Page 15 of Mourner for Hire

ELEVEN

DOMINIC

“We need to contest the will.”

“Good to see you too, Dunner. How ya holding up?”

Jerry “Sully” Sullivan makes no attempt to excuse my crass greeting as soon as I enter his office while he holds his phone to his ear.

He is a cliché of a lawyer in a small town.

One office with creaky floors and overstuffed leather chairs, and a receptionist out front with teased hair who has been working here since the eighties.

Sully is in his mid-fifties with a full head of dyed-black hair, courtesy of Rogaine, in a gray suit and a pot belly.

But he’s loyal and good at his job. He also dated my mom in the seventh grade and never fell out of love so he always gave us fifteen percent off per consultation hour so my mother remained his loyal client… all the way down to the drafting and execution of her will.

I storm across the office and flop into one of the leather chairs on either side of his oversized cherry wood desk.

“All right, Samuel. Send over the contract, and I’ll have it reviewed by Monday, okay?” he’s saying on the phone as a flushed Lynnette stumbles over her heels at the doorway.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sullivan. I stepped away from the desk for one minute, and didn’t know he’d slip in?—”

Sully holds up a hand, silencing her, though not unkindly. “No worries, Lynnette. You know I’ll always make time for Annabelle’s son.”

Lynnette offers an apologetic smile in my direction and then closes the door, the cream miniblinds swinging against the glass window on the door.

“Sully, we have to contest the will,” I repeat.

Sully cracks his knuckles and leans over his desk. “And why is that? The will is ironclad, son. I drafted it a year before she died. God rest her soul.”

“Because she has someone living in her beach cottage. A stranger living in her favorite space. It’s not right.

” I stand from the chair because I can’t bear it anymore.

The concept. The execution. The deception of her job.

I don’t care that I thought she was funny or pretty or the fact that I kissed her—and God, I loved kissing her.

Up until she got all weird and started sobbing, but still.

I’m shutting down my own humiliation by letting her charm me and ensuring she doesn’t get a dime from my mother.

I whip around and practically shout, “The woman is a fraud—she attends random people’s funerals for money, Sully! ”

“Trust me, you don’t want to contest it, Dunner.” Sully stays seated with his fingers interlaced as he calmly taps his thumbs against each other.

“Oh, but I do. You won’t change my mind, and if you won’t rep me, then I’ll have no issue going across town to have Bernadette do that job.”

My threat goes stale as Sully patiently stares at me before rolling his eyes and pointing at the chair across from his desk. When I sit, he buzzes Lynnette.

“Lynnette, can you bring in Annabelle Dunne’s will, please?”

My chest tightens. “I’ve read the will, Sully?—”

“You’re forgetting a part,” he says as Lynnette comes in with a thick manila envelope .

“I’m not. Trust me. I’ll never forget all the crazy stuff she wants her to do?—”

He flips open the will to the last page and spins it toward me, pointing to Section VIII.

I stare at him a beat before finally relenting and letting my eyes drift to the words on the page.

Contest

If any beneficiary or would-be beneficiary under this Will shall in any manner contest or attack this Will or any of its provision, then in such event I hereby give, devise and bequeath such contestant the sum of One Dollar ($1.

00) only and specially revoke all other provisions hereof in favor of such contestant.

Therein all provisions revoked by the contestant will be split evenly among the other beneficiary.

My blood runs cold by the time I finish reading. There’s no fucking way.

“Son, do you understand what this means?” Sully asks, and I nod reluctantly. “If you contest this will, that woman whom you seem to detest so much will inherit all of your mother’s assets and money, and you will get one dollar.”

“Fuck!” I slam a fist on the will and stand again.

I pace the room—the rage coursing through me with a current that prohibits me from sitting down. Pressing my hands against my head, raking my fingers through my hair, I huff out a few breaths before willing myself to calm down.

“Like I said, Dunner. The will is ironclad.”

“The will is bullshit,” I huff. “And listen, I’m well aware I seem like a child throwing a fit, but surely, you have to understand why I’m angry and why this makes zero sense.

You knew my mother. You know me. No one knows this lunatic, stealing from the grieving and disrupting our lives at the worst possible time. ”

Sully sits back. “She knew you’d react this way, and that’s why she made sure I put in the section. She said it was the only way you’d agree to it. She said you aren’t greedy enough to care how much you get, but she knew you’d care about the legacy.”

I swallow. The saliva in my mouth has turned to sticky, sour sap. “She’s living in her cottage, Sully. I haven’t—” I choke over the words. “I haven’t even gone through the cottage yet, and I’m expected to let this woman do it for me.”

“Her name is Vada, and she is probably quite lovely.”

She is, my brain unapologetically reminds me, and steam billows out of my ears.

“But why?” I beg the question. I’m not remiss enough to ignore the ache in my voice.

“Your mother had her reasons.”

“Which were?” I lean over the desk, bracing the thick wood with enough force, it might splinter.

He blows out a slow breath. “She said you’d understand at the end of Ms. Vada’s time here.”

That’s it. My mother was nothing but cryptic, and a part of my soul is hurting because she’s doing this to me.

Death already feels impossible enough. One day, she’s here, making pot roast and apple cider donuts while listening to Bonnie Raitt and begging me to settle down with a woman with a backbone.

And the next, I’m walking through her empty house that still smells just like her; only now, there’s no pulse or rhythm.

The music no longer plays and she’s just… gone.

I leave his office in the same way I entered, only this time, I’m even more angry.

“Dunner, calm down before you get too worked up?—”

I don’t listen. Each step until I hit the parking lot is fueled with rage and fire. I slam the door to my Jeep shut and squeal out of the parking lot.