Love, Albert Page 2

  So she focused on a newspaper clipping stuck to the fridge door instead. The one wedged between notices from the day-care center and the calendar from Kira’s school. Held in place by a magnet that read,

  Rita O’Connor,

  Divorce Attorney

  Vicky smiled at the scowling face on the card. Not only was Rita her lawyer, she was also Vicky’s oldest friend. The only one who had advised her against marrying Reid in the first place.

  Rita had grown up fast and hard in Los Angeles and harbored no illusions about love, romance, and the importance of two-parent families. Since the separation, she had been a rock for Vicky. Supportive and caring. Never once saying, “I told you so,” even though Vicky suspected it was killing her.

  Seemed only fitting that Rita’s card now held the picture Vicky had clipped from the newspaper the day Reid moved out. The same one that had made her pack his bags earlier that morning.

  The house in the shot was nothing fancy. Just a small white cottage with blue shutters in a town called Milton. But it had a fenced yard and a private driveway with lots of room for a minivan. And Vicky could hardly wait for the day when she and the kids would move out of this damn loft into a real home.

  “Vicky, please. I need to talk to you.”

  She focused on Rita for support. “If you’re calling about the rest of your stuff—”

  “I’m not interested in the stuff.”

  “Mommy, be nice,” Kira whispered.

  She was still standing in the doorway, fingers crossed at her sides.

  “Honey, go get your jammies on,” Vicky said.

  When Kira was safely in her bedroom, Vicky walked into the living room and pulled the drapes, shutting out the moon and all of its empty promises.

  “If you’re not worried about the stuff, why haven’t you signed the agreement?”

  “I’m still going over the details. Vicky, listen –”

  “No you listen.” She went back to the kitchen, drew strength from Rita’s scowl. “There is nothing to discuss. Everything is what we planned. Joint custody, provisions for holidays—”

  “Vicky, Albert is dead.”

  The room was suddenly hot and still. She heard the ticking of the clock, the buzz of the fridge, loud and intrusive in the face of this news.

  How was it possible? Albert Ferguson was sixty-eight, but still healthy, still built like a linebacker and living life exactly the way he wanted. Albert was the prankster, the black sheep, the one Reid’s grandmother refused to have in her house, and Vicky loved him as much as Reid did.

  Her knees weakened and she sank into a kitchen chair. “How? When?”

  “Heart failure, a week or so ago. In Mexico. I just found out.”

  “Mexico.” In spite of everything, Vicky found herself smiling, remembering Albert’s limerick about senoritas and margaritas and swallowing a lump in her throat. “Will there be a service?”

  “Everything was done in Mexico. His lawyer called. Asked if we would meet with him. Apparently you and I were named in the will.”

  Vicky shook her head. “Albert had a will? But he didn’t own anything.”

  “Whatever he had, he left it to us.” He paused, drew in a long breath, and she knew how hard this must be for him. “Will you come to the reading?”

  She glanced over at Jason half-asleep on the couch, heard Kira singing and dancing in her room. Her heart squeezed. They were so much like their father, like Uncle Albert.

  “Will you come?” Reid repeated.

  Vicky knew she should say no. Knew she should call Rita for a pep talk and stay as far away from Reid as possible. But how could she say no to Albert?

  “Give me the details,” she said, and closed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears.

  TWO

  The legal firm of Newhouse and Newhouse was located in a strip mall in Pacifica, about twenty minutes south of San Francisco. Sandwiched between Marlene’s Fantasy Nails and Dynasty Comics and Games, the office was long and narrow, furnished with a single desk and computer, four bookcases, three chairs, and a collapsible table. Files were piled on the floor around the desk and a thin layer of dust coated everything else. A sign on the wall listed the services offered:

  Last Will and Testament Special: Two for one, only while they last.

  Mortgage and Closing Combo: In debt on time or it’s free.

  Sweet Sue: You don’t pay till they do

  Reid couldn’t help smiling. The fast-food approach to legal work. Albert must have loved it.

  Lyle J. Newhouse, a pale man with gray, thinning hair and shirtsleeves rolled up past callused elbows, lifted his head when Reid approached the desk. “Mr. Ferguson?” he asked. Reid nodded and the lawyer rose, held out a hand. “I was a good friend of your uncle. I only wish we could have met under different circumstances.”

  The jolt was quick and sharp. Reid jerked his hand back.

  Lyle grinned and set the buzzer on the desk. “Don’t blame me. That was Albert’s idea.”

  “Well, don’t you dare use it on me.”

  Reid turned at the sound of her voice, his heart squeezing as she walked toward him.

  Toward the lawyer, he reminded himself and tried to look away. To focus on the floor, the files, anything but his wife, well aware that she hadn’t come for him. Nor had she dressed for him.

  He had always preferred her in jeans and tshirts. That sun-gold hair down, tumbling around her shoulders where he could get his hands into it, feel the silk between his fingers. But the sleek French twist went well with the slim skirt and tapered jacket. He had to admit, she looked good. Not like Vicky, but good.

  She swept past him and offered a hand to the lawyer, accepted his condolences and sat down in the chair he indicated on the other side of his desk. And suddenly there it was, the loud, obnoxious and unmistakable sound of an Uncle Albert Gotcha.

  She leapt up, red-faced and laughing, and Reid knew she hadn’t really changed at all. Somewhere beneath that polished exterior she was still Vicky. And he missed her so much it made him ache.

  “The whoopee cushion,” she said and peeked under the seat cover. “I should have known.”

  Lyle shrugged and took it from her. “My apologies, Mrs. Ferguson. It was Albert’s last request.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” She was still smiling when she finally turned to Reid. “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine, under the circumstances.”

  He saw the smile dim. Watched her reach out, almost touch his arm, and then check herself. “I miss him, too,” she said, and sat down again, back straight, body angled away. “Mr. Newhouse, did you know Albert well?”

  He said he had, she asked how they met and Reid sighed and settled into the seat beside her, knowing she wasn’t about to engage in any more conversation with him than was absolutely necessary. It had been this way since the day he came home and found his bags packed, the locks changed.

  It wasn’t the dog he gave the kids for Christmas that did it, even though Vicky had been right about them being too young for a pet. It wasn’t even the box of chocolate truffles the dog ate and later deposited on every rug in the apartment that pushed her over the edge. It was the way the Christmas tree fell, as though in slow motion, while he and the kids and the dog were re-enacting a scene from the movie Twister, complete with flying cow.

  If he let himself, Reid could still hear the sound of that tree hitting the floor, taking the last of her grandmother’s crystal snowflakes with it. She hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t said a word. But when she knelt to pick up the pieces, Reid knew that this time he had broken more than glass. This time he had shattered Vicky’s heart as well, and all the flowers, balloons and even a mariachi band under her window hadn’t changed a thing. Both Reid and their first ‘real’ tree had ended up on the curb before New Year’s.

  Six months later, he still blamed that damn tree. The thing was eight feet tall for God’s sake, and nearly six feet around. Vicky’s dream come true complete with tw
inkling lights and fresh pine smell. Sure it was nice, but if they had used the artificial one instead, the same one that had worked just fine every other year, none of this would have happened. That cow would have sailed right over the top. The snowflakes would be safely packed away and he’d still be sleeping in his own bed at night, his wife tucked in beside him and the kids just down the hall.

  Instead, he was in danger of becoming a fixture at the Riviera Motor Court. Another member of the Single Dad Club at the IHOP every other Saturday. But on the up side, those long nights spent staring out at the Riviera parking lot had given him time to think. Helped him realize he should have seen the tree coming. Real Christmas trees went hand-in-hand with real fireplaces, after all. And every one of the houses Vicky had started circling in the newspaper did indeed have a fireplace, as well as wood to stack and a fence to paint and a lawn to mow. Everything they’d never wanted, all tied up in a mortgage they could pass on to their children one day.

  Try as he might, he still couldn’t figure that one out. He’d always been honest about the way he wanted to live, the things he wanted to do, not only as a couple but as a family. They’d been happy, he was certain of that. And he only wished he could point to the moment when the ground rules had changed.

  “Which brings us to the issue at hand,” Lyle said and opened a file. “I have here the last will and testament of Albert Ferguson. Handwritten but perfectly legal.”

  He reached down and picked up Albert’s old leather suitcase. It was the only thing the old man ever carried – the true master of travelling light. Lyle set the case on the desk, undid the straps and slid back the zipper. Reached inside and came up with a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, complete with bulbous pink nose, bushy eyebrows, and a formidable mustache.

  Reid sat forward. “Not the glasses,” he said, a smile already tugging at his lips.

  Lyle nodded solemnly and put them on, carefully adjusting the nose over his own before picking up the paper again. The lawyer’s delivery was perfectly straight, if a bit nasal. “I, Albert John Ferguson, being of sound mind and body— ”

  Reid glanced over at Vicky. She was staring at the lawyer, eyes wide, lips pinched tightly together, holding back her laughter.

  “Do hereby bequeath all my worldly goods to my favorite nephew and niece, Reid Allan Ferguson and Victoria Ann Ferguson, to be used as they see fit. This includes one hand buzzer, one whoopee cushion, one pair of Groucho glasses.” He reached into the suitcase again. “One rubber chicken –”

  “I’ll take that.” Vicky’s face turned pink when the lawyer paused and looked at her over the nose of the glasses. “For the kids,” she added, and turned to Reid. “Unless you want it.”

  “Not at all.” He pointed to the suitcase. “But I’ve got dibs on the fly-in-the-ice-cube.”

  “One fly-in-the-ice-cube,” Lyle continued, and set it in front of Reid. “One can of worms—”

  “Snakes,” Reid cut in. “They’re snakes.”

  The lawyer slid the can toward him and Reid popped the lid. Three long colorful snakes sprang from the tin and flew over the desk, squeaking as they bounced against the walls. “They were always his favorite.” Reid smiled at Vicky. “Do you mind if I take them?”

  She held up the whoopee cushion. “Not as long as I can have this,” she said, and Reid understood why Albert had loved her, too.

  “You can go through the rest on your own later,” Lyle said, taking off the glasses and setting them aside. “But in return for his worldly goods, Albert has a favor to ask.”

  Reid raised his head. “A favor?”

  “More of a decree really.” Lyle cleared his throat and resumed reading from the will. “In return for my worldly goods, Reid and Vicky must promise to take my remains to Seaport, Oregon. ”

  The chicken’s head bobbed as she sat up straighter. “But I thought he’d already been buried.”

  “Not quite.” Lyle lifted a plain white shoebox out of the suitcase and set it on the desk in front of them. “He’s been waiting for you.”

  Reid stared at the box. “That’s Albert?”

  “Ashes to ashes.” The lawyer picked up the box. “I know it’s not much to look at, but it’s practical, sturdy, and holds up to five pounds of loved one, no problem.” He looked from Reid to Vicky. “The point is Albert didn’t want a fancy urn because he wasn’t planning to spend much time in it anyway.”

  Reid shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  Lyle smiled. “Your Uncle Albert wants to fly one last time.”

  “Fly?” Reid asked.

  “It’s all here.” Lyle set the box down and read from the will again. “My ashes are to be scattered to the wind on Jackson’s Point in Seaport Oregon. ”

  “Oregon?” Reid said. “Whatever for?”

  “I have no idea. But he was very specific, and I quote. ‘Scatter me anywhere else and I swear I will come back to haunt you.’ ”

  Vicky laughed. “I believe it.”

  “There’s one more thing.” Lyle reached into the case again. Came up with a small brown envelope. He lifted the flap, turned the envelope upside down and a tiny silver key tumbled onto the desk, bounced twice, and came to rest in front of Reid. It was no more than an inch long with a simple cloverleaf design at the top. The kind of key that might open a diary or a jewelry box— nothing that couldn’t be quickly opened without it.

  “Your uncle called me from a hospital in Mexico,” Lyle continued. “Told me the key was in the mail and if you agree to go to Seaport, you’re to deliver it to a Willy Johnson.”

  Reid picked up the key, turned it over in his palm. “Who’s Willy?”

  “Someone he used to know,” Lyle said. “I just hope this Willy remembers him.”

  “Are you kidding?” Vicky said and leaned closer for a better look at the key. “Who could forget Albert?”

  Who could forget that perfume? Reid wondered. Light, floral and frankly feminine. The one she had discovered their first summer together, when he’d somehow managed to persuade a shy and beautiful young woman to come with him to Mexico. And they’d left without packing a thing.

  He hadn’t been planning to fly Mexico at all that summer. Had, in fact, been at the real estate office where she worked as a receptionist to see about rentals in the Bay area. But then he’d spotted her behind the desk, her serious expression dissolving behind the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen. A smile that wasn’t practiced or professional, but warm and real, and clearly meant only for him.

  He’d stood like a fool, looking into her blue and frankly curious eyes, unable to remember why he was there, or what he’d wanted to say. Knowing only one thing for certain: he had to see Albert right away. And she had to be with him when he went, because she was the girl he was going to marry.

  An odd revelation for a man who had never believed in love at first sight, or even second for that matter. But watching her hold that key up to the light, curious and delighted at the same time, he remembered Albert’s broad grin the first time she stepped through his door. And how he kept whispering, ‘well done boy, well done,’ as he fired up the blender for a batch of his notorious margaritas.

  “Now I don’t have an exact address for Willy,” Lyle was saying, “but Albert said the first place he’d check is a big monstrosity of a house at the end of Highland Street in Seaport. The two of you shouldn’t have any trouble finding it—”

  “Wait a minute,” Vicky said. “The two of who?”

  Lyle looked from one to the other. “You and Reid, of course. Albert was very definite about this as well.” He pointed to a line in the will. “It says right here, ‘I entrust my last request to Reid and Vicky, knowing they will not let me down.’ ”

  “Guilt from the grave,” Reid said.

  “Always the most effective kind.” Lyle started to stand. “He also left a map.”

  Vicky sat farther back in the chair again. “I’m sorry, but it’s out of the question. We can’t possibly do this. Not together
at least.”

  Reid wasn’t sure whether she knew she was holding the chicken’s neck in a death grip or not, but there was no doubt in his mind that he and Albert would be traveling alone. “It’s all right, Lyle. I’ll take him.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. Albert’s instructions were clear.” He read from the will again. “Reid and Vicky are to make the trip together.”

  “But it makes no sense,” Vicky said. “Especially now.”

  “All I know is what he wrote.” Lyle turned the page toward them. “I entrust this task to my nephew Reid and his wife Vicky because they are the happiest couple I have ever known.” He set the will aside and drew the shoebox toward him. “But if you’re sure you can’t do it, I’ll keep him here and make other arrangements.”

  Reid slapped a hand on the lid. “You’ll do no such thing.”

  “I wish I had a choice, son.”

  The phone rang before Reid could object.

  “Newhouse and Newhouse,” Lyle said. “No problem. I’ll be right there.” He hung up and pushed the chair back from the desk. “I have to leave for a few minutes, folks. Got a sandwich waiting around the corner.” He rose and grabbed a sealed manila envelope from the top of a filing cabinet. Slapped it down on the desk between them. “If you change your mind, you’ll find everything you need in there. Directions to Jackson’s Point and precise scattering instructions.” He headed for the door. “There’s an art to it, did you know that? Goes way back. Some superstition about ashes in your hair.” He paused before stepping outside. “Take a moment and think about it. You’re under no obligation of course. He can always stay here.”

  “There’s a pleasant thought,” Vicky said when he finally left. “Albert sitting on the floor, gathering dust like everything else.” She sighed and looked down at the chicken. “He didn’t know about the divorce, did he?”

  “It never came up.”

  “That’s too bad. Because he might have appointed someone else if he’d known.” She glanced over at him. “What about Seaport? Did that ever come up?”