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Stepping behind the register, she stared at the heavy glass ashtray. Three of her father’s cigarette butts squashed in the dust.
She pressed a key on the register and the drawer opened. Several bills filled the tray. Being that her father was a stickler for a balanced drawer, she’d bet her kidneys there was three hundred dollars in there, not a penny more, not a penny less.
Her meeting with the attorney had been surprising. Her father had a very basic will, and she could expect some money back for what she had put out for the funeral. She could also afford to order him a headstone since Harrison refused.
The house was paid off, so anything they made on the sale would be hers, being that Harrison told her to keep whatever it made. The store, though, was a tricky one.
“I don’t understand,” she had said to the attorney when he’d explained her father’s will.
“Your father wanted to avoid the estate tax, so he transferred the deed about ten years ago.”
“So… I’m sorry, can you explain it again?”
The attorney crossed his arms, leaning forward on the oak desk until his glasses slid to the tip of his narrow nose. “The house will go to both of you, along with any other assets inside. Your father’s personal accounts will be used to pay off any outstanding debts and the balance will be divvied between you and your brother.”
She had already found her father’s bank statements. There wasn’t much in his personal savings. He kept everything in the business account for the store.
“And the store belongs to Harrison,” the attorney repeated. “Along with all the business accounts, I’m afraid.”
She blinked at the man, feeling ten kinds of stupid. Her father hadn’t left the store to Harrison, he’d given it to him years ago, signed everything over on account of trying to avoid a small percentage of what was commonly referred to as a death tax.
“But my brother doesn’t want the store,” she’d told the attorney.
The man chuckled. “I don’t want this extra twenty pounds around my waist, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s there. Your brother already owns the store. He has for some time.”
When she left the attorney’s office her head was a mess.
Harrison had disappeared without even collecting his high school diploma. She had been the one who stayed. She filled her father’s prescriptions, did his laundry, and made countless fucking cakes for that goddamn store. But he gave it all to Harrison.
Staring around the empty aisles now, she wondered if her father ever liked her. She knew he never loved her, but this last slap in the face seemed to sting more than all the rest.
She dug out her phone, ignoring the fact that Giovanni hadn’t returned any of her calls and only sent a short text around six in the morning saying he’d call her later, which he never did.
What was he doing up so early? Had he even gone to bed? She couldn’t think about that right now. He was probably passed out at the hotel, hopefully sleeping off a great show.
She dialed Harrison and got his voicemail. “It’s me. I’m out. The store’s yours.” She laughed, the sound cold and hollow. “It’s been yours for ten years. I can’t handle this for you because it’s not part of the estate. You’re gonna have to come back and deal with this yourself.”
With nothing left to say, she hung up.
When she locked the store, she pulled the key off her keyring and shoved it through the mail slot. She was tired of taking care of other people’s crap, especially for people who never did a damn thing to take care of her.
On the way home, she made another call to the realtor.
“Erin, how’re the renovations coming along?”
“I’m ready to list it.”
“You’re sure? That would mean open houses and a possible short sale if we find a buyer willing to pay cash.”
“I’m sure.”
When she got home, she cleared out the cabinets, leaving only the food and two cups, two plates, two bowls, and a few pieces of silverware.
Just after three, the front door opened. “Hello?”
At the sound of Giovanni’s voice, she rushed to the hall but staggered to a stop when she saw the expression on his face. His hair was windblown and his cheeks rosy red. He looked tired and miserable.
A dirty sweatshirt hung over his broad shoulders and he was wearing carpenter jeans and work boots. “Are you going to a costume party?”
