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Rain had begun to fall just after Kate tucked herself into Michael Matuszewski’s office.
Stupidly, she’d left her umbrella in her car, wedged neatly in the space between her seat and the console.
Rain is a good sign, she reminded herself as she forced a smile for the receptionist.
“You must be... Katherine Hannigan?” the woman greeted.
Kate nodded. “Call me Kate, please. And that would make you Sharon?”
The woman rose and stretched out a small hand. Kate offered hers, and instead of a handshake, Sharon gave her a warm squeeze. “It’s nice to formally meet you, Kate. I’m terribly sorry about your mom. You were busy, so I didn’t want to pester you, but I came to the wake. You know,” Sharon went on chattily, “Nora was in here more than once, squirrelling away money for you girls, no doubt—”
Kate cut the woman off with a terse thank you and asked if Michael was ready. It’s not that she didn’t appreciate Sharon’s kindness. It was that kindness made Kate want to cry. And, well... she wasn’t too certain she could regain her footing if the floodgates were opened.
Regardless, that day was not a crying day. It was a business day.
“Oh, right. Well, you are ten minutes early,” Sharon chirped, her merry attitude never faltering. “But I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
Kate settled into a chair and selected a three-year-old copy of Martha Stewart to peruse as Sharon bustled around, poking into Michael’s office in the back then watering the plants until finally lowering back behind the mahogany reception desk.
Aware of Sharon’s boredom and her own looming anxiety at the fact that her sisters had yet to arrive, Kate cleared her throat. “Thank you for coming to the funeral, Sharon,” she said quietly.
“Oh, honey. It was the most beautiful wake I’ve ever attended. And I’ve been to my share, I’ll have you know. Such tasteful music selections. The floral arrangements... my,” Sharon gasped. Kate smiled at that and built up enough courage to meet her eyes as she went on, describing elements of the event that Kate had put grief-stricken energy into but didn’t quite have the luxury to enjoy, since, well...
“Kate.” Michael appeared, his trim, tall build a reassuring presence and his good looks a nice distraction. “I have everything ready. Would you like to come back?” He waved a gentlemanly hand down the hall, and Kate rose from her seat, her back straight as an arrow.
“My sisters are on their way, I’m sure. Should we wait?”
“Sharon will show them in. Right, Sharon?” He flashed a broad grin to his receptionist who nearly melted right there on the spot. Instead, though, she nodded meekly. Kate could relate. Michael was perfection. Always had been. Tanned and toned. Focused and smart. And, successful. He’d make a perfect match for Kate, people had always said.
She didn’t agree.
Kate never intended to date again. But, if she did, it wouldn’t be someone like Michael Matuszewski.
It would be someone who laughed at the wrong moments and overslept and wore mismatched socks. Someone who would not remind her of Paul. Someone she could snuggle on the sofa with and who would go for a lazy stroll rather than sign her up for marathons.
It would be someone... softer, who could smooth Kate’s rough edges instead of sharpening them into blades.
Michael was a sharpener. He belonged with a woman who craved structure. A woman who needed it.
Kate already had that, and in too much supply.
Moments later they were sitting in his office. Wood and leather everywhere, in typical male fashion. When Kate finally moved from Apple Tree Hill, she would limit the dark and dense in favor of white and light. It was a personal vow.
“How’ve you been?” Michael asked, lacing his fingers on top of his desk.
Several thick binders lined the edge of the wood, and she wondered exactly what the day would bring. What her mom had in store for them.
Surely, no surprises. Surely it was all as Nora had promised her daughters: an even split. Two paid-off houses, one rental property, and a square slab of farmland. Something for each daughter.
“Knock, knock.” Amelia’s voice echoed at the doorway. Kate whipped her head around to take in the sorry sight of three, sleepy-eyed younger sisters. A flashback hit—high school. The morning after prom. Kate and Amelia trudging down the stairs to join Nora in the kitchen. A fresh pot of coffee percolating rhythmically, as their mother waited as though she knew. Embarrassment had colored Kate’s teenage cheeks. Excitement colored Amelia’s.
But Amelia hadn’t been a tattletale. Not then or ever.
Now, Kate reminded herself that she was not her mother. She smiled at her sisters, realizing Megan happened to come to town the night before, after all.
“Michael, you remember Amelia, Megan, and Clara?” Kate asked.
He stood and adjusted his tie along his flat abdomen. Kate glanced away, only to catch Amelia’s eyes narrowing.
“Michael,” Amelia answered airily. She didn’t sound like herself.
Megan and Clara hung by the door as Amelia rolled her shoulders back and took the seat at the other end of the semi-circle, nearest Michael’s desk.
Michael, oblivious, gestured to the two empty seats.
Kate pressed a hand to her head and tried to refocus them. “Megan, Clara, come sit.” They did as they were told, and Kate waved Michael on, granting him permission to begin.
Before he sat back down, Michael picked up the folders and passed one to each sister.
Kate ran her hand over the leather, her index finger tracing the gold-embossed MM in the center.
Inside each binder was a packet of legalese—jargon about probate proceedings and estate affairs and case law this and precedent that. Nothing personal to Nora’s accounts or plans.
Michael rambled on about usual procedure as the women shuffled through pages that read, to them, like stereo instructions.
Megan interrupted. “Any chance you can cut to the chase, Michael?”
He looked up, no doubt unaware that four lives sat there before him.
A woman whose husband died and who had no more money to cover the mortgage.
A woman with no real job and a vapid life in a city she hardly called home.
A woman in the throes of divorce with a child at home still.
And a young woman whose life had yet to really begin.
Kate glanced at Clara to see how she was doing. She seemed okay, so Kate helped soften Megan’s blow by addressing Michael softly. “We’re tired and sad. And, maybe anxious.” She glanced more pointedly at her sisters.
Megan sighed.
Amelia, too.
Michael cleared his throat. “Of course, of course. Again, I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ll get down to it, I suppose.”
Kate leaned forward slightly. Clara did the same.
“In your mother’s last will and testament, she determined Katherine Acton Hannigan would act as executor. In the event that Katherine, or Kate,” he looked up briefly at Kate and smiled, “is unable to fulfill the duties, the role of executor falls to Amelia-Ann Hannigan. And then, to Megan Beth Hannigan.” He paused again, and the women nodded.
Clara kept mum.
“Nora Katherine Hannigan signed and sealed her last will and testament recently, I’d like to add.”
Amelia lifted an eyebrow. “Had she become a frequent flier in here?”
He shook his head. “She visited from time to time, yes. Chatting with Sharon out there,” he paused to nod toward the waiting room warmly before going on, “but in terms of formal changes, she handled the last one with a former associate of mine. Zack Durbin worked here for a short time and handled your mother’s estate.” He shifted in his seat, and Kate sensed a nervousness, though why she couldn’t imagine.
Megan added, “I didn’t know she updated it at all. Didn’t she settle this back in the nineties after Clara was born?”
Kate shushed everyone. “Michael clearly has this information right in front of him,” she said to her sisters.
“I want to caution you all,” Michael answered. Kate blinked. Amelia frowned. He went on, “Many families enter these meetings with an idea of how things will go. Sometimes, the decedent has been crystal clear, and there are no hiccups. More often than not, however, the survivors don’t always know everything.” Both his words and tone were ominous, but it didn’t quite reach Kate. As though she were stuck in a trance—a belief—that her mother had done precisely what she’d told them she would do, she batted his warning away.
“I’m sure it’s fine. Go ahead, Michael. Please.”