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AMANDA

“Wait…can you read that part again?” Sitting in a lawyer’s office on a Saturday afternoon is not what I call fun. And neither would my Aunt Paula. But here we are, just two weeks after her sudden departure from the living and one week after the funeral.

My aunt’s lawyer, Mr. Tate, clears his throat as he shuffles papers on his desk. “You have to run the business for one year before you can sell or close it.”

“From what date?” One needs to be clear on these things, right? Because, if I’m understanding things correctly, this is about to mess with my plans.

Big time.

He checks the document again. “The date of her death.”

I bounce forward in my high-backed chair and slap down the top of the pages so I can see the proverbial fine print. “Well, look at that. Says from the day of her death.”

“That’s correct.” In lawyer-y fashion, he shakes the papers back up. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes, please. Sorry.” I give him a grin-like grimace and shrug.

As Mr. Tate continues to read the stipulations of the will, sunlight streams through the bay window to my right, warming the right side of my body. I turn to gaze out at the bustle of this small Florida beach town that moves with the ebb and flow of tourism.

Mango Lane runs the entirety of downtown Sarabella and is known for its quaint shops and bistros that are mostly comprised of converted houses originally built around the turn of the twentieth century.

Along with a close-knit community, the business district here shares a special camaraderie that hasn’t changed much in twenty years.

By the way, mangos are to Sarabella, Florida, as garlic is to Gilroy, California.

Big.

We even have a festival in the fall that boasts foods made out of mangos that you never imagined possible, like mango wine and savory mango fries made from green mangos.

And the tourists make sure to arrive in time to attend this event that draws vendors, from all over the state of Florida and beyond, who sell their wares.

Being back here brings a flood of memories. Mostly good. Some not so much.

I left several years ago to pursue my own dreams, convinced my days of living under swaying palms and my mother’s brow-raising reputation were over. Yet now I’m yanked back by Aunt Paula, whom I adored, but she always had a unique gift of meddling.

Yes, I’m calling it a gift. Otherwise, I’d stomp out of the lawyer’s office, refusing to take over the flower business my aunt has so graciously willed to me—a ready-made business that has nothing to do with my dreams of being a communications and product designer in the Big Apple, something I’d imagined since being a high school senior in art club.

Plus, New York had one of the best art schools in the country.

I could cite Mad Men as part of what cultivated my interest in the advertising world, but it only fueled it. In reality, Aunt Paula is to blame for that one because her father—whom I never had the pleasure to meet—was a real live Don Draper in his day. He even had the same first name!

Thus, I grew up listening to her stories about him and his life as an ad man in NYC that bordered on the scandalous at times. So in reality, she helped set the trajectory of my life, even though she would never have admitted it.

Not that I wanted to do something scandalous.

I just wanted more. More adventure and excitement, to see more of this big wide world I lived in.

And more distance from my mother’s notoriety, which never seems to fade when you live in a place with people who have long memories and sometimes loose tongues.

And finally—the final decider—I wanted out of this beach town that hummed half of the year and slept the other.

Mr. Tate’s throat clearing snaps me back to the present.

I give him a smile to reassure him I’m listening.

Well, half listening. Most of what he’s relaying now has to do with his law firm’s involvement in the handling of the will, so I’ll just go back to justifying my decision to get out of Dodge nine years ago and reminisce about how well things have worked out.

Well…mostly…

When I moved to New York to go to art college, I figured the Big Apple had room for one more designer.

So did my former classmate and current roommate, Sasha, who’s more of a fine artist. And since graduation, we’ve managed to scrape by (not starving, mind you) in a tiny two-bedroom walk-up.

Not exactly ideal for creating art, let me tell you.

I’m still more of a production assistant at this point, and Sasha has to work on her paintings on the fire escape, which leaves a lot to be desired but makes cleanup very easy.

As long as the downstairs neighbor doesn’t happen to be outside at the moment.

That’s a story I relish telling at any and all opportunities .

But we’ve persevered, sustained mostly by the belief that our next break was just around the corner.

Which one? We had no clue. We just kept turning those corners as they came.

Early on, we lived mostly on ramen noodles, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the fancy appetizers at the art shows I frequented with Sasha.

Plus, the occasional event my boss needed me to help him schmooze old and new clients.

Over time, Sasha and I have upgraded our menu and splurge on an occasional night out on the town. Not exactly how I imagined my life would look at this point, but it is what it is, right?

“Ms. Wilde, do you have any other questions?” My aunt’s lawyer blinks at me through his designer glasses as he neatens the stack of papers in front of him.

He sits behind a broad desk with a stack of folders on one end, an overflowing inbox on the other, and a wall of books behind him that appears rather dusty on the upper shelves. Just like his head.

“Did I understand you correctly, her condo is mortgage free?”

He shuffles through a separate stack of papers on his desk. “That’s correct. Just the property taxes due at the end of the year, and the monthly HOA fee.”

Mr. Tate clears his throat before giving exact figures with his official lawyer expression of authority.

I had no idea how pricy living in this beach town had become, which has sprouted and expanded quite a bit in the last five years alone.

Not so sleepy anymore, it seems. I do a quick calculation in my head.

Less than what I pay for my half of the rent in New York but not by as much as you’d think.

He continues reading where he left off, but my mind has flitted to yet another thought.

“Any stipulations about selling it ?” Even I can hear the edge of desperation trying to peek its way out in my voice. Maybe Aunt Paula’s meddling—I mean generosity, of course—could be used to my advantage for once.

And the way Mr. Tate raises one brow tells me he knows exactly where I’m headed with this. “Once the transfer of ownership is complete, it’s yours to do with as you wish. But if you don’t mind a word of advice?”

“Yours or Aunt Paula’s?”

“Mine.”

I give him a nod.

“Sarabella has grown a lot in the years you’ve been away. Property is valued at an all-time high, but that has thrust rental prices through the roof as well. A one-bedroom apartment would cost you more than twice the HOA fees on your aunt’s place.”

Okay, closer to New York rates than I thought. “So, keep the condo?”

Now his other brow rises to create a uniform, fur-lined wrinkle in his brow. “You need a place to live, don’t you?”

Boxed in again by my crafty aunt. She always did have an interesting sense of humor that tended to break the rules of decorum but in very subtle ways.

To meet her was to be immediately enchanted by her Savannah-born and raised southern charm.

The woman knew how to get people to do what she thought was best for them.

All out of love, she would tell you. But despite that somewhat irritating trait (only because she was usually right), she was one of the strongest and noblest people I’ve ever met.

Mr. Tate clears his throat again.

Clearly, he’s trained his guttural sounds and facial muscles from years of lawyering. (And yes, that’s a word. I looked it up.)

“Any other questions?”

“No, just trying to figure out what my aunt is up to.”

He gives me a knowing smile that tells me he knew Aunt Paula better than most. “Paula always had a mission.”

“That’s one way of saying it.”

Mr. Tate either didn’t hear my mumble or chooses to ignore me as he slides a set of keys across his desk. “These are to the store and her condo.”

I hook the ring on my finger and count five keys. “That only accounts for two keys.”

“Paula loved a good mystery, too.”

I drop the keys into my bag as I stand and extend my hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Tate. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but the verdict is still out on that.

” I smile and give him a short laugh so he’ll know it’s nothing personal.

I know who’s still pulling the strings in this scenario, even if she’s watching from the heavens she so dearly loved.

After shaking my hand, Mr. Tate comes from behind his desk to walk me out.

He’s taller than I realized and towers a good ten inches above me.

And I’m not short. Now I understand why he’s seated in his family picture that sits on the shelf behind his desk.

The camera would have been hard-pressed to fit his wife and kids without him looking like a giant.

“I’m here if you need anything. Paula was very special to my family, as well as the firm. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, Mandy.”

“Amanda, please.” What I don’t say is that since my mother, born Josephine Wilde, hijacked my nickname to create her stage name, Mandy Wild, I preferred not to bring her up at all in this scenario. But knowing my aunt as I do—did—Mr. Tate is probably aware of our history to some degree.