I popped open my door before he could get out to do it for me. “Thanks, but I’m not going home.” Or, rather, to Ida’s. That felt weird.
He leaned forward in the seat, one arm propped on the steering wheel. “Where are you headed, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I slid out, jarring my still sore ankle on the pavement. I kept the pain from my face. “To the lawyer’s office. I have to figure out this whole probate thing.”
The corners around his eyes crinkled. “Want me to go with you? I might be able to help.”
“No, thanks. I’m good.” I shut the door and fished the key out of my pocket. Should have brought my purse with my driver’s license. But I probably didn’t need it anyway. I’d obey the slow speed limits and avoid any Barney Fife types. Three blocks or so over, the law office shared the same strip of real estate with the bank, the sweet shop, and the library. And I could see those from the church parking lot. If my ankle didn’t hurt I’d walk and save the gas.
Ryan rolled down the window. “What do you want me to tell Mom?”
Oh, right. The bread. I stuck the key in the door and turned. “Wednesday’s fine.”
“Great! I’ll let her know.” He waved good-bye and churned out of the parking lot.
The interior of my Toyota boiled with heat, and I left the door open for a few seconds before sliding across the cracked vinyl seat. It took three tries, but the engine finally cranked. I checked the gas gauge. Eighth of a tank. It would have to do until I got access to Ida’s accounts. I didn’t plan on going anywhere until then anyway.
I pulled into the law office designated simply Norbert Shaw, Esq.
Too bad Ida didn’t still have a car. I could have used one of those, too. But once she went into hospice, she’d given hers to a single mom so the woman could get to work. I couldn’t begrudge her that.
I pushed the glass door etched with the lawyer’s name open and stepped into a tidy waiting area. The walls were painted a calming turquoise, and plush chairs invited patrons to settle in and wait their turn while flipping through various magazines.
“Well, look who it is!”
The familiar voice drew my attention to a desk nestled into a corner to my left. Mira Ann. Dressed in a white fitted blouse, she’d swept her long hair into a professional twist and brought a new layer of style to the already chic office.
I stuffed my hands into my jeans’ pockets and hoped she didn’t notice the stain on the hem of my pink tee. “Hey. You work here?”
Mira Ann rounded her desk, an A-line gray skirt brushing the top of her knees. She crossed her arms and tapped one painted nail on her elbow. “I’m the paralegal.”
Pictures covered her desk. The largest photograph, displayed with a heart-studded white frame, depicted Mira Ann and Ryan, both several years younger. He had his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and they both wore goofy smiles.
She followed my gaze. “That’s when he took me to Gatlinburg. We had such a great time sightseeing.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “And that cabin was so cozy.”
Preacher Man had shared a cabin with Miss America? I met her gaze. None of my business. “Sounds nice.”
Something in her smile appeared predatory, but it disappeared so quickly I told myself I’d imagined it. She probably wanted to stake her claim on Ryan. They looked to be a couple. Or had been at one time. Either way, it wasn’t any of my business, and I had no intentions of getting involved with her man. “Derick never took me on any trips like that.” I shrugged. “But he was an overbearing jerk to begin with.” Why had I spouted that? Stupid nerves always made me say awkward things.
Mira Ann offered a sympathetic smile. “Bad breakups. I get it.”
I shifted my weight and circled back to the reason for being here. “I came to check on Ida’s estate.”
“I figured you would.” She sat back down in her chair and laced her long fingers together. “We have to make sure no creditors have any claims on the estate and that all posts are credited prior to releasing the funds. It’ll probably be several weeks.”
Could I survive on canned green beans that long? Derick would say the diet would be good for my waistline. It seemed terrible of me to ask about getting money any faster, though, so I nodded along as if I had any idea how these things usually went. I could always get a temporary job.
Mira Ann grinned. “But don’t worry, sweetie. I’m going to make sure it gets through as quickly as the law allows.”
She seemed sincere, and now that the Ryan thing was out of the way, she apparently realized I posed no threat. That, or she’d help me get out of here as quickly as possible to make sure of it. Whatever her misguided motives, that worked for me. “Thanks. I really appreciate your help.”
“Of course!” She waved a hand toward my feet. “Oh! How’s your ankle?”
“Fine. Just needed ice.”
Mira Ann laughed. “I’m not surprised. Ryan is so dramatic. I’m sorry he embarrassed you like that.”
“He was being nice. Ida’s wishes and all.”
She cocked her head. “What wishes?”
“She left me a series of letters, telling me about my family’s history and the stories that go along with all the heirlooms in the house. Ryan is supposed to give me one at different points in the process.”
Leaning forward, she placed her chin on her laced fingers. “Is he now?”
I shrugged. “That’s what Ida said. One letter at each phase. But my first project isn’t going so well. I’m supposed to make a quilt, but I’m doing a terrible job.”
Mira Ann leaned back in her chair, regarding me with a curious glint in her eyes. “Bless your heart. And you don’t get another letter until you’re finished?”
Excepting the one Ryan gave me early, but mentioning that seemed unnecessary. “That’s what he said.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” She flashed me another grin. “You need help with any of it, you let me know.”
I thanked her and hurried out the door. Nothing I could do about the house or Ida’s accounts for now.
All I could do was finish the quilt and wait.
10
The Mighty Oak
Technology could be a wondrous thing. Despite Ida’s choice to live without computers and my own lack of a smart phone, a couple of days, a trip to the library, and a few YouTube videos later, and I had the ancient sewing machine threaded and ready.
Grinning at my own ingenuity, I sat at the machine and placed my feet on the wrought-iron pedal the way the lady on the video had demonstrated. Bless people with too much time on their hands. You could find instructions for anything these days, provided for free by people with nothing better to do.
Left foot forward on the grate, right foot back. I started a rocking motion. The wheel on the right hand of the machine spun, and the needle dipped up and down, pulling black thread through the material I had laid across the machine’s bed and under the presser foot.
“Yes!” I rocked the pedal again, slowly feeding the material and watching the thread dip in and out of the fabric.
Thunder rumbled outside, followed by a pop of lightning. I jumped, and the needle shuddered to a halt. I clenched my teeth and turned the wheel on the back of the machine to get it spinning in the right direction again.