Page 4 of Your Every Wish

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.

“Before he passed, he made sure to tie up all loose ends, including a living trust with you two girls as his beneficiaries.”

“What exactly did he die of?” Emma leans forward in her seat.

The question catches me off guard. Though I’ve kept loose tabs on my father’s life throughout the years, I have wondered myself how he died. I’d assumed Emma knew.

“Lung cancer,” Mr. Townsend says.

Well, there you have it .

“Where did he die?” Emma asks.

“With friends.” Mr. Townsend shifts his gaze to the paperwork in front of him. “Are we ready to get started?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Where? Where were these friends?”

Oh for God’s sake, I want to tell her, can’t we get down to the business of his will?

“Southern California. Somewhere near Santa Barbara, I believe. ”

“I guess it’s good that he was with friends,” Emma says. “Did he suffer much?”

“I really don’t know. We only spoke a few times by phone.” Mr. Townsend looks first at Emma and then at me. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I want to laugh. You can’t lose something you never had.

“Thank you,” Emma says.

She sounds so solemn that I have to sneak a peek at her to see if she’s joking.

Either she has a terrific poker face, or she means it.

If it’s the latter, what a chump. The man didn’t even have the decency to let us know he was dying.

Hell, he didn’t even have the decency to be a father.

The least he could’ve done in his final hours is make amends for being a louse.

“Let’s get started.” Mr. Townsend shifts in his seat. “As his sole heirs, your father instructed that you each get an equal share. ”

I suck in a breath, mildly touched that in the end he at least recognized me, that he at least treated me the same as Emma.

“He’s left you Cedar Pines Estates, an eighty-six-acre development in the Sierra Foothills, near a town called Ghost.”

“I know it!” Emma about jumps out of her chair with excitement. “I mean Ghost, not Cedar Pines Estates. It’s really beautiful there.”

“Is it in California?” My familiarity with the Golden State is limited to two visits—one to Los Angeles for a friend’s bachelorette party and today’s trip to San Francisco.

“Yes, about an hour east of Sacramento,” Emma says.

Other than knowing that Sacramento is the state’s capital, I couldn’t find it without a GPS. But I don’t have to be an expert in geography to realize that an eighty-six-acre development anywhere in California is worth a small fortune. Probably even a large fortune.

I look at Mr. Townsend expectantly for the rest of it. What else did dear old Daddy leave us?

“In addition, he’s bequeathed you girls his savings, the sum of two investment accounts, and the contents of a safe-deposit box.”

“How much does that come to?” I blurt. Emma responds by glaring at me. Screw her. She doesn’t have the first clue what I’m up against.

“Combined, roughly four,” Mr. Townsend says.

It’s a staggering amount, even more than I imagined, and I have to grip the edge of my chair to calm myself.

“Four what?” Emma asks.

“Four thousand,” Mr. Townsend says.

“Wait, what?” I’m sure I misheard, or Townsend meant to say million. Four million. Everyone knows that the legendry Willy Keil was worth a mint.

“That’s two thousand each.” Townsend clears his throat again, which I’m learning is his tell. He clears his throat when he’s uncomfortable.

“Two thousand? As in two thousand dollars? That can’t be right. He was a multimillionaire.”

“Your father had some setbacks later in life,” Townsend says.

“This is all there is. My secretary will give you the address for Cedar Pines Estates. I’m sure you’d like to see it.

In the meantime, I’ll get to work in transferring everything out of the trust into both your names. Are there any questions?”

“I don’t think so,” Emma says.

Before I know it, we’re being whisked out of his office back into the lobby. I’m still reeling, still trying to grasp my situation when the receptionist hands both Emma and me heavy manila envelopes.

“The address for Cedar Pines is in there, along with a few forms that you both need to fill out and return in order for us to make the property and cash transfers,” she says.

I’m still too stunned to answer but Emma says, “Okay.”

I follow her out to the bank of elevators in the hallway.

Emma presses the down button. “You wanna go tomorrow?”

“Go where?”

“To check out Cedar Pines.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” I wasn’t planning to stay the night but suppose I can get my ticket changed to fly out tomorrow. Between my flight, a hotel room, and a car rental I’ll probably just break even with the two thousand dollars I inherited.

The development, though, will be the windfall, I cheer myself. While it’s not liquid cash, how long can it take to sell prime California real estate? Perhaps I can even borrow against it to hold me over in the meantime.

“Do you have a car?” Emma asks.

“No, I’ll have to rent one.”

“I can get a Zipcar and we can go together.”

I have no idea what a Zipcar is and am not sure I want to share it with a woman who all my life has loomed large as my archnemesis, which isn’t really fair because she can’t help who she was born to. And it appears that we’re partners now, so to speak. No sense alienating her.

“Do you have a place to stay?” she asks before I can decide whether to take her up on her ride offer.

“Yes,” I lie, hoping that my affiliation with Caesars will help score me a room in a decent hotel here on short notice. “I have to make sure I can make arrangements at work to take another day. Can I call you later?”

“Of course. Give me your phone and I’ll plug in my number.”

I hand her my cell without thinking. Usually, I’m not so trusting. My phone after all is filled with the numbers of clients who expect me to guard their privacy at all costs. She returns it to me, and we ride the elevator down together in silence.

Besides my mother and some distant cousins I’ve never met, Emma is my only living relative.

My half sister. And yet, I don’t know a damned thing about her.

Though I’m filled with curiosity, I’ve learned long ago that it doesn’t pay to ask too many questions.

Keeping a healthy distance has always been my motto. Otherwise, you just get burned.

We take the turnstile out onto the sidewalk and stand there for a bit. It’s loud from the traffic and smells a little like car exhaust and Mexican food. It’s warmer than Vegas was when I left this morning. The first thing I’m going to do after I find a hotel is buy a T-shirt.

“You want to grab a cup of coffee or something?” she says.

I do. I want to know what she thinks of what just happened in Townsend’s office. I want to know where all the cash went.

But instead, I say, “I should really check into my hotel and call work.”

“Okay. Just let me know about tomorrow.”

“Will do.” I turn and walk away, having no clue where I’m going or what I’m doing.

All I know is that I won’t be making Mr. Sterling’s deadline. Again.