Page 13 of The Fix-Up

A horse who liked baked goods. Unlike Gilbert Dalton. He hadn’t touched a single muffin. Hadn’t wanted the lemonade I offered either. Water, that’s it. Maybe he was allergic to things that tasted good. Or into some weird form of self-deprivation.

He was dressed in another long-sleeve button-down with dark-wash jeans, every hair on his head in place, looking cool and unruffled. My hand itched to reach across the table and…and do something. Muss his hair, steal his glasses, smack him.

After a weekend of thinking of every worst-case scenario imaginable (a special talent of mine), followed by a brief dancewith self-awareness in which I wondered if I was overthinking this whole situation and should give this Gilbert Dalton a chance, I wasn’t any closer to feeling calm or collected.

Yet at night when I lay down to sleep, my mind produced one awful scenario after another. Like the one where Gilbert Dalton poisons me so he can claim all the property for himself. Or the one where Gilbert Dalton smothers me in my sleep so he can claim all the property for himself. Or the one where Gilbert Dalton…well, you get it.

I could already hear Sunny telling me I was jumping to conclusions, and she’d ask me if I thought he’d really hurt me. She would say that my subconscious was worried about how him showing up would affect everything I’d worked on for the last three years.

I really hated when Sunny was right.

As you might imagine, I baked. A lot. Those muffins the lawyer was partaking in right now? There were three dozen more in the deep freezer at the house. This morning when I woke up at 4a.m., I’d been determined to make the best of the situation. All through the busyness of Monday at the café, I tried to stay positive. Honest, I did. Until I sat down with the attorney and across from Gilbert Dalton.

All that to say, I was an exhausted, sweaty mess wrapped in an anxiety burrito.

Doug thumbed through the stack of papers on the table in front of him. He’d agreed to drive over to Two Harts for this meeting and so we sat in the quiet of the café after closing time. “I’m glad to have both of you together finally. You’re a hard man to get ahold of, Mr. Dalton.” He smiled at us—he even had big teeth like a horse—and rested his folded hands on the table. “So, what are your questions?”

“How did this happen?” I nodded at Gilbert. “Where did he come from?”

“You remember me telling you there was a possibility of a relative?” Doug said. He had a crumb on his upper lip. It was hard not to stare at it.

“I think you mentioned it once, months ago, before I even knew Ollie had left anything to me,” I said.

Douglas frowned at me. “And on Friday when I met with you. When I told you Ollie had left the house and the café to you, but that Mr. Dalton would have a year to come forward if he was interested in claiming the half Ollie had also left to him.” He shot Gilbert a stern look. “Although he’d ignored all the phone calls, voice messages, texts, and certified letters. I was surprised when he showed up in my office.”

Well…crap. I definitely had not been listening to every word that came out his mouth that day, apparently.

I cleared my throat, trying not to look too blindsided. “So just like that, he owns half of everything now?” My leg jiggled under the table, so hard the water in Gilbert’s glass rippled.

“Well, not exactly. Neither of you owns anything yet. For your claim on the property to be valid, you must live on the premises for six months.”

My hand shot up in the air.

Gil’s gaze landed on me, one dark eyebrow raised. “Are you raising your hand like a fourth grader?”

I looked down my nose at him. “I didn’t want to interrupt, thank you very much.”

“And look how well that worked.”

“Look, you big je?—”

“What was your question, Ms. Sterns?” Doug’s eyes zipped between Gilbert and me with a hint of concern.

“When you say ‘live on the premises,’ what exactly does that mean?”Please don’t mean what I think it means. Please don’t mean what I think it means.

“Both you and Mr. Dalton need to live on the property”—he glanced down at the paperwork—“on Garden Valley Road for the next six months.”

Ollie’s house was the only house on Garden Valley Road. Panic fluttered in my stomach. I swallowed hard. “But you don’t meanlivelive on the property. Maybe around the property. Within twenty miles? Or something.”

“No, the will says in order for your claim to be valid, your primary residence must be the property on Garden Valley Road. If that is completed, your portion of the property will be deeded over. After that, you’re free to decide what to do with it—keep it, sell it, that’s up to you. But you can’t do either if you don’t live there for six months first.”

“Six months.” Gilbert crossed his arms, his button-down straining at his shoulders. Not that I was looking.

“Indeed.” Doug sounded almost cheerful.

“And if we don’t?” I looked back and forth between Gilbert and the attorney. “What if he decides he doesn’t want to live on the property? Then what?”

“Then he’d be forfeiting his right to his half. Simple as that.”

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