The Wrong Pen Pal

"Hot chocolate's on the stove, marshmallows on the counter," I said.

"Thanks, Dad," he mumbled. Setting the cat down, he stopped in front of the stove, his hand on the edge, his arms tense, and he looked forward, making me almost feel the emotions roiling in him. "Dad, why'd it have to be Mom? Why her?"

I walked over behind him and placed my hand on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze as Snick weaved around my ankles.

"Kevin, there's a lot of people, a lot of families, asking that same question after losing someone to this virus. In her case, Mom spent so much time helping people at the hospital because it needed to be done, because helping people was her life. The doctors and the government are trying to stop this thing by slowing the spread and helping as many people recover as they can, but that doesn't always work and sometimes the doctors and nurses on the front lines get hit, too."

Giving a slow nod, he turned toward me and leaned in, leading me to slide an arm around him and pat his back. He'd gotten too big for hugs several years earlier, but this time, only a hug would do, and he reached around me, squeezing me as I pulled him closer.

Kyle, who'd outgrown hugs even before Kevin, walked in then and gave a wistful, knowing look. He came over and wrapped his arms around both of us; unlike with my own brother, my boys were quite close.

We pulled Kyle in with us, seeking comfort from each other while giving what we could. Young men, even when in pain, generally don't hug long though, so when I felt the first shift, I patted a shoulder on each son and relaxed, allowing them both to resume their normal male standoffishness.

"Kyle, the stuff's there on the stove and counter. I'm going up to get a shower and into some dry clothes," I said. "I'll be back in a few."

A couple of minutes later, I was luxuriating in the heat of that shower, the water running over me as I closed my eyes. That was all it took to think of showering with Staci any number of times over the years. She loved the water spraying over us as we made love....

A shake of my head brought me out of the beautiful memory; however, I then swung to the opposite extreme, focusing instead on the time she'd spent in the ICU, hooked to the ventilator that couldn't do enough to save her.

"Dear God, why?" I whispered. Like Kevin, I was angry and upset, trying to put the thought of her final days from my mind, but unlike him, I had no one to try to comfort me but the Lord. Unfortunately, no answer, divine or otherwise, was forthcoming, so with my body warmed as much as the shower could, I toweled off, dressed, and wondered what the future would hold.

***

I wondered but didn't really want to find out.

As I walked around the house, I realized that staying there was going to be difficult. Staci's memory was everywhere I looked, with everything reminding me of her, as if her presence was embedded in the very walls. I didn't speak to the boys about it, but I'd started to consider selling the house and moving somewhere new where we could start afresh.

And walk around the house we did, for with the COVID situation, the increasing restrictions, and the recommendations that nobody knew would work or not, we stayed home for the next week or so, even avoiding essential trips such as for groceries. Walking Gryf was about the only time I left the house.

Instead of leaving, I started going through Staci's personal things, picking out what I wanted to keep as precious memories and putting everything else in boxes or, when I ran out of boxes, trash bags. I saved most of her better jewelry for the boys; their wives, assuming they married someday, would be able to use it or pass it on to our granddaughters or possibly great granddaughters someday. I'd give Erica a chance to go through everything else and pick anything she wanted, and most everything that was left would be donated to a local women's shelter where Staci had volunteered from time to time. Anything old or questionable went in the trash.

With thoughts of the possibility of selling the house, I went up in the attic and looked around. Staci had inherited some things from her mother and grandmother and we'd stored a number of other things up there over the years, so I decided to go through it all and clean out what I could.

For the next three days, I went through boxes, generally separating trash from things that might be valuable to someone but not to me. I was finally getting close to the end when I dug out Grandmother Evers' big steamer trunk with the domed lid.

Staci had told me she believed it was from the late 1800s or early 1900s, probably from the time of her grandmother's parents or before. I was going through the contents when I noticed that it had her grandmother's name inscribed inside on the rear panel of the lid, but there was another name, extremely faint, next to it, so I got a flashlight and a magnifying glass to try to figure out what it said.

The lettering was quite faded so I leaned in with the glass and made out an "M" and then an "a"--

"Hello!" came a sudden call from the top of the stairs, a short distance behind me.

Not expecting company and being totally engrossed in my effort, I started, a surprised jerk that bumped the lid, causing it to fall and slam down on my head.

"Oww!" I groaned as I propped it back open.

"Goodness!" said the female voice. "Are you okay?"

I turned to see black high heels and shapely legs clad in nude-colored hose. A dark pencil skirt started right at her knees but I winced then, scrunching my eyes closed, before looking further.

"Here, let me look," she said, moving in close and apparently squatting next to me. "Looks like just a bump. No blood and it's not even swelling so you'll be okay."

"Yet," I replied. "Not swelling yet. And you earned your doctor's degree where?"

"State," she replied, "but it's a Doctor of Jurisprudence, not of Medicine. Therefore, if you have any doubts as to your condition, my professional duty is to tell you to consult a medical professional."

"Why the hell do lawyers keep showing up around me?" I grumbled as I opened my eyes to see blonde hair and pretty blue eyes above a black facemask.

"Since you haven't called my father to arrange a meeting as he requested, he instructed me to track you down and set a date. So, how does this coming Monday at 10 AM look for you?"

I looked at her more closely. Even with the face mask and her blonde hair pulled up in a bun on her head, what I could see suggested that she probably looked more like a cheerleader or one of the dance troupe girls at one of those college football powerhouses rather than a lawyer. It was hard to tell with the mask, but I suspected that she was a bit older than such girls, particularly since she claimed to have her J.D., but not by much. She looked like a lawyer-type though, wearing the requisite white blouse with a flowery silk scarf tied around her neck, all topped with a well-fitted black sports coat.

She probably knew it, but I said it anyway. "Traipsing around uninvited in someone's house in the south is a good way to get shot, you know?"

She laughed lightly, a cute little sound, before standing up in front of me. She looked like a giant towering over me from where I sat on the attic floor leaning against the trunk.

"I wasn't traipsing. I knocked, a gentleman named Kyle let me in, and he told me to come up here to find you. I was calling out, but if you were too deaf to hear, you should probably change the batteries in your hearing aids." I think she was grinning under the mask.

Sighing, I stood up with the help of the trunk, but I smiled when I turned to look at her. There's something to be said of perspective; at 5'-11 in my bare feet, I actually still had a couple of inches on her, even with her heels.

"Okay, you're here and you didn't get shot. Count yourself lucky."

She controlled a chuckle before nodding. "Point taken; I'm lucky, I guess. That said, how about Monday at 10? Will that work for you?"

I huffed this time. "What the hell's so all-fired important that I have to do this right now? Can't you give me a few more days to mourn my wife before I have to deal with everything?"

"Mr. Pierce, I'm sorry for your loss, but my father has information and instructions from your late wife that you need." She looked at the nearly empty attic space around me and nodded. "And you really need it before you go off half-cocked and do anything stupid like selling your house that you might regret later. Monday, 10 o'clock. Be there."

She didn't bother to wait for my reply, turning and walking the few steps to the stair before descending.

The young woman, whatever her name was, was bitchy, but she had great legs.

***

That Monday, it was all too much, that discussion with Hiram J. Wicklow, III, Esquire, regarding my wife, her business, and what she had left to me.

"Mr. Pierce, soon after Staci entered the professional world, she approached me to discuss her finances and how she could protect herself and you and the rest of your family in the event of something unexpected happening to her, something, unfortunately, like COVID. We'd been close friends in college--she called me Trip back then, in case she ever mentioned my name--and had stayed in touch while she was in medical school until the two of you reconnected and got together. Therefore, she knew she could trust me for professional advice and to be discreet. On hearing her wishes, I helped with what she asked, and over the years, she added more..."

He continued on for a while, telling how they were paid from her professional account, and covered professional liability, a life insurance policy for her practice debts, and two other life insurance policies. One named me as the primary beneficiary and the other was for a special fund for our sons' education expenses.

"Once the insurance pays off her practice debt--she only had 37 monthly payments left on her corporate buy-in and no significant additional debts--the transition with the doctors corporation goes into effect, and they are required to buy her out over 24 months. Since she essentially self-funded the buyout with the policy, the time frame is reduced to a single balloon payment to be made to you, her heir, no more than 60 days after the policy pays off. With the other policy paying off to you, your share will be..."

He pressed a button on his phone and said, "Etta, do you have the updated sheet for Mr. Pierce? I don't see it in the folder."

"Hold on, I'll be right in."

I turned a moment later to see my blonde intruder enter his office and hand some papers across his desk. She looked to me and said, "Good morning, Mr. Pierce. It's nice to see you again. How's your head?"

"Ah, you, too," I agreed, "and it's still here, thanks."

"Good. I told you it wasn't bad." Though I couldn't see it under her mask, I was sure she was smiling broadly before turning and leaving the room. Not thinking, I watched her go.

Hiram J. Wicklow, III, had his hand over his mask, trying to keep from laughing it seemed, when I turned back toward him.

"Etta? Your daughter?"

"Yes, from my first marriage. She's always been something of a whirlwind and as beautiful as she is fiercely independent." He gave in, chuckling, before turning back to the papers she'd provided. After looking at the top one closely, he compared it to something on his computer monitor and gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Mr. Pierce, the top sheet shows the money coming to you from the life insurance policy and the money going to your sons' education accounts. You'll have to speak to your accountant to confirm it but those funds should be tax free."

My eyes were wide as I looked at the top number. Staci and I had done well together financially; we weren't rich but were reasonably comfortable. The payments on this policy was as much as the two of us combined earned in over ten years.

The second number would easily pay for the boys' graduate educations and pay off their existing student debt.

"Now look at the next page," continued Mr. Wicklow. "This is the business buy-out, with the first line being the estimated total, assuming there are no unexpected expenses, and the bottom line being the estimated net amount you'll receive after capital gains taxes are paid. Of course, there are ways you can defer part of this into tax-sheltered..."

With my head practically spinning at the flurry of seven digit figures and the thought of our personal life insurance policy that Mr. Wicklow hadn't even mentioned, I didn't hear the rest of what he said. The net result was that my wife's very sad and untimely death had made me rich beyond my wildest dreams.

The other thing racing through my mind was that, as large as the total number was, I would have gladly given every last cent--and all that I owned besides--to have her back, even if only long enough for us to say our goodbyes.

***

My job required me back about a week later and I had to think long and hard about whether I wanted to return.

For the first time in my life, I was going to be independently wealthy, with enough money for me to retire in style, but where would retirement leave me? My work--and I owned a small percentage of the firm--was often a challenge and the interaction with people, even in the online meetings now required due to COVID, was welcomed. In the end, it was a no-brainer; I hadn't received the money yet, my firm needed me, and I really needed what it provided.

Or was it merely the distraction, the mental exercise to keep my mind off Staci and her loss? I wasn't sure, but it was enough for me to return to work despite my grief, even if much of the work was being done from my home office with trips to work downtown as required. The boys were back to their on-line classes, too, making up for the time they missed while moving forward.

"It's not nearly as good as doing it in person, Dad," complained Kevin, but he struggled forward, missing his mother, in his own way, probably almost as much as I did. Kyle, who'd been away from home longer, who'd always been bigger (both age-wise and in stature) and more independent, and who'd always seemed a bit closer to me than his brother, didn't seem to struggle quite as much as Kevin, but I could still see his grief at times, despite his efforts to put on a good front.

And that, I knew, was what I was doing, too.

***

Erica and Ross came by several times over the next few weeks, helping all of us with our grief. Erica was grateful for some of her sister's things and some family heirlooms that meant more to her than me or the boys, but she agreed that the women's shelter could use most of the rest far more than she could. They were thankful for the donations.

In May, Kyle's university canceled in-person graduation exercises in lieu of an online presentation, so we had a family celebration for him with the three of us and Ross and Erica in the comfort of our living room. My brother Alex and his wife, Felicia, joined us for a while by video chat from their home in Katy, just outside of Houston. We'd invited them to attend with us in person, but they'd politely declined, blaming the virus, just as they had for Staci's funeral. Of course, I suspected that if it hadn't been for the convenience of COVID, their excuse would have been something else.

The good thing, I realized with a smile a bit later that afternoon, was that Alex wouldn't be able to sample any of the cake we'd gotten for Kyle's little post-graduation celebration.

***

I was updating the assignments sheet following our project managers staff meeting on Monday, June 1st, when Kyle tapped on the door to my office.

"Dad, you have a visitor."

I didn't have an appointment so I was quite surprised until he stepped out of the way. Etta Wicklow entered the room and sat across from me where we could see each other but maintain the requisite 6-feet. She was wearing her standard dark pencil skirt and a sheer white blouse that clearly showed a white bra below. Her usual jacket and scarf were nowhere in sight.

"Good morning, Mr. Pierce. How are you today?"

"Ahem, I was doing well until about 15 seconds ago," I said, wondering why she'd come. Wanting to get it over with, I added, "What can I do for you?"

"Some follow-up paperwork, actually. We need you to read and sign these. Three sets, duplicate copies. Sign or initial as noted on the stick-on tabs."

I read them carefully, asked a couple of follow-up questions, and then completed them as noted and handed them back.

"Thanks," she said. "You know, I'm not sure if I ever introduced myself."

"No, you didn't," I agreed, "but I got Etta, and I assume, Wicklow, from what your father said."

She nodded as she leaned back in the chair, seeming a bit relaxed for the first time in our encounters. "Correct, though my dear mother would tell you it's Henrietta Elise Wicklow, unfortunately, with me named after my two grandmothers and the son-of-a-bitch she married."

"Ouch. Sounds like there's bad blood. Why are you working for him?"

"Oh, no, not me. Mother Dear would tell you that, but I love my father. He struggled to stay with her until I was ten for me, and I'd have gladly gone with him if the court had allowed it, but instead, I was stuck with my mother until the day I turned 18. That's the day I took my things and told her where she could go for all the harm she'd done."

"Ooh, bad blood, all right."

"Certainly. I left and never went back, though we do get along a little better now that we're at a safe distance. A little."

"So where'd you go?"

"I moved in with my dad and my 'step-mum,' Deborah, of course. She's English, and right properly so," she said, faking an English accent for the last part, "but she and Dad get along great." She sat up a bit, rolling her shoulders causing her breasts to rise and look even larger. Then, she turned a bit, uncrossing her legs and recrossing them the other way, flashing just a bit of thigh, making me look away. "But enough about me, Brian--I may call you Brian, right?--tell me about yourself. And how'd you meet Staci?"

I looked at her, wondering if she was intending to send the vibe I thought I was picking up or if my nearly twenty-four years married to Staci had killed my sensor. Giving an almost imperceptible nod, I reluctantly gave her a bit of my background and then moved on to Staci.

"We were acquaintances and then ultimately friends in high school, though we went to different high schools at opposite ends of our county. I'd had a crush on her off and on for several years, but we never went out. Then we hung out together on our last 4-H trip that summer following high school graduation. We had a great time together, and on the last night, I finally leaned in and kissed her."

"Aaah! So you got together then?" she said, as if it was oh-so romantic.

"Oh, no," I replied, crushing the little scenario I could almost see playing out in her mind. "No, we were going our separate ways the next day, so it was just a kiss and a sad look from each of us as we realized how it might have been but never would be. Fortunately, I ran into her here in town a number of years later and Providence shined on us then, bringing us together when we were both between lovers--"

She giggled at that, covering her mask with her hand.

"--so I took a chance and asked her out."

I paused, not telling Etta more, but remembering nonetheless....

***

Over twenty-six years earlier

She looked so familiar as we walked down the hospital corridor toward each other, but she was glancing down at the chart in her hand, obviously concentrating and only looking forward far enough ahead to keep from running over anyone. A couple of steps further, my heart raced; she looked like Staci Evers, my old crush from Lundsboro. Her hair was different and she was wearing a doctor's coat, but something....