Running late to SeaSalt Inn, Ziggy floored the truck and ignored yet another call from Clyde at Ocean City HVAC. OCH was the monster company that was eating up every small business like a particularly hangry Pac-Man. They were closing in on Sea Point, which meant they were closing in on him. Clyde had left his first voicemail while Ziggy had sat in his parents’ living room, trying to translate Zeke’s chicken scratch of an accounting book. Like a seasoned hyena circling easy prey, Clyde had been nothing but friendly in his message. “I know it’s a tough time but let me know what’s next for you,” Clyde had said, practically licking his lips over the phone.
Ziggy had learned quickly that there was no life referee when someone died. No one blew the whistle or called a time-out or shook his mother out of her catatonic state. He kept waiting for his dad to appear and get things sorted, handle the business side of things like he always had, but instead random people he hadn’t spoken to in ages would text him, Let me know how I can help—as if they had ever proven useful to him in the past.
The one person who would have known how to file a life insurance claim was the same person who had just died, which is why Ziggy hadn’t taken any steps to figuring out finances until a week after the funeral when Bernadette Campbell crossed the street from her parents’ house, wrapped her arms around him in the bitter February cold, and asked, “Who’s handling the probate?”
Ziggy didn’t have an answer because he had no idea what the probate was. His blank expression was just the invitation Bernadette needed to kick into high gear. Before becoming a full-time stay-at-home mom, she’d been an estate lawyer for over a decade, and from their many lengthy conversations that followed her driveway intervention—in which Bernadette spoke in clear bullet points and contingency plans—it was obvious to Ziggy that she had been a formidable attorney. This hardly surprised him. Growing up, Bernadette had always been confident, bossy, and unafraid of confrontation. When Ziggy and Kate had set up their first lemonade stand, she’d instructed them to charge fifty cents instead of twenty-five as she’d laced up her Rollerblades. “Just tell them it’s worth it,” she’d said with a nonchalant shrug. “If that doesn’t work, mention inflation, and if that doesn’t work, tell them to go to hell.” The day had ended abruptly, Ziggy recalled, after Kate had told Mr. Nixon to do just that.
A week after she’d offered to help with the probate, Bernadette called with an update. “Technically, because your dad named you executor, I’m working on your behalf,” she said in such a professional tone that Ziggy sat up straighter in his truck as if she could see him. “And so before we go any further, I just want to remind you that anything we discuss regarding your dad falls within attorney-client privilege.” Ziggy stuttered, trying to figure out a gracious way to ask her about fees, but Bernadette cut him off and said this is what big sisters were for. “Your dad always put air in my bike tires—did he ever tell you that?”
Ziggy shook his head, though it hardly surprised him. “And then Clementine always asked to pet his truck tires,” Ziggy said, smiling faintly. His dad had been absolutely smitten with Clem: She would approach the truck with her hand outreached, palm up, as if the tires were a strange dog she couldn’t resist. Every time Zeke encouraged Clementine to tickle the driver-side tire—and then made euphoric Scooby Doo sounds when she did—Ziggy knew it was only a matter of minutes before his dad wondered aloud about how fun it would be to have a granddaughter.
“So here’s where we are,” Bernadette asserted. “We’ve filed the will with the probate court, talked to your dad’s accountant, who said your dad is in good standing with his taxes, notified the Social Security Administration, his bank, the three credit card companies, and set up a new bank account for us to use going forward, to keep track of what comes in and what goes out.” Bernadette took a breath here as Ziggy continued to hold his. “Everything is fine, I promise,” she reassured him, “but there’s a lot to go over and I’m going to tell you the bad news first.”
Bernadette lowered her voice as she explained that she’d reached out to a cheerfully demonic representative at State Farm, who’d conveyed in an upbeat baby voice that Zeke had stopped paying his life insurance premium two years prior, which meant there was no point in submitting a claim. “So there’s the bad news—there’s no insurance money,” Bernadette said, giving Ziggy several moments of silence to process the blow.
It was easy for Ziggy to think back to the last time he and his dad had discussed life insurance—it had been years ago, after Zeke’s doctor told him to keep an eye on his diet, that his blood pressure was high. Over a lunch of salt-drenched fries at the Wharf, Zeke had cursed at his phone before explaining his life insurance premium had skyrocketed because of the high blood pressure. At the time, Ziggy hadn’t thought to ask his father if he planned to pay it because it seemed irrelevant—his dad had no plans of dying.
“Looking forward, the next thing for us to tackle is your dad’s assets,” Bernadette continued. “We have to file an inventory of the estate’s assets, but that’s not a big deal. Per the will, he left the business to you and everything else to your mom—the house, all of its contents, her car, their savings, et cetera—no stocks, right?”
Ziggy shook his head before remembering Bernadette couldn’t see him in his truck. His voice came out thin and raspy, more pathetic than he would have liked. “No stocks,” he said, hearing his father disparage the fat cats in the big city, always cleaning out the desperate folk and never suffering any consequences. In Atlantic City, at least they give you free drinks before robbing you blind, Zeke used to say.
“So that’s a nice silver lining,” Bernadette continued. “I mean, in case you’re thinking of selling the house or the business—those assets get what we call ‘stepped up,’ meaning you won’t have to pay taxes on any gains until Bev dies.” Bernadette kept going down her enumerated list before the silence on the other end reminded her that this was Ziggy’s family and not just a fun exercise in her former career, the one she missed every day, especially when the conversation at the playground drifted into why Emily’s toddler had such loose bowels.
“I’m sorry, Ziggy, I got caught up in the numbers,” she said, just as Clementine emerged from her nap, signaling the end of her call and the use of complex sentences. “It’s just I know how much you’ve poured into that house, and it’s a rare opportunity to cash in without paying taxes through the nose. If you sell now, you and Bev can walk with the profit, which would be significant.”
Bernadette was right, of course, but the Miller house wasn’t just a residence—it had been Zeke and Ziggy’s labor of love for more than twenty years. Together they had restored the rambling Victorian to its original glory and given it a second life with a thorough facelift and updated plumbing, electricity, and insulation. When Bev and Zeke purchased it, the grand house bore the endless scars of its abuse as a boardinghouse for international seasonal workers during much of the twentieth century before it had been abandoned altogether. More firetrap than family home when the Millers signed their names on the dotted line, the wraparound porch was rotted and Bev put her foot right through the third step to the second floor on her way to see what animal was scurrying above their heads.
Over the years and with every spare dime they earned, Zeke and Ziggy had peeled back and torn up the shortsighted solutions of previous owners—disposing of the wall-to-wall carpeting, the asbestos siding, the drop ceilings, the shoddy drywall partitions, and the plastic pink-tiled bathrooms. They’d unearthed the original moldings, constructed built-in bookshelves, and installed antique hardware salvaged from work projects until the home gleamed with integrity. It was, hands down, one of the nicest homes in Sea Point, a masterful blend of classic architectural charm with modern comfort.
Adding to the allure, the Miller home sat on an enviable acre just two blocks from the beach. Bev had unleashed her artist’s eye on the house’s grounds, treating the acre as a canvas and somehow threading together a fairy-tale aesthetic with a user-friendly front yard, fit for enduring touch-football games and impromptu wrestling matches. Pedestrians stopped and cars slowed, pointing to her hydrangeas, her vined trellises, her crepe myrtles and rosebushes.
Or at least, they had in the Before.
Before, Bev’s flower beds had garnered blue ribbons in the Annual South Jersey Garden Tour. Before, Ziggy’s mother went out for early-morning walks to the ocean with her easel. Before, Ziggy came over from his own apartment above the surf shop in West Sea Point and forked home-cooked dinners into his mouth as if they would never end. Before, Ziggy and his father would drive around in the truck and Zeke would make him listen to all the music he loved from around the world. Having never left Sea Point, Zeke traveled through sound waves and had taken up residency everywhere—in England with the London Symphony orchestra and in Zimbabwe with the Shona people. Zeke could spend hours lecturing Ziggy and their clients on the Shona people’s mbira, or the erhu—a two-stringed fiddle from China.
Now, in the eternal After, the front yard was barren and Ziggy anticipated a spring and summer of understory strangulations. Bev never left the house and the stovetop hibernated beneath half an inch of dust-encrusted grease. Instead of Zeke’s nonstop international concert on the stereo, Bev kept the television blaring throughout the day, an unsettling soundtrack of reporters yelling at one another through twenty-four hours of breaking news.
“Obviously it’s up to you and your mom,” Bernadette explained, treading gently. “But unless you sell the house or the business or both, prepare to be very frugal for the foreseeable future.”
Ziggy rolled his eyes. As if he and his parents had ever not been frugal. They’d never gone on vacation, only went out to restaurants for birthdays, and put every paycheck they made back into the business. “And you’ll have to go through his books,” Bernadette added, interrupting his thoughts. “We need to know the financial standing of each project—who owes MVP and what MVP owes—in order to move forward with the assets inventory. You need to go through them because I took a look and I have no idea what the different initials stand for.”
That made two of them.
Not only was Zeke’s handwriting illegible, but he’d made up some kind of bookkeeping code as a kid that he’d never bothered to explain to anyone. They’d had plans to go over the accounts, but they’d had so many plans, most of which—canoe excursions, baseball games, the ongoing restoration of Daffodil Cottage—were far more exciting than understanding state and federal tax forms.
Slamming the driver side door outside SeaSalt Inn, Ziggy called out his apologies to Todd as he ran up the slate walkway. The massive B&B, looming in sophisticated hues of gray after a recent paint job, reminded him of that famous opera singer his dad used to drone on about, the one who’d recently retired—SeaSalt could still take anyone’s breath away, but beneath that beautiful façade, her pipes were a mess.
“Just glad you’re here,” Todd said kindly, stepping off the porch and walking toward him in a crisp blue Oxford shirt and khakis. Extending his hand to Ziggy, Todd’s brown, bespectacled eyes twinkled as he added, “Miraculously, everyone’s still alive.”
Like most lifelong locals, Todd Meacham had been friendly with Ziggy’s father—they’d played football on the Sea Point High varsity team, just a few years apart. Now in his fifties, Todd ran a successful inn with his husband, Barry. Yesterday afternoon, he’d called Ziggy, flustered—there was a growing puddle of water in the basement without any obvious source.
“The guests have been good sports, for the most part,” Todd said. “But I did have a couple leave last night because of ‘unacceptable’ water pressure.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” Ziggy said.
Todd dismissed the comment by shaking his head. “You’re going through a lot without my complaining,” he said. “You’re here now, and you’ve got to see what Barry gave me for our anniversary—he’s outdone himself.”
Before Ziggy could reply, he saw it: Above the reception desk hung a framed oil painting in which two Great Danes posed like sentinels on the front porch of SeaSalt Inn, wearing matching red cable-knit sweaters that barely stretched over their chests. Handsome and heavily jowled, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal were the beloved mascots of Oak Avenue known for their seasonal woolens and fear of squirrels.
“Don’t they look regal?”
Ziggy nodded. He took a picture of the painting and then realized he didn’t know whom to send it to. Zeke would have loved it, would have spent the rest of the day chatting about it to anyone who would listen. Bev would find a way to twist the painting into an attack—why wasn’t she painting and why wasn’t she painting rich people’s pets so that she could make a killing? Ziggy decided to send it to Miles—Miles liked dogs. He replied almost instantly with an eggplant emoji and Ziggy fought the twinge of annoyance at his generation’s lazy-caveman form of expression.
Putting his phone back in his overalls, Ziggy followed Todd down to the basement. He sourced the leak, explained he’d need to replace about four feet of pipe, which would require a trip to the hardware store. Todd followed him back down the walkway to the curb, his hands stuck in his pockets. “What’s the damage?” Todd asked. “I’ll write you a check while you’re at Holloway’s.”
“Um, what did my dad charge you last time this happened?”
Tilting his head and stuffing his hands farther down into his pockets, Todd squinted at Ziggy like he was an IKEA furniture manual. “I’ll have to check,” Todd said slowly. “But this seems like more work? And more materials? And last time you guys just reinstalled a sink after Barry had tried and failed to do it himself?”
Ziggy nodded and tried to focus his eyes so it seemed like he was crunching numbers in his head, but all he was doing was waiting for the moment to end.
“I’m sure you’ve got a ton of people offering you free advice,” Todd said, interrupting Ziggy’s humiliation and bending down to pick at a tuft of crabgrass sprouting in a crevice of an otherwise pristine walkway. “But Barry and I are here for you, okay?”
Ziggy moved his head up and down, resisting the urge to just get in the truck, drive away, and never come back.
“Obviously I’m not sure what the finances are, but Barry was a big money guy back in the day, so if there’s any way he can help you figure out all that stuff, because we know it can be confusing, and overwhelming, and your mom—”
“I appreciate that,” Ziggy said, cutting him off. The idea of Barry, a guy he barely knew, going through his dad’s financials—it made his stomach knot up.
“We could set up a time for you guys to talk things over? I mean, if you’re planning on keeping the business—or even if you’d prefer to sell it?”
So that’s what Todd was doing, Ziggy realized, he was gauging the future of MVP.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” Todd continued, “but there’s another local kid trying to get into the business, which, depending on how you look at it, could—”
Ziggy scoffed. “Good luck to him—Ocean City HVAC is taking over faster than that stuff.” He nodded at the backyard, which was a thick forest of twenty-foot-high bamboo stalks.
“Don’t get me started—I could kill him for that,” Todd said. “Barry thought we could create a Japanese garden—no research, no idea that bamboo is all about world domination.”
Ziggy laughed and took a deep breath before sharing his big announcement. “Actually,” he said slowly, “Miles is moving back, so he’s going to catch me up to speed about the business side of the business—you know, share those Wharton skills.”
“Miles Hoffman?”
Ziggy beamed as he nodded. His best friend was coming home to back him up, save the day, be the good person Ziggy had always known he’d had the capacity to be.
Clapping his hands together, Todd reached over to grip Ziggy’s shoulder. “Well, that is fantastic news! If business is anything like ice hockey, which I think it is, I know you guys will do great work together.”
“Let’s hope so.” Ziggy shrugged with false modesty. During their tenure, Miles and Ziggy had led their club and high school teams to multiple State Championships and been named co-captains their senior year. When Miles went on to play hockey at Princeton, he’d called after the first day of preseason to say the Princeton goalie was “absolute garbage” compared to Ziggy. “I’m going to get worse here, without you to shoot on,” he’d complained.
“It’ll be interesting, that’s for sure,” Ziggy said now to Todd, feeling the muscles in his face begin to ache—this was the most smiling he’d done in months. “How about I get back to you about the bill after Miles helps me reboot the business?”
Barry nodded with so much enthusiasm that Ziggy adjusted the strap of his overalls to avoid looking at him. It was hard not to feel pathetic when a client acted excited to receive an invoice. “This is terrific,” Todd said. “I give it six months before you guys have your own reality show on Bravo!”
Ziggy laughed as he headed back to the truck with Todd on his heels. “I’m serious!” Todd yelled. “Just don’t forget about my pipes after Hot Men Plumbing surpasses Real Housewives!”