Page 110 of Saltwater

The housekeeper arrives with a basket of pastries and holds them until I make my selection. Through the phone, I hear our attorney—my attorney—slurping his coffee. Bud has a steady, measured manner. Nothing is ever hurried. Every minute, every sip, is billable. This call will be billed not to them, but tome.

“Since you’ll be staying in Italy for the foreseeable future, I think it best that we go over the paperwork now. I’ve forwarded it to you in an email. We don’t need wet signatures right away, but there are a few articles to go over and places to sign.”

I put him on speaker so I can see the PDF he’s sent me on my phone. The tiny letters swim together.

“Really, all you need to know is that, with Marcus’s death, you’re the sole beneficiary of Naomi’s estate. No one else is named.”

I hear him turn a page.

“Section 3 outlines the listed assets. As you can see”—he waits, presumably for me to find Section 3—“Naomi had significant holdings in real property, stock, and liquid assets. This is simply the liquid number. We can get you current estimates for stock and real property in the next week or two.”

I find Section 3, and the number, the liquid assets, is so far beyond what Lorna and I had been willing to split that the math seems incalculable.

“You will owe something in probate, but not as much as you might expect,” Bud continues. “And if you would like us to keep representing you moving forward, we will need to set up a new retainer and new client engagement form. I can also put you in touch with a business manager and some wealth management associates. I know Marcus did most of that work for Naomi. You’ll probably want someone to step in, unless you feel comfortable managing it yourself?”

“I’d love those introductions,” I say.

Bud shuffles some pages, and I can hear him taking another sip of coffee.

“I think that’s pretty much everything for now. It will take some time for the death certificates to be registered, but we’ll manage all the documentation with the banks. I’ve already overnighted you two bank cards. One will be from UBS, and that will take care of everything while you’re traveling. You probably won’t need to consult the balance while you’re in Capri, but feel free to reach out to us if you need to do so. The accounts won’t be fully transferred for about a week. The other card is an extension of the private Lingate credit line at UBS—this one has no limit. If you need checks—”

“I don’t,” I say.

“Right, I know. What I’m saying is, we are here to help with anything you might need.”

“I’d love for you to draw up a new representation agreement,” I say. “And would it be possible to get someone in Los Angeles to list both Bel Air properties?”

“Are you sure you want to do that so quickly? You may not have anywhere to come home to if they sell.”

I want to tell him that I don’t have anywhere to come home to anyway, at least not in Los Angeles. But all I say is, “I’m sure.”

“We’ll have you names by the end of the week. Oh, and, Helen, you might want to consider hiring someone to help you, the way Lorna helped your uncle. You know. An assistant. We can help with that, too.”

After I finish talking to Bud, I pack my room. Leaving everything else in the house—my father’s, Naomi’s, and Marcus’s things—for the housekeeper to donate, something she had suggested while the carabinieri were roaming through the house, shaking Naomi’s pills, pawing through her dresses.

“The owners have said you are welcome as long as you need the house,” Renata says now. “They send their condolences.”

“I’m going to stay with friends,” I tell her.

“Can I call someone to move your luggage?” she asks.

I only brought a small duffel and carry-on to Capri, barely anything beyond swimsuits and a handful of dresses. But I have taken a few of the scarves Naomi bought at Hermès, a pair of leather Ferragamo sandals.

“Ciro is coming,” I say.

I don’t tell her I’m simply moving next door. At least for now.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I, however, am not.

—

Ciro closes the gatebehind me, and it feels like the closest thing to a homecoming I have ever experienced. I stow my bag under his bed, and we sit in the garden, talking about when to leave for Milan.

I tell him that I want an apartment on the edge of Brera. Something surrounded by greenery, something old. Or maybe somethingnew but strange and useless. If there is no dishwasher and the door heights are too low but the ceilings extraordinarily high, that will be fine. I just want it to be mine.

“I have a friend,” Ciro says, “whose sister is a rental agent in Milan. I can text her. We can go next week.”

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