Page 37 of The Cabin
Tomas Anton, Esq., specializing in estate law. Levine, Levine, & Anton, attorneys at law.
“What do I want with an estate lawyer?”
“It’s more what I want with you. I represent the estate of the late Adrian Bell.”
“Adrian…” I swallow. “Okay. Still not following what you want with me.”
He nods. “I understand your confusion, Mr. Fischer. Please, may I come in? What I have to say is private, and sensitive.”
I nod, open the door and admit him. My kitchen table is my makeshift workbench, so it’s littered with curled bits of shavings, and the piece I’m working on sits in the midst of the largest pile of shavings. It’s a bird, a life-size rendering of a raven caught mid-caw, wings ruffling.
Mr. Tomas Anton, estate attorney, ambles to the table, bends at the waist and peers at the nearly finished carving. “That is remarkable, Mr. Fischer. You are a true artisan.”
“Thanks. It’s a hobby.”
He has a briefcase, a slim leather thing that’s probably more accurately called an attaché. He pulls a chair away from the table, sweeps the pine shavings off with a long, elegant hand, and sits down. Props the case on his knees and pops the latches. Lifts the lid. Removes a manila folder, marked with my last name in calligraphic handwriting on the tab. Closes the lid and sets the folder on top of the case. Each movement is precise, considered.
His eyes lift to mine. I’m standing, arms crossed, hands tucked under my armpits. “Perhaps you would like to sit down.”
“You’re recommending?”
He nods. “Indeed.”
I sling a chair around, perch on it backward, arms folded over the back. “I’m listening, Mr. Anton.”
“I will get right to the point. Mr. Bell, with whom you were friends, made rather extensive arrangements prior to his tragic passing.”
“Extensive arrangements,” I repeat. “You said you’d get to the point. It’s been a year—like, almost exactly. So I’ll ask again—what’s this got to do with me?”
He opens the folder. “This letter will, I believe, explain everything. But I shall provide you with a brief summary. His last wishes, which he arranged as part of his will, included the transference of ownership of a small piece of property with two cabins some ways north of here in the Appalachian Mountains. He has divided the property and deeded a portion of it to you. Lake frontage, a cabin, and a few acres.”
I feel my brow wrinkling in shock. “Adrian gave me a cabin on a lake in the mountains?”
“Yes, Mr. Fischer.”
“Why now?” I shake my head. “Wills are read shortly after death, not a year later.”
“It was part of his wishes.”
“That I get the cabin now, a year after he died?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It would be inappropriate for me to speculate on that, but all shall be made clear in time.” He hands me the folder. Opens his case again and withdraws another stack of papers. “Sign, please. It is the deed, assuming ownership.”
I sign.
“He left me a cabin in the woods,” I repeat.
“Indeed, he did.”
“And you can’t tell me why?”
“More accurately, I will not. It would go against the nature of his final wishes, which he contracted me to carry out.”
“Okay, then.”
“Read the letter, Mr. Fischer. It will clear up much, if not everything.” He latches his briefcase. “I will mail you a copy of the deed.”
“Are there keys? An address?”
He indicates the folder in my hands. “Everything you need is in that folder.”
“Okay. Thanks, I guess.”
He hesitates. “I said it would be inappropriate for me to speculate. And that is true. But this much I can say that is not speculation: Mr. Bell’s final wishes were elaborately and carefully thought out. It may feel random to you, but I assure you it is not.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure what to say to that.
He stands and inclines his head to me. “Thanks for seeing me this evening, Mr. Fischer. Call me if you have any questions. ”
It’s not until after he’s gone that I think of a question. Who owns the other half, the other cabin? Well, all shall be made clear, he said. I guess we’ll see.
I take the folder to the couch.
Inside is a letter, handwritten in a fountain pen on linen stationary, with Adrian’s name across the top.Nathan,Out of the blue, I know. On purpose.
You’re still mourning Lisa. I could see it on your face, hear it in your voice, when we sat down to drinks that last time. And yeah, buddy, I knew then that I was dying. I was in denial still, to a point, but I knew. I was picking your brain, that day. I hope I didn’t cause you pain with my questions, but I needed to hear the answers from someone who knew.
I was coming to grips with understanding that I’d be leaving Nadia behind. How could I prepare her for it? What would it be like, for her, after I’m gone? Will she be okay?
