Jerry slides a pair of thick-framed reading glasses onto his nose and lifts a piece of paper from his desk. His voice is warm as he begins to read.
I,Bethany Hayes, a resident of the state of Tennessee, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament.
To my granddaughter Devyn Hayes, I leave a sum of fifty-thousand dollars to be used as funds for higher education, which she so sorely needs, becausebloggingis not a career no matter what she tries to tell me.
To my daughters, Kim Hayes and Kandace Wilde, I leave the most fervent wish that one day, you will be able to forgive me for my failures — and love each other, in spite of your own.
To my son-in-law, Terence Wilde, I leave nothing at all, for he has already taken far too much from my family.
Finally, to my granddaughter, Felicity Wilde, I leave the full remaining value of my estate including any future royalties as well as the sum of my bank accounts, in addition to the forty acres of land upon which my house once stood and all remaining personal effects still gathering dust in storage — contingent on the agreement that she throws out that old guitar she’s always dragging around and gets herself a proper instrument to play. My blue Gibson should do fine, I think.
Keep singing, Felicity. You’re a light in the dark.
Hereby singed and dated,with all my love,
Bethany Hayes
Jerry setsdown the paper and peers at me over the rim of his glasses, a bemused grin making his mustache twitch. I sit stock-still, hardly processing the words he’s just read.
“Your Gran always did have a flair for the dramatic.” He shrugs lightly. “Any questions for me?”
A choked sound slides out of my mouth. The breath is frozen in my lungs.
“Mary!” Jerry yells to his secretary. “Can you please bring Miss Wilde a glass of water? She looks like she’s about to keel over.”
He’s not wrong.
A few moments later, after I’ve taken a sip of water and gathered my bearings, I’m finally able to formulate a proper sentence.
“She left meeverything?”
He nods. “Except the college fund for Devyn, which hardly touches the balance in her accounts. And speaking of that balance…” His eyes light up as he looks down at a bank statement. When he reads the eight digits proceeding the decimal point, the glass slips through my fingers and bounces against his carpet, spilling water across my too-tight pumps.
Holy fudge.
* * *
Jerry spendsthe next half hour laying out the specifics of my inheritance — a never-ending stream of bank accounts and routing numbers and inventory lists and land acreages. I try to pay attention, but my mind feels sluggish as it processes this surprising turn of events.
I’m rich.
Beyond rich — I’m extravagantly, obnoxiously wealthy.
And all those vultures circling over Gran’s head for the past ten years, praying for her to take her last breath so they could finally swoop down and claim their piece of the carrion…
They get nothing.
Nothing.
Despite all their screaming matches and court battles, their manipulations and barbed words… my parents, my aunt, all those other relatives who oozed out of the woodwork like toxic mold when they saw an opportunity to take advantage of an ailing old woman…
Cut out.
Crossed off.
I wonder if they were ever in the will to begin with.
“Oh, they were,” Jerry says, startling me. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. “Your grandmother had them removed right around the time she was placed into the nursing home. She knew her health was failing and, though her daughters attempted to hide the worst of their fighting from her, Bethany was perfectly aware of the hell they were putting each other through.” He pauses. “And the hell they put you through, as a result.”