She sniffs and takes a sip, a tiny moan of appreciation. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Liqueur in coffee,” I say, glancing down at her cup. “Good combo?”
Harlow smiles and shrugs. “Wouldn’t know. Never tried it before, but I don’t drink now.”
I blink at her, slightly embarrassed by my off-handed comment. Her saying that she doesn’t drink now means that she did at one point. There could be a hundred reasons why she doesn’t, but I don’t ask because I don’t know her all that well. Hell, even if I did know her well, I wouldn’t ask. None of my business.
She seems nonplussed, though, and Bart doesn’t seem to think there’s anything weird about it either.
“You played great in Phoenix and Houston,” Harlow says, changing the subject.
“You and Gage Heyward are really clicking,” Bart adds, and then launches into a speech on his thoughts regarding the viability of a winning season. Harlow pipes in, and I find myself offering insider knowledge. It’s clear that both Harlow and Bart are die-hard Titans fans.
Neither one of them mentions anything about some of our obvious problems. Maybe it’s uncouth for them to point out that Coen Highsmith has no more consistency in his play, and there’s no talk about the emotional devastation the plane crash brought out onto the ice. It’s all stats and strategy and trash-talking other teams.
It’s… fun. No, not fun.
But a nice way to spend a bit of time having a beer and meeting the neighbors.
CHAPTER 11
Harlow
While we still might get another snowfall, I’m taking advantage of this beautiful mid-March day to run to work. Last week’s snow has fully melted, and there’s only a few spots of wet sidewalk left behind.
The three-block jog between my condo and the office is too short to do me any good, so I take off through the hills of Allegheny West with Odin and follow a route that will give me almost three miles by the time I make it to work. During the warm spring and summer months, I do this at least four times a week, usually running between five and six miles, making full use of the private bathroom and shower I have in the back of the building and the extra clothes I keep there.
But Odin hasn’t been running during the winter, unless you count trips to the dog park and my parents’ house, so I go easy on him. I still use a treadmill at home, so I’ll do something extra this evening to make up for the shorter run.
I’m breathing hard by the time I enter the reception area, bending to unclip Odin’s collar and leash. I look up to Bonita in greeting. “Good morning.”
Bonita’s eyes cut to my left as Odin trots off to my office where his water bowl is kept. I straighten, turn that way, and see a man sitting there looking irritated.
“Harlow,” Bonita says, a hint of forewarning in her voice, “this is Mason Dumelin. He wanted to see you, and I explained you didn’t have anything available this morning, but he insisted on waiting.”
In other words, Bonita tried to get rid of him until such time that she could set an appointment where I’d be prepared to deal with him. Because I’d want to be prepared to sit down with Stone’s father, who I’m sure is here to argue about Brooks’s trust and what was left to Stone.
Or more importantly, what was not left to his father.
As it stands, he’s caught me off guard in my running gear, covered in sweat. I haven’t read the trust since my first meeting with Stone and before I emailed Mason and Nancy Dumelin a letter outlining their share of the estate. I’d at least want a few minutes to peruse it again because while the outcome was straightforward, there was a lot of legalese in between I’d have to explain.
“Mr. Dumelin… this is unexpected,” I say, removing one of my gloves and walking his way with my hand extended.
He rises, shakes my hand, and sneers at me. “Surely you must’ve expected I’d want a better explanation than the letter you sent.”
“Perhaps,” I reply smoothly, but my tone is censuring. “But politeness dictates you’d set an appointment rather than show up unannounced.”
The man’s face flushes red, not with embarrassment but with entitled anger. Before he can open his mouth to lash into me, I cut him off at the knees. “However, since you’re here and have clearly traveled a long way, I’ll be glad to spare you a few moments.”
I cut a look to Bonita that says, Don’t bother offering coffee. He won’t be here that long.
She gives a barely perceptible nod, and I motion Mr. Dumelin into my office.
I watch him carefully as he walks past me. I’ve seen pictures of him before while hanging out with Brooks. He’d shared some he kept on his phone, but he had no framed photos of his parents in his condo. That space was reserved for the people he felt loved and secure with, and I was fortunate to count myself so lucky to be in that group.
Mr. Dumelin gave his boys his height, his brawn, his golden hair and hazel eyes. Brooks’s easygoing personality clearly did not come from his father, and I don’t know Stone well enough to know what he got from the man. He certainly likes to show up at people’s offices unannounced, but whereas Stone merely irritated me, Mason Dumelin strikes up intense dislike. That’s because I know the mental manipulation game he played against Brooks and how negatively that affected him.
I motion to a guest chair as I pull off my running jacket and knit cap. While unseasonably warmer this morning, it was still a little chilly out. Mr. Dumelin sits and casts a disapproving look at Odin, lying beside my desk.
Taking my own seat, I spin toward my credenza to grab the file with Brooks’s trust in case I need any of the supporting documents to explain things.
Facing him again, I ask, “Now, what can I do for you?”
“You can explain to me why my son left the bulk of his estate to his brother who he’s not had contact with in years.”
I stare at the man in disbelief. I know that isn’t exactly true. The brothers actually did communicate, just infrequently. But to reveal that would reveal my friendship with Brooks, and I’m not about to give this man any insight into his son’s life. He treated Brooks like a meal ticket and nothing more.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dumelin, if that’s the information you want. I didn’t draft Brooks’s trust documents. Another law firm did, so I’m not privy to his reasoning.”
“Bullshit,” he snarls. “I might not be a high-and-mighty lawyer, but I’m smart enough to know he wouldn’t have appointed you to handle his trust unless he knew and trusted you. Now, he had no reason to leave everything to Stone. His mother and I were his full support system since he joined the Titans, and I know he wouldn’t forsake us and keep away what’s our due. Stone has done something illegal. I’m sure of it, and I want to know what my remedies are.”
“I’m not your lawyer, Mr. Dumelin. I can’t advise you—”
“Cut the shit, lady. As the trustee, it’s your job to know the ins and outs of the trust, and I know there’s got to be some wiggle room.”
My patience with this man has almost worn thin, but I take one more stab at civility. “I’d be glad to call the attorney who drafted the trust, if that will help—”