“I don’t understand how it happened,” I grumble angrily. I want to blame my parents and Brooks, but no matter what, I’m part of the cause. I could have called him back during the Christmas holidays rather than text him.
Maybe I should’ve tried harder. If I had, I probably wouldn’t be weighed down with this oppressive guilt now that he’s dead.
“What are you going to do?” Bethany asks, nodding at the letter tossed onto the table.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I give her a tortured look. “I don’t know. My ego wants to tell her to give it all away. But I’m curious about the personal things he left me that she mentioned. I think my first order of business, though, is to figure out how to repair her chair.”
“Assuming it can be fixed,” she points out.
“Yeah, assuming,” I mumble.
“Start googling,” she advises and pops up from the chair. “I’ll finish dinner.”
“I need to make a call first.”
Bethany hums a tune while I slide my phone from my pocket and pull up one of the attorney’s emails. Her phone number is linked at the bottom, and I use it to call her office.
I recognize the receptionist’s voice when she answers. “Law offices of Harlow Alston, this is Bonita. How may I help you?”
“Um… yeah, this is Stone Dumelin.” I cut a glance to Bethany, intently mashing potatoes, although I know she’s listening.
“Ah,” Bonita murmurs with exaggerated recognition. “Breaker of chairs and potential dog food.”
I tamp down my temper—I probably deserved that. I mean, it’s totally disrespectful to a potential client, but somehow I doubt Harlow Alston would fire her for impertinence.
“I need to make an appointment with Ms. Alston,” I say, my tone polite, which is really hard because anything dealing with my brother’s death induces a simmering irritation.
“Of course, you do,” she says merrily, and I hear her clacking away on her keyboard. “I know how busy you are, Mr. Dumelin. What’s convenient for you and your game schedule?”
I wasn’t expecting that level of consideration, given that I pretty much barreled past her into her boss’s office.
“I have a home game tomorrow, so that’s out. Friday, we’ll have a mid-morning meeting and light skate, so I could do Friday afternoon, if she’s available.”
“Hmm.” More clacking on her keyboard. “She can see you at three p.m., if that works.”
“That works.”
“Dress warm,” she says.
I blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“It’s going to snow, and she likes to have fun with her clients. She insists on making snow angels out on the sidewalk.”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I stare stupidly at it before putting it back. “Snow angels?”
“Just kidding,” she chirps, laughing at my bewilderment. “But I know she wants to take you to your brother’s condo, which is only a few blocks away, so it’s easier to walk. In other words, wear something you can walk through the snow in.”
“Um, okay.” I still have that feeling like I’m in the Twilight Zone with this woman, a bit on edge she might spring something else weird on me. But then I remember something more important. “The chair.”
“Ah, yes,” she says, voice dropping low in sorrow. “Poor chair. Poor Harlow, her legacy destroyed.”
I wince, not knowing if she’s exaggerating the personal loss. “I’d like to have it fixed.”
“That’s wonderful!” she exclaims joyfully. “I’ll call up Mr. Hepplewhite to let him know and… oh, wait… he died in 1768.”
“Now listen, lady,” I growl.
“Hourglass Restoration,” she cuts in over me.
“Hourglass Restoration,” I repeat, it dawning on me that’s the name of the company that does such things.
“I did some research yesterday after you left.”
I take that to mean she’s got the repairs well in hand, and it would be very easy for me to direct her to send me the bill. But while my guilt-riddled conscience would never let me take any affirmative steps toward reaching out to my brother, it’s pushing me to do something more than just pay for the Hepplewhite’s damage.
“I’ll take the chair with me on Friday and handle the repairs.”
The woman seems dumbstruck, because she doesn’t say anything. The silence is so extended, I say, “Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry… had to pick my jaw up off the floor.”
I roll my eyes, and I have a feeling I’ve awoken her inner sarcasm monster, and it’s not going into hiding with me. “See you Friday at three,” I mutter.
“Can’t wait,” she quips, and I can almost envision the joy on her face in giving me a hard time. “It will be all I’ll think about until then.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Instead, I just hang up.
CHAPTER 7
Harlow
Glancing down at my laptop clock, I note that it’s getting close to three. I’m drafting a Complaint against a slumlord who refuses to fix the heating units in several apartments, asking the court to grant immediate relief. In other words, tell the landlord to get off his cheap ass and give these people some heat.