It was raining that day. I had curled up in the window seat in the downstairs den, tracing raindrops trailing down the window with my finger, when someone knocked on the door. I paused, waiting to hear movement in the house. No one came, so I rose and peered out the window next to the door.
Sergeant Burnside, the chief of police in Sweet Bay—and a frequent Jenny’s Diner customer—stood on the porch shaking water off his cap. As he settled the cap back on his head, he noticed me standing in the window. His eyebrows crunched together and the worry lines on his forehead deepened.
When Mags appeared behind me and opened the door, Sergeant Burnside asked if he could talk to Mags in private. I knew it was something terrible.
A little while later, Dot found me in my room and gave me the details: the rain, my parents’ 1975 Volvo, a huge water oak, slick roads, and flashing lights. The police found a toy store shopping bag a hundred feet away, sitting in a horse pasture like someone had set it down and left it for a child to find, like a present.
I hadn’t noticed the quiet in the small office overlooking downtown Mobile until Mr. Bains said my name. Now everyone was looking at me.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I asked.
He looked down at the paper in front of him and read.
“‘To my granddaughter, Sara Margaret Jenkins, I bequeath The Hideaway and all its contents, save for those already specified for other people. She is to take possession of the house effective immediately. I request that she use her talents and skills to renovate the house and property to its fullest potential, hiring help as necessary, and live in the house during renovations to keep a close eye on the work. Don’t let anyone bungle this job.’ Her words, not mine.” Mr. Bains looked up at us.
“‘My friends can stay in the house as long as Sara owns it,’” he continued. “‘After renovations are complete, she may do with the house what is in its and her best interest.’”
Mr. Bains rummaged in a desk drawer, then handed me a manila envelope closed with a metal clasp. “Enclosed is a letter she said will explain things in more detail. There’s also a copy of the will for your records. I trust any questions you have will be answered fully by the contents therein.”
We sat in silence as he gathered his things. “If no one has any questions, I have a four o’clock meeting I need to get to. I’m only a phone call away if you think of anything later.”
“Wait, wait.” I held my hand up, unable to grasp what he had just unloaded and not ready to be alone with the others and their questions. “That’s it? That’s all it says?”
“Well, there’s the letter . . .” He motioned to the envelope in my still-outstretched hand.
“But I don’t understand. I only planned to be in Sweet Bay a week. I can’t . . . She’s giving me the house?” I looked around at the familiar faces next to me. “Did any of you know about this?”
“Know she’d leave you the house, you mean?” Dot asked. “No. Although I suppose it’s silly to think she would have left it to anyone else—especially us.”
Bert cleared his throat and Major shifted in his chair. “Silly? What’s so silly about it?” Major asked.
“We’re old!” Dot said. “Why would Mags leave it to us when we’re probably not far behind her? It belongs to Sara, as it should.”
“Maybe, but we’ve all lived there for decades.” Major’s voice grew louder. “She could have at least given us a say in what happened to the house.”
Glory rested her small dark hand on Major’s beefy one. “We’re lucky Mags made any plans at all. She loved us, so of course she wants to take care of us. She would never want us turned out on the street.” She glanced at me as if looking for confirmation.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. My mind was a chalkboard wiped clean. My fingers found the edges of the folded letter inside the envelope.
“Thank you, Vernon.” Dot stood. “It’s time for us all to go home. We’ll eat, then we can talk about everything.” She looked at me. “We’ll see you at the house.”
I pried open the manila envelope before I even closed my car door. Aside from the copy of the will Mr. Bains mentioned, there were two sheets of paper. The first sheet was letterhead from First Coastal Bank with an account number stamped at the bottom. The other was Mags’s letter. I peered inside the envelope, expecting it to be empty, but it wasn’t. I turned the envelope upside down and a key slid into my open hand. It was small, the color of an old penny, and almost weightless.