Yes. Yes, darling. You want this.
Somehow while I’ve been consumed with my own anxieties, Charles Sanford seems to have found the combination of words to make Noah shut the hell up, and then we all say more words and apparently I’ve agreed to everything because I’m signing papers, and it is growing darker outside, like the sun has disappeared, which I don’t think has anything to do with the fact that I’ve just signed a scary legal document, but you never know.
A thunderstorm is coming, LaRue says. Would anyone like some coffee? Or some bottled water? But no, we say we’re fine.
“Wait. One more question. So what if she doesn’t live here for the three months?” Noah is saying in a voice that feels like it’s coming from the bottom of a well, distorted and strange. “What happens to the property then?”
Charles Sanford clears his throat and starts looking through the papers. “She was actually quite certain that Marnie would meet the stipulations. You know how your great-aunt was. There’s hardly anything that she had doubts about. But in a separate document sent in right before she died, she said that if Marnie didn’t accept the terms, the house would go to several charities she named.”
“To charities,” says Noah flatly. He glances over at me in shock. I shrug.
“Yes, Mr. Spinnaker. I know.” Charles Sanford clears his throat again. “She did leave you a bit of money. Not what you’re hoping, I’m certain, but still . . . your great-aunt did mention once that you’re the heir to a rather large family fortune, so perhaps she didn’t think it necessary to provide for you in her own will.”
“Well. That remains to be seen,” says Noah in such a small, defeated voice that I feel sorry for him. I see him as a boy with his hand tucked into his great-aunt’s hand, and maybe she is telling him something, and he is gazing into her face. Aunt Blix. Kiss your Aunt Blix, Noah.
Charles Sanford is looking at him kindly. “Please know that this kind of thing happens all the time. There’s no accounting for what people want done with their property when they’re gone.” He turns to me. “And here, Marnie, is a private letter she requested that I give to you, to be opened when you wish. There’s another letter in the vault for when the three months are up.”
I reach over and take the letter. I still feel dazed. Perhaps it’s not too late to speak up and change my mind. In one second, I could reverse course and my life would go right back to normal.
Still, I can’t help but notice that I am keeping silent.
Charles Sanford stacks all the papers, and then he stands up to signal that the meeting is over. “So if you don’t have any more questions, I’ll file the necessary paperwork and get things moving. Marnie, feel free to contact me with any questions you might have, or if you have any problems going forward. Because you’ve chosen to accept the terms of the will, Blix has provided a stipend for you for your living expenses. I would suggest you open a bank account here and I’ll see that checks are deposited to the account as needed. Blix also wanted you to know that she’s paid the taxes on the property for the next five years, and she’s also provided some gifts for the tenants, which I’ll be disbursing.”
The blood is beating in my ears so hard that I can only barely hear what he’s saying.
It’s time to go, apparently. Noah, walking along beside me, is reading his phone. “Just so you know, I’m pretty sure my folks will want to contest the will,” he says.
We’re in the waiting room by then. Charles Sanford frowns. “They are welcome to try, of course, but I assure you it’s a waste of money and time. Your great-aunt was knowledgeable in how to make her wishes known.”
Just then there’s a huge clap of thunder, and Charles Sanford says, “Hi, Blix,” and everyone laughs.
“You both have my deepest condolences on her loss,” Charles says, and he shakes our hands, and says we’ll be in touch.
There is not a taxicab in the world that could contain both me and Noah right after that meeting, so I make sure to turn down the taxi he hails as soon as we get outside. He is a big brown bruise of a man just now, furiously texting with his mom, and I feel like I’m in a dream I can’t wake up from.
I decide to take my chances with the thunder and lightning and the rain that is splattering all around us. I wave him away and start down the street, pulling my sweater up over my head.
As soon as I get to a Starbucks—a familiar landmark!—I duck inside and find myself surrounded by a zillion rain-soaked people, all tapping on their phones and ordering skinny chai lattes.
I’m shivering and reading the sign, trying to decide what to get when a woman next to me says sharply, “Are you on line?”
“Pardon?”
“I said: Are you on this line or not?”
“Oh, you mean am I in this line? Yes, oh yes, I am,” I say. “I thought you were asking me if I was online, like on the Internet.”
She stares at me, shakes her head, and then turns away, muttering about some people.
Huh. So people in New York stand on lines instead of in them. Good to know.
After I get my chai latte, I find an armchair in the corner that a guy with a laptop is just vacating and sink down into it. I’m going to be living in this city for three months.
At the table next to me, two women are talking, leaning forward in intensity like no one else in the world is there. One of them has deep-purple hair, and both of them have on coats that look like they’re made of quilted black parachutes. And by the way, they’re in love, and later today they’ll probably go out and get a dog.
I need a coat, probably. And a job. A pair of warm gloves. More black clothing so I can fit in.
I take a sip of my chai. And all of a sudden, just like that, I know that I don’t want to be in Brooklyn. I want to go home.
This is not a good place to live. It’s dirty; it’s loud; it’s impersonal—and for heaven’s sake, it doesn’t even know how to have a proper thunderstorm! I like my thunderstorms to arrive in the late afternoon after a buildup of humidity and heat so that by the time the storm comes, you’re grateful for it. It does its job, chasing out the sticky air, and moves on, and the sky clears right up. But this—this is a constant gray drizzle with intermittent booms that seems like it could go on all day. Who needs this?
I tap my fingernails on the table, push all the crumbs into a little pile. Maybe I should go back to Charles Sanford’s office and tell him that I’ve made a horrible mistake. I’ll tell him that I’m simply not up to it.
This was an amazing gift, TOTALLY amazing, and I am very appreciative of Blix’s kindness, but, sadly, I myself am not up to it. But . . . thank you.
Let the place go to a charity, and I’ll take the next flight home tomorrow, and later this week, I’ll tell my family the good news that I’m marrying Jeremy.
We’ll go to Cancun for our honeymoon like Natalie and Brian did. In a few years, we’ll have a kid, and then another, hopefully of the opposite sex, and I’ll decorate the house and garden and join the PTA and drive in carpools and keep a color-coded calendar hanging on the kitchen wall and get to say things like, “Honey, did you do your homework?”
I kind of love this idea. And in thirty or so years, I’ll be there to help my parents when they need to move to a nursing home. Jeremy will close his physical therapy practice, and maybe we’ll go back to Cancun for our fiftieth wedding anniversary when we’re eighty. And we’ll say, “Where did the time go?” like everybody else in the history of the planet. And then we’ll die fulfilled and people will say, “They were the luckiest ones.”