“Jesus,” I hiss.
He shoves the envelope at me.
“It don’t make up for the time you lost, son, but I hope it’ll give you the future you deserve. I ain’t got kids of my own, but if you were my boy, I couldn’t be more proud of ya.”
Those paper cuts from earlier are now deep slices, and emotions I’ve worked hard to keep in check flow freely. It hurts: feeling.
I don’t deserve his words, and yet they penetrate deep.
“Open it.”
He indicates the envelope in front of me and I pick it up, sliding my finger under the flap.
“What is this?” I manage, my voice a croak.
“Copy of my last will and testament. You lost everything that night, boy, and I wish I could give you your family back, but I can’t. Least I can do is make sure you’re taken care of.”
As he speaks, my eyes scan the document full of legal jargon until they catch on a highlighted name:
I leave to GRAY EDWARD BENNET, sole beneficiary, all my personal belongings, including (but not limited to) the property, building, and contents at 357 Parker Street, Beaverton, MI; The Dirty Dog Bar; my apartment; and the 1965 Ford Mustang in the garage on the back of the property.
“You can’t do this,” I mutter, trying to wrap my head around what I’m reading.
“Already done,” he says firmly.
“But—”
“The bar runs itself,” he continues undeterred. “Bunker manages the day-to-day, so you don’t even have to be here unless it’s payday. Then all you need to do is sign the checks. Bunker prepares all of it. He’s been with me for fifteen years and can run this place in his sleep. My place upstairs you can take or rent out as you see fit. You can toss or keep the contents, I don’t really care.
“There’s not a single person left who’d lay claim to any of it. All I ask is that you take what I’m givin’ ya not as some consolation prize, but as the fulfillment of the wish of an old man waiting for his last breath.”
His gnarled, shaking hand lands on mine as my mind tries to keep up with what he’s saying.
“Do me this honor, son. Let me leave this life, knowing I’ve at least tried to right some of the wrongs done to you.”
Half an hour later, I walk out of the bar, dazed and overwhelmed with the magnitude of what just occurred. I signed about a dozen forms and papers Frank had prepared for me, to ensure the bar can be kept running since he’ll be moving into a palliative care facility over the weekend.
I’m not sure what to do with all this. I’m sad, the responsibility is heavy, and my mind is chaotic. I feel compelled to talk to someone—to share and help me process what is happening—but the first person who comes to mind is Robin, and that’s clearly not an option. I made sure of that.
“How’s Frank?” Jimmy asks, when I walk into the bay doors of the garage. I’d told him where I was going earlier.
“He’s…not good,” I spill, unable to keep it all to myself.
Jimmy seems to see something in my expression because he calls out to Kyle, telling him to take over from him as he steers me to his office in the back.
“You’re shitting me?” he says, when I’ve given him a rundown of the last hour.
“I know. I don’t know what he’s thinking just handing it all over.”
“I’m talking about him having cancer. That damn old coot never said a word. I bet you he’s told no one else,” he clarifies. “Although, I’m not nearly as surprised about the will. He and I spent a lot of nights talking about you over a couple of beers at the bar, brother. Both of us worried but determined not to give up on you, even if it’s what you seemed to prefer. We shared a common guilt, wondering if there was something we could’ve done.”
I’m unable to speak; stunned to hear I’m not the only one carrying the burden of that day on my shoulders.
Chapter Ten
Robin
“Does Gray Bennet come in a lot?”
My head shoots up at those words, and I drop the cutlery I’m rolling into napkins for the dinner shift back on the tray.
The new waitress, Becca, isn’t talking to me but to Kim, and I return to my task, listening in to their conversation.
She’s nice enough: Becca. She started last weekend and seems to know what she’s doing. She’s been friendly to me, good with the customers, and it’s been a relief to be back on our regular schedule.
“He’s been in a couple of times, but I haven’t seen him recently,” I hear Kim say. “How do you know Gray?”
I glance over and catch the wink Becca directs at Kim as she leans in conspiratorially.
“He and I go back a ways,” she explains. “Wouldn’t mind catching up with him. For old time’s sake.”
Yikes.
I peek at her with a little more interest. She’s very pretty; dresses a little young perhaps, with skintight jeans and plunging necklines, but I figure if you have it there’s nothing wrong with flaunting it. And Becca has it: the long legs, big rack, and long dyed-blonde locks framing a carefully made-up face. I could see her with Gray.
In my peripheral vision I see Mrs. Chapman trying to get our attention, and I stop what I’m doing and head over to her table.
“Have you decided?” I ask her. The poor woman seemed a little more confused than usual today and has been staring at the menu for the past thirty minutes. I tried to help her come to a decision earlier, but that only seemed to fluster her more.
“I think I’d like eggs Benedict. Is it too late?”
Normally we stop serving breakfast after the lunch rush, but I’m sure Jason is willing to make her some eggs Bennie. I put a hand on her
