On the Right Side of a Dream Page 8

  That’s the way I felt about my homecoming to Paper Moon. It was bad enough that I came back because there was a death in the family, so to speak. But from Millie’s funeral on, it was just one damn thing after another. My great adventure began to stall like a ’78 Oldsmobile Deuce and a quarter left out in the cold too long.

  The Thursday after Millie’s farewell party, I couldn’t sleep so I got up before the sun. Jess stuck his nose out from under the covers.

  “Juanita, Randolph starts the breakfast run on Thursday mornings. The diner’s covered, you don’t have to go in.”

  I pulled the blanket back over his head.

  “So, I’ll help. I’m up, I might as well do something,” I told him. It was as if I had real ants in my pants—I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t sit still. I showed up at the diner at six o’clock in the morning just as I used to do, was tackled by Dracula, had to change the station on the radio (I think Mountain tuned it to “easy listening” on purpose), and found the breakfast supplies laid out for me as if I was an executive chef. It was a good thing that some of the snow had melted, though, or I would have slid all the way down Kaylin’s Ridge Road. Randolph, another one of Jess’s young cousins, and I worked side by side to get things ready. Fish, Abel, and the boys stomped through the door at six-forty-five sharp, even though it wasn’t fishing weather, knocking the snow off their boots and making a ruckus as usual. They didn’t seem surprised to see me behind the counter.

  Fish spat a wad of tobacco into the spittoon and gave me a wave.

  Abel said, “How you doing, Juanita?” like he saw me every day and life picked up from there.

  Sort of.

  That next Saturday, the furnace went out and even though we shut down for dinner (you can’t eat gourmet food if you’re freezin’ to death), I still cooked breakfast that morning for a dining room full of people! (It was a little chilly, but this is Montana.) Jess built a huge fire in the stone fireplace and I cooked up eggs, sausage, and my new Sedona Southwest Omelet like I was Frontier Sallie. Shoot, my great-grandparents sharecropped in Georgia. You think they had central heating? Then, we had a heat wave. The sun came out; the outside thermometer read fifty-five degrees, and most of the snow melted. Some of those fools were walking around without coats. The creek flooded and River Walk Road was closed. Apparently, Mother Nature has hot flashes, too.

  But it was too good to last. A front came in from Alaska. The temperature dropped like a stone in the bathtub. And so did everything else. I remembered something my mother had said: “If it weren’t for bad luck, we wouldn’t have any luck at all!”

  “Momma, I’m not sure how to tell you this,” Randy said slowly over the telephone.

  Oh, Lordy, I was ready to find a nice, dark closet, walk in, and lock the door.

  Rashawn had been arrested for drug trafficking and his case was going to a grand jury. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Well, I guess it could have been worse. Whenever I get a phone call about that boy, I’m scared they’re going to tell me he’s been shot or worse.

  “How did you find out?” I asked. Rashawn didn’t call me anymore when he got picked up. We’d had that conversation. I had told him not to call me to put up bail, get him out, or any other such stuff. It had gotten to be too much of a habit.

  “Saw him yesterday, he came by for lunch,” Randy answered.

  Came by for lunch? That was a picture that I wanted to see: Rashawn sitting at a little bistro table, munching on a Caesar salad, drinking sparkling water.

  “He’s doing well?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’m sure the owner of Sixes and Sevens was just tickled to have a nearly indicted drug dealer in his place.

  Randy snorted and, at first, I thought that he was laughing. But when he spoke again, I heard the bitterness in his voice.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he answered. “He’s real proud of himself, says he’ll beat this thing. He has the most expensive lawyer in town, some guy named Harrison, and posted bail faster than you could say . . . shoot. He must have some pretty good . . . contacts.”

  “Moving up in the world,” I said, more to myself than to Randy. I guess the days of calling me at 3:00 AM asking for two hundred dollars were long gone. Rashawn was in the big leagues now and leaving the little people behind.

  “Didn’t mean to spoil your day, Momma,” Randy apologized. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

  I knew that Randy meant well but I wasn’t sure I did want to know. Rashawn moves in a dimension that I do not want to visit.

  The thirty-degree drop in temperature froze the pipes in the diner and left us with a mess in the basement and a very happy plumber.

  But the phone still worked.

  “Momma!” Now, it was Bertie. I held my breath. My daughter was doing OK, much better than when I left, but, like Rashawn, I only heard from her secondhand through Randy. She didn’t call me directly unless she wanted something real bad. After about twenty seconds of small talk, I could tell that she couldn’t stand it anymore. She was ready to plunge in. “I was wondering . . . could you come home and keep Teishia for me? Just for spring quarter?”

  Just for spring quarter? Oh, is that all?

  I felt my hair turning white before I could answer. The last time Bertie left Teishia with me “just for” a certain unspecified period of time, she was gone for four days and I never even got a phone call. I loved T but, let’s face it, I have done children. Hadn’t planned on doing much more with the grandbabies than hug ’em, buy ’em toys, and hand ’em back. And what made Bertie think I wanted to “come home”?

  “Bertie, I hadn’t planned on coming back to Ohio . . . anytime soon.”

  “Oh, then I could bring her out there,” she answered without missing a beat. Bless her heart, this is not a girl to take no for an answer. She always has a backup plan.

  You’d better think again, I said to myself.

  “No, Bertie, I don’t think so,” I told her. The last time I made arrangements for a babysitter, Ronald Reagan was president. Or was it Jimmy Carter?

  My daughter was not to be put off by my hesitation, the fact that I had my own life, or that I said, “No.” This is a gal who will definitely run a corporation someday. She has no compunctions about running over anybody. She went on with the conversation like I hadn’t said anything at all.

  “Can you let me know by the fifteenth, so I can make my plans?” Her plans?

  Every damn thing at once, I said to myself, my stomach tying itself into a knot.

  By the time I got off the telephone, Jess had the plumbing estimate so we were both in a bad mood. The damage was bad and, what was even worse, it would take a couple of days to fix so the diner had to remain closed. Jess was in the growling stage and I wasn’t too far behind him.

  Then the mailman showed up with a certified letter. For me.

  “It’s from the attorney, Geoff Black, the guy I met at the funeral,” I reminded him, reading off the four names on the letterhead. “Remember? He said that I was a beneficiary.”

  “Prob’bly left you the damn cats,” Jess grumbled from behind the counter, turning off the lights as he locked up. Jess hates cats.

  My mood wasn’t any better than his. Rashawn in trouble again. Bertie making plans to drop a three-year-old in my lap. All the new possibilities dissolved. My old life was chasing me and I couldn’t run fast enough. I wondered what else I would have to deal with.

  “Or else she left me the damn ghost,” I murmured.

  It was worse than that.

  Millie had left me the B&B: house, cats, ghost, everything. This is the part in the romance novel where the heroine faints. I would have, too, if I’d known how.

  Since I was too stunned to faint, I just sat in the chair in attorney Geoff Black’s office with my eyes bugged out and my mouth hanging open. My brain wasn’t working so the words I’d started to say wouldn’t come out of my mouth. I was so surprised at what the attorney had said, I inhaled but didn’t exhale. I must ha
ve looked as if I was about to go into shock.

  “Ms. Louis, are you all right?” Geoff Black leaned forward with a worried expression on his face. “Do you need a glass of water?”

  “Juanita, you OK?” Jess patted me on the arm.

  I was staring at Mr. Black.

  “She left me the whole house?” I asked. A stupid question. What did I think, that Millie was going to leave me the first floor and leave the rest to somebody else?

  Geoff smiled slightly.

  “Yes, the whole house and a small annuity for upkeep. Mrs. Daniels, er, Miss Tilson said that old houses are like old showgirls. They need maintenance every once in a while.”

  That certainly was something Millie would have said, all right. But, why me?

  “What about her family?” I asked. I thought about her sister and Horace and her other nieces and nephews. Geoff shook his head and glanced down at the paper.

  “She’s left them some very generous bequests. They won’t have any complaints. Miss Tilson was a wealthy woman. But she felt that you would be the perfect person to carry on her legacy.”

  Me? Millie’s legacy? With the tentacles from my past life reaching out to pull me back? What was she thinking?

  “Congratulations, Miz Louis,” Jess said. “You got yourself a business.”

  His eyes danced with merriment and he smiled.

  Ask and ye shall receive.

  Well, I’d been thinking about running a business. A bed-and-breakfast business. Now, I had one right in my lap.

  Geoff Black’s cough brought me out of my daydream.

  “I would hold on the congratulations for the moment,” he said. I could hear thunderclouds in his voice. He fumbled with the papers in his hands. “I’m not sure how to say this, Ms. Louis, but . . . well, there may be a slight impediment to the bequest. Nothing to really worry about.” He paused. “I don’t think.”

  “Slight” was not the word I would have used to describe the “impediment.”

  “The will has been contested. A hearing hasn’t been set yet but I expect the papers to be filed soon and then Judge McGriff will set a date.”

  “By who?”

  “I’ll handle the will contest hearing,” Geoff went on, not answering my question. “The complainant alleges that Miss Tilson was not of sound mind when she made her will and that all bequests are void. If that happens, the estate reverts to the heirs as dictated by probate law when a person dies intestate.” He paused for a moment. “Because of Millie’s, well, eccentric behavior . . . it could be a challenging case.”

  Ask a lawyer where he’s going, he’ll tell you where he’s been.

  “Who’s contesting the will?”

  “Oh, sorry. In this case, it’s pretty simple. It means that Miss Tilson’s entire estate would go to one person. Her son.”

  “Her son?” Jess and I answered in a duet.

  The lawyer smiled sheepishly.

  “I get that a lot,” he said. “It isn’t really common knowledge that Millie had a son, even in Paper Moon where everybody knows everybody’s business or thinks that they know everybody’s business. But Millie did have her secrets and, unlike most folks around here, she was pretty good at keeping them. I’ve handled her legal affairs for some time but . . . well, attorney-client privilege being what it is . . .”

  “Who is . . . where is . . . was he born in Montana?” I was recovering from the shock. But I wasn’t too shocked to be nosy. “Or is that information privileged?” I asked, using his word.

  Geoff shrugged his shoulders.

  “Not anymore. At least half the town should know by now. Her son was born in Kenya, brought up in the UK, educated in the UK and the United States. He’s very wealthy, like the old-time tycoons. It’s quite a story.”

  And then I remembered that I had heard at least part of it—a story that Millie told me one summer night when the sky was so dark and clear that you could see the stars back to forever; a love story about a dancer and a wealthy farmer, set in Kenya. But was it a story—a short story that she had told me was for her creative writing class at the UM Extension—or was it true? Now, the words were coming back to me and I remembered the faraway look in Millie’s eyes when she spoke them. I remembered the purring of Asim, the Siamese cat who she’d held in her lap.

  She knew that, while it was easy to stay in paradise, it was better, even braver perhaps, to leave. She still had mountains of her own to climb. Even though she left everything she ever loved in his hands.

  What she’d left in his hands was her baby. Her story wasn’t make-believe at all. Dear Millie.

  “So, what do I do now?” I asked. I felt as if someone had given me a birthday present, changed their mind, and taken it back, wrapping paper, tape, bow, and all.

  “Until the hearing, which will probably take place in six weeks, the will stands, as written . . . more or less,” Geoff added uncertainly.

  That wasn’t helpful. I felt a stone settle in my stomach.

  “Oh, and you might want to get involved with the inn,” Geoff answered, closing his file folder. “During the interim.”

  I wanted to melt into a puddle and just drip away.

  “What about . . . the son? What’s his name?”

  “Broderick Tilson Hayward-Smith,” Geoff answered. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Mr. Hayward-Smith is flying in, sometime before the hearing. He wants to stay at the inn, get a feel for the place.” Geoff looked at me sympathetically. “I guess he’s checking out what he hopes will be his inheritance.” Then Geoff frowned. “Although his attorneys say that he’d like to tear down the place and sell the land to the VFW for a parking lot.”

  Six weeks? This man was coming in six weeks to stay at the inn? And the lawyer forgot to tell me?

  The phone rang just in time to keep me from crawling over that desk and smacking Geoff Black in the head with a stack of file folders.

  “Hello?” He listened for a moment then looked up at me. “It’s for you.”

  It was Inez and her girdle was in a knot. She needed help and could I stop by? The inn would be full of guests by the weekend with reservations booked last year. There was a list of unreturned phone calls and food to order. Millie’s house had been closed for most of the winter. FedEx had delivered four boxes—of something—and the carpet cleaners were coming on Wednesday. There was a stack of unopened mail, unpaid bills, and one of the cats had disappeared again. She didn’t have to tell me which one.

  I grumbled, growled, and just plain bitched all the way back to Paper Moon.

  “I thought God didn’t give you more than you could handle,” I complained to Jess. “What did I do to deserve all this?”

  Jess did not feel sorry for me.

  “Quit complaining!” he shot back. “You’re smart, hardworking, a halfway decent cook.” He winked at me. “You’re a little contrary but I still love you. And you’re more resourceful than most foxes I’ve seen.”

  I guess that’s a compliment.

  “But I don’t know anything about business and accounting and reservations and . . . besides, I’ve already . . .” I shut my mouth. Nina’s quirky face appeared. The thick white envelope from Arcadia Valley Community and Technical College was still unopened. And there was Bertie.

  “Juanita, you just concentrate on keeping that inn from going under until after the probate hearing. Then you can sit back and decide just what you’re going to do in the long run.”

  “What kind of people would take a vacation in Montana in the winter? This is stupid!”

  “No, this is business,” Jess barked out. “Folks don’t wait on the weather to break as much as they used to. Millie saw the trend and rode the wave. Smart old lady.”

  “Crazy old lady,” I said.

  “Don’t say that to anyone else,” Jess warned. “If the probate judge agrees with you, you’re out of an inheritance.”

  By the end of that week, sitting by Nina’s pool in Sedona doing nothing was beginning to look real good.

&nb
sp; Millie’s was a crazy house.

  Inez was so upset that half of her sentences were in English and the other half were in Spanish. The “to do” list was longer than a giraffe’s neck. Millie had been sick a long time and things had just been left to take care of themselves.

  The refrigerators hadn’t been stocked in a while, the parlor furniture had a half inch of dust on it, and the bedrooms needed to be aired out. There were stacks of unopened mail, newspapers, and magazines from as far back as Christmas, and twenty telephone messages to return. Millie’s e-mail box was “full,” whatever that meant, and . . . did I mention the half inch of dust in the parlor?

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to run back out the door and down the road to the diner and lock myself in the pantry. I wanted to tell God, or whoever else was listening, that I was grateful for the gift but that it had been given to the wrong woman. I couldn’t do this. I am not a businesswoman. I didn’t have what it took. I didn’t know how.

  I stood in the doorway of Millie’s suite. I hadn’t been here since my last visit to Paper Moon over the holidays. Everything was the same except for the empty space in the middle of her bedroom where the hospital bed had been. I walked around the room and could smell a faint thread of fragrance, the Secret of Venus perfume that Millie wore. Books were stacked on top of her nightstands and her tortoiseshell-tipped cigarette holder was perched on the delicate bone-china ashtray. And, on top of the delicate lady’s desk, which sat in the corner in front of the tower window, were her laptop and her files. Like a quiet spirit, Millie was in every corner of this room. It kind of got to me and, for a moment, I just stood there, frozen, with just my memories of her in my head. Suddenly, I heard bumping on the third floor above, probably Inez running the sweeper, and remembered that I was supposed to be organizing, cleaning, and managing, whatever that meant—not crying.

  I wiped the tears from my eyes and headed toward the door. I went down the back staircase. What would Millie have done first? Make a list. She always said that no project was too difficult to put down on paper. The rest of it, I would have to worry about later.