Page 6 of Your Every Wish
I rifle through my backpack, searching for the lawyer’s letter. I’ve read it so many times that I should know it by heart now. The gist is that Willy Keil, the man who spent his time gambling and doing God knows what else instead of being a father, died and left me in his will. From everything I know about Willy, which isn’t a whole lot, his estate is considerable. Kind of ironic because all I ever wanted was for him to know me. Love me.
I used to dream that we’d do daddy-daughter things, like he’d be the one to teach me how to drive or fix the tires on my bike when they went flat or take me ice-skating in Union Square at Christmastime.
My mother spent much of my youth making excuses for him. That he was out saving the world or some other tall tale. I used to think it was because she never got over him leaving us, that she still loved him. But the excuses were for me, so I wouldn’t feel unwanted. Or ashamed.
Now, the only piece of him I’ll ever see is his money. I suppose I should be thankful because the bequest, his parting gift to me, couldn’t come at a better time.
Kennedy
It’s hard not to fidget in the waiting room of my late father’s lawyer’s office. I have a lot riding on this meeting, and Mr. Gene Townsend is taking his sweet-ass time. I got to Harry Reid International at five this morning to catch my flight to San Francisco and should be exhausted. Instead, I’m so pumped, I can literally feel adrenaline rushing through my veins.
There’s a small coffee bar next to the reception desk and I help myself to a cup. My third one today. I clearly don’t need the caffeine but it’s something to keep me busy while I wait.
And wait.
The office is tasteful. And by that, I mean it’s sparse. Just a love seat and two swivel chairs for clients, offset by dark-paneled walls and a Persian rug. Every few minutes the receptionist, an elderly lady with curly gray hair, meets my gaze and flashes an apologetic smile.
“We’re just waiting for Ms. Keil.”
The name is jarring. Keil is the surname of my late father. Because my parents were never married, I have my mother’s name. Jenkins.
“Ms. Keil” is likely my half sister. My mother warned me that there was a distinct possibility she would also be at this meeting. I’ve never met her, and yet dislike her, especially today.
A woman rushes through the door. She’s about two inches shorter than me but our eyes are the same sky blue. That’s where our similarities stop. I’m blond and she’s a brunette. We would never be taken for cousins, let alone sisters. Still, there is something about her that’s familiar, distinct, like a case of déjà vu.
She slips a backpack off her shoulder and locks eyes with me, then immediately switches her gaze to the receptionist. “Sorry. My bus was late.”
“No worries. Mr. Townsend will see you in a couple of minutes. In the meantime, help yourself to coffee.” The receptionist flicks her hand at the bar where I’m still standing.
“Thank you.” She trips over her own feet on the way, and I peer at her over the rim of my cup as she rights herself on the edge of the counter.
She’s not what I expect. Then again, all I’ve ever known about her is what I’ve made up in my head.
“I’m Emma.” She sticks her hand out to shake mine, then abruptly changes her mind and goes in for a hug.
I stiffen and back away before she makes contact, which seems to confuse her. “Kennedy,” I say, before the moment gets any more awkward.
A man clearing his throat breaks the ensuing silence and I presume it’s Mr. Townsend, who is standing half in and half out of an office doorway behind the reception desk. “Ladies.” He nods his head at us. “Please come in and take a seat.”
I have a flashing memory of being called into the principal’s office for slapping Bridget McDuff across the face for making fun of my shoes when we were in middle school.
Unlike the lobby, Mr. Townsend’s office is a cluttered mess. Pictures of him and his family line a bookcase on the wall next to his desk, which is covered in manila folders, mail, and binder books. There are stacks of papers on two wing chairs, forcing him to collect them so Emma and I can sit. Every inch of wall is covered with certificates, plaques, and framed photographs. The one that catches my eye is of Mr. Townsend with the vice president of the United States. Emma is staring at it, too.
She is dressed in jeans, a peasant blouse, and sneakers, making me question my own choice of a dressy pantsuit and Stuart Weitzman high-heeled booties. Not the most comfortable outfit for a plane ride, even a brief one. My wardrobe reflects who I am—a successful professional, I remind myself.
Mr. Townsend clears his throat again. He’s a middle-aged man with a thick middle and a head full of gray hair that could use a combing. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are pushed up to his elbows and the knot in his red tie is loosened. It’s only ten and he looks like he’s already put in a full day’s work.
He searches through the folders on his desk, stacking the ones he doesn’t want in a pile ready to topple over. “It was here a minute ago,” he mutters to himself.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emma’s lips tip up. I can’t fathom why she finds this amusing. I imagine she doesn’t have as much riding on the outcome of Willy’s estate as I do, which makes me like her even less.
“Ah, here it is.” Mr. Townsend flips open a thick blue binder and thumbs through the pages.
I hold my breath.
He looks up from the paperwork briefly, then returns to the binder. The swishing noise of him turning the pages is the only sound in the room.
“The two of you are Willy Keil’s only heirs,” he says, like it should come as a great relief, which truth be told it does. From everything I know about the man, he was prolific in all areas of his life.
