I rationalize. Store-bought chicken, soup from a can, veggies from the freezer. What I’m doing is glorified reheating.
Faster than I expected, the oven timer goes off. I remove the glass dish out of the oven. If I think about this too much, I’m going to lose my nerve. Go over, drop off the food, make sure Hunter’s okay.
And if he is polite but distant? If he sends you away?
That’s not a bridge I’m prepared to cross.
27
Hunter
It’s been three months since my mother died. Some of the rawness of my grief is gone, but I still feel numb, and I still don’t know what to do about her house.
True to his word, Eric had found me a local realtor. I’d called Ajwa Pearce the day after he gave me her number. She’d driven around to see the house. “Is this a good offer, do you think?” I’d asked her.
“Yes,” she’d replied.
“Do you think I should take it?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Driesse,” she’d hedged. “If you need the money, then yes, you should take the offer. On the other hand…”
“Yes?”
“If you aren’t interested in a quick sale, then my advice would be for you to hold onto this property. Once you sell, it’s gone.” She’d looked vaguely sad. “I grew up in this area,” she’d said. “When I was a child, this was all farmland. Now, it’s almost all gone, replaced by resorts and estates and gated communities. This property is unique, Mr. Driesse. What I’m saying is ironic, given what I do for a living, but once you sell it, it’s gone.”
It’s been ninety days, for fuck’s sake. Do something. Anything. Make a goddamn decision about this house. You can’t stay frozen forever.
There’s a knock at my office door. I look up. It’s Annette Reeves. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in today.”
I had thought about canceling my patients, but in the end, I decided against it. Alone, all I’m going to do is brood. “I’m always here Mondays and Tuesdays, Annette.”
“Hmm. I thought you might make an exception.”
“Because it’s been three months? What use would that be? Would it bring her back?”
She surveys me silently. “Let’s go to lunch,” she says. “I’m buying.”
Everyone’s talking to me about my mother’s legacy. Annette was her friend. I’ve avoided talking to her so far, but maybe it’s time to deal with this, make a decision, and put this issue to rest. “Okay.”
We end up at my usual Thai place. May takes our order and brings us our food. When she’s out of earshot, I broach the topic. “Do you know Mitch Donahue?”
She wrinkles her nose. “The developer? No, not personally. Why?”
“He’s offering me six million dollars for the house.”
“Breanna’s house?”
I nod. “I turned him down. Then he pointed out that I could do a lot of good with that money. We should have talked about estate planning,” I murmur, keeping my attention on my pad thai. “We never did. I thought I had more time…” I take a deep, steadying breath against the sudden onrush of grief. “You were her friend, Annette. I want to do right by her. Tell me what she would have wanted. Tell me what to do.”
She doesn’t respond for a long time. “I’m not sure,” she says at last. “Here’s what I do know. Bree loved that house, every drafty corner of it. I once suggested that she move into a condo, someplace easier to maintain, and she wouldn’t hear of it. She even wanted to plant daffodils all over the hillside. Thousands and thousands of bulbs.” She shakes her head. “I told her she was crazy.”
An unwilling smile touches my lips. “I did too. She wouldn’t listen.”
“That was Bree,” she says. “She was very invested in the non-profits she worked with, and she would have done almost anything to see them succeed. But I can’t picture her selling the place. She had such fond memories of growing up on the farm. She wanted to see her grandchildren run around the property—”
“Grandchildren? She never said anything about grandchildren to me.”
Annette quirks an eyebrow. “Well, no, she wouldn’t have, would she? Bree never wanted to be a cliché. But she was a supportive presence in Nala's life, and she very much wanted you to find somebody to love. She had visions of your children playing in the fields and fishing in the lake, the way you did when you were a kid.”
I never knew. I wish she’d told me. “Thank you, Annette.”
Back in my office, I leave a message