Descension (4 page)

The lawyer’s office was in a neighboring town twenty minutes away. As Layla drove the barren stretch of two lane highway, she watched the bland scenery, trying to focus on anything besides the impending meeting.

Some would say Oklahoma’s a pretty state, and Layla somewhat agreed. She liked driving for miles without seeing a house, and she appreciated the views of rolling hills and riverbeds, unobstructed by people and their projects. Livestock, on the other hand, was plentiful. A person couldn’t drive from one town to another without seeing cows and horses. They might even spy a herd of buffalo or llamas. But Layla was tired of it. She’d lived in Gander Creek her entire life, and the wheat fields, rivers and livestock no longer held interest.

Layla’s critical evaluation of Oklahoma occupied her mind until she reached the strip mall housing Gerald Greene’s office, at which point unease washed over her. After parking the car, she closed her eyes and counted to twenty, trying to find composure and strength.

“This is stupid,” she berated, exiting the car on surprisingly sturdy legs.

Odds were she’d sign her name then be given a small chunk of money—no emotional torment involved. And it was highly unlikely the money would lead to any life changes, because Katherine had never been a wealthy woman. She’d lived payday to payday on a secretary’s salary; she’d bought a small, two-bedroom house two decades before and never considered moving; she clipped coupons, shopped discount stores, and drove sensible cars. Not the types of things people sitting on a mountain of cash do.

When Layla reached the lawyer’s door, she filled her lungs and swung it open, taking a large step inside. The waiting room was much like every other waiting room—a couch, padded chairs, a coffee table complete with magazines.

A woman popped her head up from behind a long counter. “Hi there. What can I do for ya?”

“I’m Layla Callaway, here to see Gerald.”

“Of course,” the woman replied, “Come on back.” She rose from her chair and led Layla down a short hallway, glancing back often. “I’m Dolores—Gerald’s gal Friday. Layla’s here,” she announced, walking through an open door.

“Oh good,” a man replied. “Come on in.”

Layla obeyed, rounding the corner to find a husky man of about fifty stretching his hand across a cluttered desk. “It’s good to finally meet you, Layla. Katherine always boasted about her little girl.”

Layla managed a small smile as she shook his thick hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Gerald.”

“Would you like something to drink? Water or coffee?”

Due to Layla’s nervousness, she’d forgotten her coffee that morning, and she’d been regretting it since pulling out of the driveway. “Coffee would be nice.”

“How do ya drink it?” Dolores asked.

“Lots of cream and even more sugar.”

Dolores nodded and left, closing the door behind her, and Layla’s nerves flared as the latch clicked into place.

“Take a seat,” Gerald offered, seating himself. “I’d like to tell you again how sorry I am for your loss.”

Layla nodded as she sat, never sure what to say to that. Thank you? It’s okay? Neither of them fit.

“I’m aware you have no idea what to expect today,” Gerald continued. “Katherine was very specific about her privacy, but everything she told me is now yours to know.”

Layla considered this as Dolores returned with a steaming cup of coffee.

“I only put two sugars in,” she said, handing over the mug, “but I brought more.”

“Thank you,” Layla replied, eying the extra sugar. As soon as Dolores made her exit, Layla picked up the packets and added them to her cup, sipping as she stirred. The brew wasn’t sweet enough or strong enough, but it was acceptable and appreciated. Coffee was one of her favorite things in the world, and she hadn’t gone a day without it in over five years.

She let the hot liquid warm her throat and belly then continued the conversation. “How long has my mom been a client?”

“Almost twenty-one years,” Gerald answered.

Layla’s mouth fell open as a few drops of coffee slid over her fingers. She couldn’t believe her mom had known this man for twenty-one years, yet she knew nothing about him.

“Katherine came to me in April of ’89,” he elaborated. “You were with her then, so I guess I have met you, but you were just a tiny thing, only a month old.”

“What did she ask you to do?” Layla pressed.

“She hired me as a financial adviser. She’d come into some money and wanted it wisely managed. She also gave me this.” He held up a manila envelope. “She told me it contained information she wanted you to have once you turned eighteen and had graduated high school. She fully intended to give it to you herself, so my instructions were to keep it until she came and got it, or until her death. If she died before you turned eighteen and graduated, I was to keep it until then.”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. Katherine never told me.”

“So you’ve had that same envelope for twenty-one years?”

“Yes, the envelope’s the same, but its contents have changed.”

“How so?”

“In the spring of 2001, Katherine removed a sheet of paper and added several more.”

Layla’s brain kicked into gear, trying to figure out what was so important yet interchangeable. Why did she have to be eighteen and out of school to see it? And why didn’t Katherine tell her about it after graduation?

“The last time I saw your mom,” Gerald went on, “was shortly before your graduation, around your eighteenth birthday. She told me she’d come back for the envelope soon… as soon as she could muster the courage.” His bushy, gray eyebrows furrowed as he hung his head. “I never saw her again.”

As Layla watched Gerald’s expression, a feeling of awe rushed over her, respect for the woman Katherine had been. Here was a man who had little contact with Katherine, so little Layla had never met him, yet he grieved the loss.

Gerald straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. “When I found out she was ill, I started sending the checks per her request, but I still couldn’t give you the envelope. Three conditions had to be met. You were eighteen and done with high school, but Katherine was alive. I think, above all, she wanted to be the one to give it to you, and this plan was a last resort.”

Layla cleared her throat, trying not to sound as weak as she felt. “I’m sure that’s the case.”

“So here we are,” Gerald said, lifting his palms. “I’ll need you to sign for the envelope and the money.”

“Where did the money come from?” Layla asked.

“That’s one thing I can’t tell you,” he refused.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know. Katherine wouldn’t tell me. I used to tease her by asking if she robbed a bank.”

He chuckled, wiping his thick mustache, and Layla took a sip, avoiding the polite gesture of laughing with him. “How much is there?” she asked.

Gerald quickly sobered. “You’ll be signing for $773,000.”

Layla choked, spilling coffee down the front of her shirt, and Gerald jumped up, rushing to an attached bathroom.

“I guess I should have warned you,” he said, returning with a hand towel.

“You think?” Layla blurted, absently dabbing her chest. She wasn’t mad about her shirt, but her mind twirled like a twister and her lungs felt too tiny to hold air. “Where did she… How did she…”

“I don’t know, dear. She never told me.” He reached over the desk, retrieving the mysterious envelope. “Perhaps it explains in here.”

Layla took the envelope, but didn’t open it. That’s something she’d do in private. “What now?” she murmured. “I don’t know what to do with that much money. I can’t walk out of here with $700,000 in my pocket.”

“$773,000, and yes, you most certainty could attempt to walk out of here with hundred-dollar bills falling out of your pockets, but I don’t advise it.”

“What would you advise?” she asked.

“Well, there are a couple of sensible options. I had my bank prepare a check, or, to avoid roadblocks, we could shred the check and electronically transfer the funds. Either way you’ll need to speak with your bank about it. The FDIC only insures up to $250,000, so your bank will probably suggest you open additional accounts or place the overflow in secure investments. If they don’t sufficiently explain your options, I’d be glad to offer my legal knowledge on the subject, and I could walk you through any paperwork that comes along with it.”

Layla didn’t trust herself enough to carry around a piece of paper worth more than half a million dollars, so she quickly decided on the second option. “If you could transfer it, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Sure. I’ll run by the bank at lunch. It should be done by two.”

“Do you need my account number?”

“Is it the same one your mom used?”

“Yes.”

“Then I already have it.” He shuffled through the documents on his desk then cleared a spot in front of her, laying out the paperwork. “Sign here, here and here. If you have any questions, just ask.”

“What about taxes?” she returned. “Don’t I owe someone something for all this?”

“You did, but Katherine asked me to take care of it for you. The details are on the top page. It shows the original amount and itemizes the taxes and penalties.”

Layla took his word for it and barely glanced over the forms as she signed them. He gave her copies then placed the originals in an overflowing file cabinet.

“So that’s it?” she asked, looking up with wide eyes.

“Almost,” he answered, handing over a stack of twenty-dollar bills. “Katherine wanted me to give you some cash to leave with. You’re supposed to buy yourself something right away, no ifs, ands or buts.” He chuckled again. “I miss your mom, Layla, she was a happy woman. I liked to call her Miss Sunshine.”

“Miss Sunshine,” Layla mumbled. “It fits.” Katherine had been a very happy and positive person.

Gerald showed Layla to the front door, insisting she call him if she had any questions. Then she walked into the sun, dazed by the recent turn of events. She was halfway to her car when she remembered the money in her pocket. Katherine had wanted her to take advantage of her new found wealth immediately. This contradicted Layla’s sense of frugality, but it had been a last request. Besides, her shirt remained soaked in coffee.

She glanced around the strip mall, finding the kind of places she generally avoided because of their prices. After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed her shoulders back and marched across the parking lot. She entered the first boutique she came across then halted inside the door, scanning their expensive selection. Unimpressed, she nearly backtracked, but then she spied a clearance rack and bee-lined toward it.

Because the sales clerk was pushy and Layla was a pushover, the shopping spree yielded a skirt she would never wear, but it also provided two pairs of practical jeans and three casual shirts, one of which she wore out of the store.

As she tossed her bags in the car, Layla realized it was the first time she’d bought new clothing since her high school graduation. She felt good about her purchases, but couldn’t ignore the guilt—a result of the money she’d spent and the fact that she felt good for a change.

Dark clouds once again shadowed the sky and Layla’s heart by the time she toted her bags into the house, following a photo-lined hallway to her bedroom. She tossed the sacks on her bed, and the manila envelope slid out, drawing her undivided attention. She froze, staring at it like it was a spider with foot-long fangs. Then she gathered the guts to snatch it up, quickly marching it down the hallway so she wouldn’t lose her nerve and toss it in a closet.

Instead, she tossed it on the kitchen table and started a pot of coffee, rummaging in the refrigerator for an apple as it brewed. This was something she’d done nearly every morning for the past five years, so she’d perfected the process, finishing the last bite of her sliced and peeled fruit when the percolating came to a halt. After generously adding sugar and cream to a steaming cup, she sipped and sat in front of the envelope.

For a few minutes she just stared at it, steeling herself for what was inside, but when the steam quit rolling from her mug, she set it down, opening the envelope with fumbling fingers. Swallowing a thick lump, she reached inside, pulling out several sheets of notebook paper—a letter in her mom’s handwriting.

After a deep breath, she laid it flat on the table and read.

My dearest Layla,

If you’re reading this letter, it means my life on earth is over, and it means it ended far too soon. You must be so sad and lonely right now. I hate thinking about it. I never want to leave you.

Layla started crying on the first line, so she stood and found a box of tissues. Once back in her chair, she took another deep breath and continued.

Before you, my life was so empty and sad, but then you came along, filling me with the purest love imaginable. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect daughter. I’ve always loved you, from the very beginning, but with each passing year my admiration and love grows. You shower me in joy, purpose and peace, and I wouldn’t be complete without you. Thank you, my precious baby girl, for making my life rich and wonderful.