Page 6 of Old-Fashioned

I tagged my phone, pulled out the card for Mr. Anderson, and called his office.

It rang twice, then I heard, “This is Hilda of Anderson Law.”

“Yes. Umm… hi… My name is Birdie Vergano… I need to speak with Mr. Anderson immediately, please.”

She was just as warm as she had been yesterday, “He’s in a meeting, but lucky you, he told me to come and get him if you called. Give me just a moment.”

I nodded and then shook my head, knowing that she couldn’t see me, “Okay. Thank you.”

It was a few minutes until I heard, “Ms. Vergano?”

Immediately, I rushed out with, “Is this real? Or is this some kind of joke?”

Mr. Anderson chuckled, “I’ve been wondering when you would call and ask me that, and I can assure you, this is all real. She left everything to you. You made that woman so happy, sweetheart. You will read the paperwork and see that you should never have to worry about money ever again.”

“I’d give it all back to spend one afternoon with her in the park again. Or sitting in front of her fireplace, listening to Christmas carols as we both crocheted. Or heck, even to sit out on her back deck and birdwatch.” I told him softly.

His response was instantaneous, “And I firmly believe that you would.”

After we got off the phone, I headed to the bank to ensure everything he told me was accurate, and it was. Thanks to Miss Maggie, I never had to worry about a thing again.

But I did have one thing to worry about that was taking place tomorrow. One thing that I wouldn’t miss for the world.

Therefore, with some money I took out of the account, I hailed a taxi.

I went to a fabulous department store and bought a black dress, pumps, and everything to make myself beautiful… for her. Even though she would have scolded me.

I could hear her words in my head.

Dearie, no woman dresses for another person. She dresses for herself. And if anyone doesn’t like that, well, then they can go suck on a lemon.

The service was sweet. Melancholy. But sweet.

The reverend was a dear friend to Miss Maggie.

Regrettably, the only people she wanted at her service were two people.

Myself, and her lawyer.

Thankfully, Mr. Anderson’s son and his wife also showed up and offered support.

I could have kissed them both for that.

I stood there as they lowered her casket into the ground and found myself asking Mr. Anderson, “I’m surprised she wanted to be buried. I would have thought she wanted to be cremated and then had her ashes scattered in a field of passion flowers out in Holly Springs, North Carolina.”

Mr. Anderson said with a sad smile, “I had the same thoughts, but she wanted you to know that any time you needed her, all you would have to do was come to her, that she would always be there for you in any capacity you needed her.”

We stood there, silent for a beat.

And then I looked up at him, “Do they know?”

I didn’t have to say more, I knew, that he knew who I was referring to.

He got this look in his eyes that told me all I needed to know, “Absolutely not. She was rather adamant that they not be told. Furthermore, I can’t believe they did this. But years ago, many, many years ago, they had papers drawn up, and I can’t even fathom it was a binding agreement. She was never to get within a hundred yards of their families. Furthermore, should she ever contact them for any reason, she would be held liable for money, and jail time.

I gasped, “Are you serious? What kind of monkey shit is that?”

His son chuckled, and his wife giggled.

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