“… and as for the matter of the property in Rapids Bay. The building at 1650 Main St, including the business and rental property above, was owned outright by the former Mr. Kennedy. Regarding the estate, Mr. Kennedy has left the building and all its contents to his niece, Ms. Sloan Anders.”
The grating rasp of the ancient lawyer's voice melted into nothing but a background buzzing in my ears over an hour ago. Being summoned to a run-down lawyer's office in a small town somewhere in Minnesota was weird enough. To then find out you had some long-lost, crazy uncle you never knew existed but then died has totally thrown me for a loop. I don’t know why I am here. My mother and I had a strained relationship. I never knew many details about her, much less that she had an older… much older… brother hidden in this random corner of the Midwest.
It's been two hours sitting in this stifling, musty office listening to the lawyer drone on and on reading the will, and I am no closer to understanding why I am here. Maybe it makes me callous not to care overmuch about an old man passing away, but let’s be honest… I have no idea who this guy was, and how it has anything to do with me, so I can’t help if my mind wanders. I am attempting to calculate how long it would take to get back to the airport and if we would have time to catch a redeye back to California tonight when my boyfriend, Aiden, squeezes my knee, pulling my attention back to the present. I shoot him a glance, and he inclines his head toward the lawyer with an insistent look.
Oh, crap. Clearly, I missed something while thinking about the crappy airport Cinnabon’s.
“I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” I ask the lawyer, pasting on the sweetest fake smile I can muster. Hopefully, my sugary sweet manners will distract from the fact I haven’t listened to a word the man has said all day.
“As I said, Ms. Anders, your uncle has left the property at 1650 Main St to you. The building has been owned outright by Mr. Kennedy for several years, so the only thing needed to take possession of the building is your signatures on some paperwork and then our business will be concluded,” the lawyer explains.
Is it possible for his dry rasp of a voice to make both lava and ice run down my spine at once? Because I am pretty sure it just did. Either that, or I’m having a stroke. Maybe that’s it. Yeah, a stroke. That makes way more sense than me, 28-year-old Sloan Anders, the consummate ‘gig economy’ worker, owning a freaking building in who-knows-where Minnesota. And did he say something about a business? Yeah, no. This can’t be happening.
“What do you mean, take possession?” I ask. I should cringe at how dumb that sounds, but I can’t seem to process what is happening right now. My brain can only handle so many curve balls in one week, and I have clearly just reached my insanity capacity.
“Just as it sounds, Ms. Anders. I need your signature on a few forms, and then the business and rental property will be yours to do with as you choose.”
Okay. Those were all words; I know they were. They were in a recognizable order, so why the hell can’t I seem to make sense of them?
“Are there any stipulations or limitations around the length of ownership before we can turn the property around?” Aiden asks. At least one of us is thinking straight.
“From a legal perspective, no, sir. But as someone who knows the property and the market in the area, the building is in a… less than ideal state if you wish to turn around and sell it quickly,” the lawyer answers carefully.
I can feel the frustration wash through Aiden as he slumps back in the chair next to me. It doesn’t take a genius, or even someone with a functioning brainstem, to tell that he wants to get out of this Midwest backwater as soon as possible.
I can’t say I blame him. This isn’t my first choice of ways or places to spend the week. I’m a west coast girl and always have been. I was raised in Seattle, moved to San Francisco for art school, and then stayed after graduation. I met Aiden a few years ago when he came into a bar I was working at with his work buddies for a happy hour, and I was their bartender for the night. I have never really liked the suit type before, but there was something so charming about Aiden, that self-assured smile and the confident way he carries himself. He drew me in just like he’s doing with that look right now. I can already see the business dealings and financial statements running through his mind now. In fact, if I look close enough, I think I see green money signs shining….
“Ms. Anders.” Shit, I must have lost focus again. I really need to work on that.
“Yes?” I answer lamely.
“If you can just sign here, here, and here, we can wrap up our business today,” the lawyer says, a tinge of annoyance coloring his tone. Clearly, he is as unimpressed with me as I am with him. We are from two different worlds, worlds that, if I had my say, would never meet.
“Sure, yeah. That’s fine.” Without really thinking about or processing what I’m doing, I grab the pen the lawyer is offering and scratch my signature on the paper where he directs. I vaguely register Aiden grumbling about something in the seat next to me. Still, I can’t take anything else in right now.
“Thank you, Ms. Anders…”
“Sloan. It’s Sloan,” I correct the lawyer, my patience for just about everything to do with this day at its end.
“Yes, well, Sloan. This envelope contains the keys to the lower-level business, the outside entrance in the building's rear, the apartment above, the mail key, and a listing of other important information your uncle left you is inside as well. If you need further assistance, please call me, and my assistant will schedule us some time.”
Well, if that wasn’t a brush-off, I don’t know what was. This man wants nothing further to do with me or this transaction. Refusing to take it personally, I give him a slight nod and a tight smile as I grab the envelope from him before turning and making my way out of the little office without another word.