Page 18 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

I ignore him, pitching my voice low. “We should tell him he’s dead.”

He actually harrumphs—a sound I assumed existed exclusively in Winnie the Pooh. “They can’t release a dead person’s SUV to two random people.”

“Maybe he’ll feel sorry for us,” I say. We pivot toward the stickler attendant, who is cracking sunflower seeds in his mouth while a red-haired woman weeps before him in frustration. He’s unmoved by her hysterics as she sulks back into the ornery collective.

I rub my hands together for warmth as I brainstorm. “What about Sam’s parents?”

“They winter in Florida. They’ve only been coming up for…” Adam’s sentence falls away, and he adjusts his jacket anxiously.

“Right. Sorry.”

The reality of Sam’s death seems to wash over Adam anew.

Suddenly, brilliance strikes me. “Sir?” I recapture the attendant’s attention. “One of my friends had her car towed, and another person was able to pick it up with a note. Is that an option for Sam?”

The attendant puffs a sigh out his nostrils. “It needs to be signed and notarized.”

“Thank you!” I smack my hand on the counter triumphantly before making a heel turn toward the parking lot, assuming Adam is following. When we reach his beige truck, I yank at the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. I pull two more times until Adam bleeps the locks, and his smug smirk smacks me in the face.

“I don’t know why you’re so confident. Dead men can’t write notes, Alison.” His flat, arrogant affect and eye crinkle remind me so much of Harrison Ford in Working Girl, I want to scream at Chelsea and Mara for putting the image in my head.

“We don’t need Sam,” I say when we’re safely in his truck. “We just need a notary.”

—

Russell Rossi is the only notary I know socially. He does something in real estate that sounds a lot like being a Realtor, but, per him, it’s decidedly not. He’s been a fixture in Sam’s social circle ever since they met camping near the Boundary Waters a few years ago, but I haven’t seen him since the funeral. Had my correction about my role in Sam’s life not gone completely over his head, I might have avoided this nightmare entirely.

Russell answers the door of his Lyndale duplex apartment shirtless—despite knowing we were on our way to his house.

“Alison, babe! Come in.” He wraps me in a hug, and I awkwardly pat his bare, sweaty back. The two men exchange dude-bro nods. “Adam. Long time, no see. Well, before…”

Russell looks momentarily off-balance before leaning back and slapping his pecs in recovery. “I was lifting, but I always have time for you.” Russell winks at me.

Even though he does nothing for me chemically, I giggle and inwardly groan at myself so loud I almost hear it.

Actually, I do hear it. I look behind me and find its source in Adam’s disturbed expression. Russell winks a second time for good measure and disappears into an office.

“Something wrong?” I hiss at Adam, irritation ringing through my words.

“It’s like I’m not even here. Should I find someone else to drive your boyfriend’s car home? You guys seem to have—”

“Quiet. He’s doing us a favor.”

“What do you need stamped, babe?” Russell returns with a pouch. “You know, I don’t normally work weekends. You’ll have to make it up to me.” Russell’s voice is thick with interest, but I know better than to take it seriously. This is not my first encounter with Russell Rossi. Like a goldfish, he’ll forget any apparent fascination with me about three seconds after I leave.

I lean against the kitchen counter, where he’s setting up. “Sam’s car got towed this morning, and they want something notarized that’ll authorize me to pick it up.”

Confusion cascades over Russell’s face, dropping the Casanova curtain. “From Sam? I can’t knowingly notarize a forged document. I took an oath.”

“An oath?” Adam scoffs.

“Yeah, man. An oath. The whole point is to verify the signers’ identities to prevent whatever shit this is. Why didn’t you move the car for the snow emergency?” Russell asks.

“It didn’t…” Adam flutters his eyes shut rather than repeat himself. “We should get going.”

Russell bobs his shoulders and rubs his left pec.

“Wait,” I call out, because after enduring a wet, bare-chested embrace from this man, I refuse to leave empty-handed. “You only verify the identity of the signer, right? Not the enforceability of the letter?” I have the beginning of a bad idea forming, but it’s the best we’ve got. I scribble on the notebook paper in front of me.

---