how are you just finding out about this? She died, like, last week, right?”
“Yep.” I move over to check my camera gear, ma
king sure everything is tucked securely in the padded bag. The DSLR that I use to film the weekly content for my Youtube channel is the most precious thing I own, along with the laptop on which I do the editing. Already thoughts have been churning in the back of my mind since I booked my ticket, trying to come up with a way of making this little jaunt appear more glamorous and exciting than it’s going to be. “I guess notifying her next of kin just fell through the cracks, or something.”
Or something. After speaking with my mother, I scrolled back through my unchecked voicemails and discovered several from an unknown number. I didn’t listen to any of them; I didn’t have the time. There were travel arrangements to make, suitcases to pack, work schedules to shift…and a frustrated boyfriend to deal with.
Kendra shrugs and pops a bubble, chomping on the gum like it’s a flipping gourmet meal. Though, to my roommate, a stick of gum truly is the equivalent of five-star dining; she’s been using the stuff to stave off hunger for as long as I’ve known her. After three years of sharing a small two-bedroom apartment, I barely notice the near-constant snaps and pops and smacks anymore. “But you haven’t even seen her in what? Like forever?”
Six years.
But I don’t say that. Instead I just shrug, reaching up to fluff my hair, wondering if I should scrunch some product into my waves before I leave. Thankfully, the platinum strands still have that slightly tousled, just-came-from-the-beach-look, so I quickly dismiss the idea. I don’t have time anyway. Not if I’m going to stop at Daniel’s place before the airport. “It’s been awhile. And,” I add, my tone lighter than the words imply, “apparently there are extenuating circumstances surrounding the will.”
Kendra smacks another bubble and glances down at her phone, the reflection of the screen brightening her eyes with an eerie glow. “Like what?”
I move to my dresser and start transferring my cosmetics from a black makeup case into a clear plastic Ziploc. “No idea.” Unease pulls the corners of my lips down, and when I glance in the oval mirror hanging above the dresser, the trepidation in my expression is blatant. My grandmother was, to put it mildly, an eccentric woman. I can only imagine what stipulations she put on my inheritance. What crazy conditions she added to the fine print. The attorney wouldn’t mention the details to my mother when she spoke with him on the phone, and the one time I tried calling him, there was no answer. Apparently, it was Lenora’s wish that I be there in person for the reading of her will, which I find weird considering I’m her only living relative. Obviously, I’m getting everything, from her money to her property to her dorky collection of safari pants she always insisted on wearing. Of course, when I was young, I didn’t realize how ridiculous she looked; I just saw her as a female Indiana Jones of sorts, a woman who traveled across oceans to dig for treasure and then, after she retired, made millions writing fictional tales about those adventures. There are at least a dozen books out about her alter ego, Emeline York, that have hit the bestseller lists over the years. The whole series focuses on a fictional archeologist who travels around the globe and gets overly excited about ancient ruins and dusty trinkets while solving mystery after mystery after mystery. Lifetime even developed the books into a series of movies a few years ago, though I never found the time to actually sit down and watch them.
Kendra groans, pulling me out of my reverie, and I toss a glance over my shoulder to see her hop up from the bed. Her black bun wobbles on her head as her feet hit the floor, and she slides her phone into her pocket. “Duty calls,” she says, popping a bubble. “That new waitress they hired—you know, the one with the bad bleach job and, like, no tits? Bitch already called in sick. Can you believe it?” She huffs and rolls her heavily made-up eyes. “So not only is Roy making me come in an hour early, but I just found out it’s only gonna be me and No Lips Lori on the floor tonight. Can you say nightmare?”
I drop a tube of mascara into the Ziploc bag, pinch it closed, and turn to toss it into my suitcase while releasing an obligatory, commiserating sigh. If you were to ask her, Kendra would say she’s a model. And she is…technically. But while a few of her paychecks come from no-name designers and shopping mall fashion shows, the bulk of her income stems from the same place as mine—Molly & Dee’s, a hip nightclub in West Hollywood that, with tips, provides a better wage than any entry-level job my four-year degree in Communications ever could. It’s one of the trendiest bars in the City of Angels and, as waitresses, Kendra and I make enough to sustain some semblance of a glamourous lifestyle while we wait for our true fortunes to hit—in whatever way, shape, or form they may come.
As for myself, I’ve always known I’d have Lenora’s wealth to fall back on.
My phone dings with another text, and this time it’s Kendra who sighs, her exhalation tinged with jealousy rather than commiseration. She purses her lips together as I reach for my cell, making obnoxious smooching sounds as she turns to leave. “Give your sex on a stick a big wet one for me,” she calls from the hallway.
I shake my head as I look down at my phone, reaching up to rub a kink in my neck as I do. Just the thought of slumming it in coach for four hours is already making my back muscles ache. But as I booked the ticket so last minute, it was all they had left. Not to mention, it was the only seat within my budget. If, that is, one could consider maxing out an already over-extended credit card as staying within budget.
The text, however, isn’t from Daniel. It’s longer than Daniel’s usual textspeak, each sentence containing capital letters where appropriate and perfect punctuation. I read it through several times, my brow furrowing more and more as my eyes roam over the words. It’s from someone—a guy—named Ben Sloane, who says he’s a friend of my grandmother’s—yeah, right—who wants to know my flight number, so he can meet me at my gate when I arrive in Minnesota. Apparently, the old codger wants to drive me up to the funeral as a final favor to Lenora.
The unexpected message makes the lump of unease sitting in my stomach expand even more. I didn’t know she was close with anyone. Then again, we rarely talked. She didn’t care for the use of computers when it came to staying in touch, claiming they were too impersonal, so any attempt to email her usually turned into an effort wasted. And I got such bad hand cramps whenever I tried to respond to her lengthy handwritten letters that I abandoned that form of communication shortly after high school. Sure, we spoke on the phone, brief conversations about things that were going on in my world, usually. But after every call, the time between the next seemed to stretch more and more until, as of these last few years, the only times we were able to connect were holidays and birthdays.
But be all that as it may. When we did speak, when she did write, there was never mention of anyone specific. Anyone she cared for that might—and yes, I’m aware of how completely selfish this sounds—alter the scope of my inheritance.
And as for making my way from Minneapolis all the way up to Lost Bay? I plan to use the last bit of credit on my card to rent a car once I get to the airport. Sure, it’ll cost, but it will also give me access to my own wheels, allowing me to hit the road and be out of town as soon as that damn will is read and I sign on the coveted dotted line. Besides, I’ll be rolling in cash soon enough. What’s a few hundred dollars for a rental car when by the end of the week my bank account will boast over a couple mil?
“Not a chance, old timer,” I mutter, ignoring the message and pressing my finger against the button on the side of my phone.
The screen darkens to black, and Ben Sloane’s words fade into nothing.
My early memories of Lenora Vane are vivid and full of life. Not unlike the woman they pay homage to. During my first eleven years, two weeks every summer were dedicated to spending time with my grandmother at her home in Lost Bay, a rugged little town along the North Shore of Lake Superior the size of a postage stamp. My father died when I was just sixteen months old and, as he was Lenora’s only child, I suppose my visits sustained her connection to him. I was the only family she had left after his passing; m
ost of the meager ties she had to her parents and extended family were cut when she decided that galivanting around the world as an archeologist would be more fun than parking herself behind a desk for eight hours a day while running the family accounting business. Her parents didn’t approve of her choice, aghast that she would rather forge through dirty pyramids and dusty tombs than stay in her small Midwestern hometown, popping out babies and crunching numbers. In their minds, archeology was an improper career for a young woman, and when they gave her the ultimatum forcing her to decide between following their dreams or hers, she chose the latter.
Lenora always told me it wasn’t a bad thing to disconnect from family. Or people, in general. “If they love you…truly love you…then they’ll respect your heart. Even if it’s not quite the same as theirs. And if they can’t, then let them go.”
I heard this a lot from her, especially during my early years, when things like ancestral trees and familial connections seemed so important. My mother’s side of the family wasn’t exactly large, but back before we moved from Minnesota to California, we’d see them from time to time. Obligatory holiday dinners and summer reunions with watered down lemonade and overcooked hot dogs.
On my father’s side, however, there was just…Lenora.
She never conveyed any guilt when talking about her family, never displayed any shame when relaying the circumstances that led to their estrangement. In fact, it was like she held her title as black sheep with pride. I think, to her, it was a badge of honor, a reminder that she never caved. Never gave in to people who wanted her to conform in such a way that would have left her broken and empty, completely hollowed out.
So, yes. My grandmother was a strong woman. Though I’ll admit that there were some days, especially during the last couple of years, when I felt a small sense of guilt. Experienced a tiny pull in my stomach when I thought about how distant our relationship had become. How more and more time seemed to slip by between visits, letters, phone calls.
But I always pushed those feelings aside. Slapped them on the back burner, promising that I’d get to her eventually.