And then there’s me, as organized, structured, and boring as it gets if Louise were to describe me. But damn it, life works better with lists and rules. Stability.
I play it safe because just the thought of doing anything else makes me break out into hives.
Not only was Louise named for him, but she is more like Grandpa than I am, and that always made me a little jealous because I loved him so damn much. And she did too.
But my relationship with him was different.
“A will reading in Central Park,” she says, shaking her head. “Well, that sounds like him. He loved the park.”
I nod and search for parking, which isn’t easy in Manhattan. We should have taken the train, but I have to go to work when we’re finished here, and this was just easier.
Until the parking.
“There,” Lou says, pointing to a spot, and I slip inside it. We step out of the car, and walk inside the park, our heels clicking on the cement.
My shoes are black, and a sensible two inches. Not high enough to kill my feet, but classier than flats.
Lou’s wearing mile-high Louboutins that she most likely charged to her Visa.
I don’t want to even think about the fact that she still owes me five hundred dollars from last month when I helped her with the rent.
It’s not that Louise is a train wreck. She has it together for the most part, and she’s my dearest friend.
But she’s not great when it comes to money. If she has five dollars in her pocket, she’ll spend six.
It’s just how she is.
I push that from my thoughts and steer Lou to the area of the park where the attorney said we’d meet. It’s near the water, with mothers pushing strollers nearby, and businessmen in suits sitting on benches with their lunches.
Summer has just begun, but the heat is hanging heavily around us already, and I’m grateful when I see Grandpa’s attorney standing in the shade, along with our parents and a few family friends.
“Hello, darlings,” Mom says as she leans in to kiss our cheeks. Dad does the same, then smiles when he sees his brother, Patrick, arrive and offers him his hand to shake.
“It looks like we’re all here,” Dad says, but the attorney, Mr. Mills, shakes his head.
“We have one more party joining us.” Someone walking behind us catches his eye, and he nods. “Here he is now.”
We all turn to find a tall man approaching. He has dark hair, a square jaw, and he’s wearing an expensive suit. The kind of suit that screams money and importance.
His eyes are covered by aviators.
“Who is that?” Lou whispers to me, but I just shrug and turn my attention back to Mr. Mills, who has opened a folder and put his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he begins. “Mr. Hendricks has left his home, along with its contents, to his sons, Louis and Patrick. He assumed you’d sell and split the profits, but there’s no rush on that.”
Both Dad and Uncle Patrick nod in understanding.
This isn’t a surprise.
“He also left each of his sons $250,000.”
Neither my father nor Patrick’s expressions change. Again, this isn’t a surprise.
“He left a sizable amount of money to his granddaughters, Louise and Sienna, at $250,000. Each. The remainder of his money is to be donated to St. Andrew’s Church in the Bronx.”
Louise and I exchange a look of shock. We weren’t expecting to inherit any money, especially since both of Grandpa’s children are still living, and he spoke often about leaving the majority of his estate to the church.
Not that I’ll complain.
“And finally, there’s the matter of a piece of property in the Bronx, which currently stands as a park for the community, and has for more than seventy years. Mr. Hendricks has bequeathed the property to the city, with the stipulation that it remain a park for the community to enjoy for no less than one hundred years.”
“Wow,” I whisper, happy and relieved. This park is an important part of our community. Uncle Patrick squirms in his seat.
“I have something to say,” the stranger says from behind us, and we all turn in surprise. “I’m Quinn Cavanaugh, and I am the attorney for Big Box, LLC. Louis Hendricks can’t will the property in question to the city because he didn’t legally own that property.”
“What?” I stand and turn to him, my hands planted on my hips. “He most certainly did own that property. It’s been in our family for generations.”
“I have documentation that proves differently,” he says, taking off his glasses. Brown eyes are pinned to mine, and I feel warmth low in my belly.
Which is just ridiculous because this man is calling my grandfather a liar, so I cannot be attracted to him.
“He never sold that property,” my father says.