An hour later, after selling the circa-1896 dining table and packing it into the back of a truck, we finally closed for the day. All I could think about was calling the lawyer. Maybe Mags had gotten herself into hot water with someone in town. I smiled at the thought. It wasn’t out of character for my grandmother, but wouldn’t she want to tell me about it herself? Or, at the very least, Dot could have called to fill me in. Why would a lawyer call for something trivial?
Allyn and I stayed in the shop until seven checking the register, straightening furniture, and tidying up in preparation for the next day. I often didn’t leave until much later, but I headed out early with him.
“Want a lift back to your place?” he asked when we paused in the driveway. “I have an extra helmet.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll take my time getting home. I still have to call the lawyer back.”
“Right. What was that all about?”
“It’s Mags. Van Buren is her last name.”
“Ah, Mags from Sweet Bay, Alabama.” Allyn attempted an exaggerated Southern drawl. “Impressive last name for your eccentric little grandmother.” He was quiet for a moment. “Lawyers don’t usually call with good news, Boss.” He fit his helmet over his head.
“I’ve already thought of that.”
“Did she mention anything when you talked to her on Sunday?”
“I missed the call. I was here with Butch and the gaping hole in the roof, remember?” I pinched his elbow, and he pinched me back.
“I still don’t understand why you don’t go back to Sweet Bay more often. Or why not bring her here for a visit sometime? I make a killer White Russian. Don’t old people like those?”
I laughed. “I have no idea if she likes White Russians. And I do visit. I told you all about my Christmas trip—Bert almost burned the tree down trying to decorate it with lit candles. Mags had to douse it with the fire extinguisher. It was total chaos as usual. Our Sunday phone calls work just fine.”
“Maybe for you. I bet Mags would love to see your face more often. Who wouldn’t?” He patted my cheek and slung one leg over the seat of his motorcycle. “It’s not like you have to make a crosscountry trip to get there.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and glared at him, but he was right. I may have left Mags and my small hometown for the greener pastures of New Orleans, but Mags was my only family—I owed her more than I’d given her.
“Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. Go ahead and make your phone call. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Allyn lifted his helmet to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, revved the engine a few times, and sped away.
Instead of heading for the bus to take me back to Canal, I took a left on Napoleon and walked toward St. Charles. On the way, I pulled out my cell and thumb-swiped to my voice mailbox. Five or six unanswered messages stared up at me from the bright screen, Mags included. She’d rambled on about nothing in particular so with the ongoing roof problem that week, I hadn’t made time to return her call. I touched her name on the screen and the sound of her voice filled the air around me.
As I heard it a second time, the tone of her voice struck me as unusual. I must not have noticed it before because of the chaos surrounding the water leak, but she didn’t sound as chipper as she usually did. Just after she gave me a rundown of the squirrels uprooting her geraniums and the bats in the chimney at The Hideaway, she paused and sighed.
“I know it’s not a holiday, or even close to one, but I’d love to see you, dear. Sometimes, the sight of your face is all . . . well” She cleared her throat and laughed a little. “Things are busy over there, I know. It’s not like I’m going anywhere, so you just come whenever you can. Don’t change your plans for me.”
Her message finished just as I approached the handful of other folks waiting for the streetcar on St. Charles. I sat on a bench away from the group and fiddled with my phone, switching it from hand to hand. I wanted to call Mags—to check on her, to apologize for not calling earlier—but something compelled me to call the lawyer first. I pushed the button, and my stomach knotted as I waited.
“Ah, Ms. Jenkins. Thank you for calling me back. I was just about to walk out the door.”
I heard him settling back down in his chair, then a file folder slapped the desk. “I’m Vernon Bains, Mrs. Van Buren’s lawyer. Has anyone contacted you?”
“No. What is this about?” I asked, ignoring the gentle sadness in his voice.
“Your grandmother passed away this morning. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Mrs. Ingram didn’t feel she could handle speaking about it yet. She asked if I would break the news to you.”