“Does your lawyer know what this letter says?” I asked.
“No, I told you: He doesn’t speak a word of Spanish. That’s why he left. To get it translated. I sent him downstairs to make a copy and insisted he leave the original letter with me. I knew you would be proud of me for thinking of that. He will have the letter decoded by the time he calls us in …” She glanced at her ornate grandfather clock. “Twenty minutes.”
“And that’s the phone call Joanne will be in on,” I surmised.
“The very one.” Aunt Winnie triumphantly flicked her thumb against the silver bell.
Mei Lee, ever the efficient housekeeper, appeared with Aunt Winnie’s Royal Albert teapot and matching china teacups on a tray. She set the preparations before us with a plate of Nanaimo bars, Aunt Winnie’s favorite teatime dainties.
“You don’t speak Spanish, do you?” Aunt Winnie asked Mei Lee.
“No.” The petite woman shyly dipped her chin.
“But you do speak Chinese.” Winnie shook her finger. “If Harlan had bought his summerhouse in Hong Kong, we would have been coming to you for advice. How is the fishing in Hong Kong?”
“Very nice, I’m sure.” Mei Lee left the room as I put the pieces together.
“Uncle Harlan owned a summerhouse in Mexico? Is that what the letter is about?”
“Oh, that awful, ugly fish. It was hideous! He insisted on having it mounted. Melanie, will you pour, dear?”
“What fish are you talking about?”
“The one Harlan caught.”
“In Mexico?”
“Yes, of course, in Mexico. That’s why he wanted the summerhouse.”
“And the summerhouse is in Mexico.” I held out her cup of tea with a quarter teaspoon of sugar already stirred in, the way she liked it.
“Naturally. Thank you, dear. I only went there once, you know.”
“You only went once to Mexico?”
“Harlan’s summerhouse.”
“And exactly where is Uncle Harlan’s summerhouse?” This was the first I’d heard that my uncle had such a place.
“Haven’t you been paying attention at all, dear Melanie? His summerhouse is in Mexico.”
“Yes, but where in Mexico?”
“Some town with a Mexican name. What about this teapot, Melanie? Would you like this one after I’m gone?”
On a “normal” visit, Aunt Winnie’s erratic communication skills drove me nuts. Today I thought I was going to scream. As firmly as I dared, I said, “Aunt Winnie, you said you thought the letter referred to your summerhouse. What—?”
“Oh, it wasn’t mine!” she yipped. “It was Harlan’s house. I couldn’t take the heat. Dreadful! He loved it. But I don’t know why we’re discussing this. Harlan sold the summerhouse years ago. After his first heart attack. Did I already promise you this teapot?”
“Yes, Aunt Winnie, you did.”
She reached for her famous ledger, which I noticed she now kept handy in her little wicker basket. She had started the ledger because every time I came to visit, she gave an inventory of her belongings and offered me first grabs on anything I liked.
I used to say, “Oh, I couldn’t ask you for that” or “I’m sure you have many more years left to enjoy it.”
My polite approach gave her fits, so about eight months ago I started to say, “Why, yes, thank you very much. I would love to have that someday.”
That response prompted her to buy the ledger, and today she wrote down the Royal Albert teapot under my name for the second time.
“You know,” she said with a funny little sniff. “It’s beachfront property. Gorgeous white sandy beach. Miles and miles of it. I have photos here somewhere.”
With her hand on the control switch, Aunt Winnie puttered across the room. She stopped the Scoot-About in front of her antique secretary, stood up, and bent over to pull a box out of the lower drawer. Settling back in the padded seat, she rang her bell and merrily motored the distance of eight feet, back to where I sat on the couch.
“Palm trees.” She opened the box and filed through the photos. “Blue water and so many fish. I said I’d never go again, and I never did.”
She looked up at me with a blink of surprise behind her glasses. “Harlan and I fought like cats over that fish of his. Do you know that it took twenty years before he finally took the bloated thing off the wall?”
Tilting her head she added wistfully, “Funny, I miss it. Hmm.”
The phone rang, and Winnie called out, “Mei Lee!” For emphasis she added a brring-brring of her tricycle bell.
“That will be my lawyer,” Winnie said. “You talk to him, Melanie. He said he wanted you to be on the phone with Joanne.”
Mei Lee handed me the phone, and what followed was a fifteen-minute conversation that left me speechless. As soon as I hung up, Aunt Winnie squawked, “Well, what did he say?”
“The letter is from a bank in Mexico.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. What does it mean?”
“It seems Uncle Harlan listed Joanne and me as the beneficiaries of his summer home.”
“Beneficiaries? I told you, Harlan sold the beach house. Eight years ago. After his first heart attack.”
“According to your lawyer and the bank in Mexico, Harlan didn’t sell the house.”
“Are you sure? How preposterous!”
“It’s true, Aunt Winnie. Your lawyer has all the documentation.”
“Then why did it take those people three years to get around to telling me this?”
“It took a long time to get all the paperwork through the right bank in Mexico. The property still is owned by Uncle Harlan, but since he’s gone, it’s now deeded to Joanne and me.”
“Imagine that,” she said with a curious sounding “piffle!” at the end of her sentence. Holding out two black-and-white photos, Aunt Winnie nodded for me to take the square-shaped pictures from her. I guessed them to be from the sixties, due to the white trim around the borders. One photo showed a stretch of white sand and what had to be aqua blue water.
“That’s what you see from the front,” Winnie said. “White sand, like I said.”
The second picture was of Uncle Harlan wearing only a pair of shorts and dark midcalf socks with sandals. He had a floppy straw sombrero on his head and was pouring a bucket of water on a three-foot-high palm tree.
“Harlan had a groundskeeper, you know, but he planted this palm tree himself. Said he needed a place to hang his hammock.”
I studied the photos, wishing they showed more of the house and grounds and surrounding area. “By any chance do you remember the name of his groundskeeper?”
“No idea. I think it was a Mexican name. Is it hot in here to you?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Imagine! That Harlan of mine left you the beach house. One last trick up his sleeve. That man! No great surprise that he wanted the two of you to have the place. He knew I would never go there. I suppose it’s yours then. Just like that. No papers to sign?”
“Joanne and I have a lot of papers to sign. I asked your lawyer if he could have the bank in Mexico mail everything to us so that Joanne and I wouldn’t have to go down there. He’s checking into it.”
“Mail the papers? I should say not! Such important papers. Why would you want to do that? I for one certainly don’t care to wait three more years for another letter written in Mexican. No one around here can read it!”
She rose from her Scoot-About and pointed her finger at me. “You must go! To Mexico. And I have the ticket.”
Aunt Winnie had spoken. She reached for her phone and began to make calls.
I didn’t arrive home until after five that evening. Ethan had strung the lights and the front of the house looked cheerful. He was in the garage when I pulled in, so we stood on the cold cement floor as I told him the whole story. The concluding shocker was that Aunt Winnie had decided not to go on her scheduled cruise to Mexico next week.
“She had the travel agent transfe
r the reservation out of her name and put Joanne and me as the passengers.”
“Your aunt isn’t going on the cruise at all?”
“No, she said it was her Christmas gift so that Joanne and I could go sign the papers at the bank in Mexico and enjoy a little luxury at the same time.”
“Wow.”
“I know. Wow. It’s just beginning to sink in.”
“What did her lawyer say about all this?”
“He came back over after the conference call and gave me some additional documents. He said it was a ‘smart, proactive expression’ for Joanne and me to go because we were bolstering Aunt Winnie’s confidence.”
“Confidence in what?”
“I think he meant her confidence in naming Joanne and me as joint managers of her estate once she is gone. He said she is still ‘in process’ over that decision.”
“What was he saying? You’re going to be written out of her will if you don’t go?”
“I don’t know. The whole thing is bizarre. I can’t figure out why Uncle Harlan listed me as the primary beneficiary.”
“That’s easy. He liked you better than Joanne.”
“Maybe he thought I was the oldest. Although, it doesn’t really matter because the lawyer said Joanne and I both have to sign in front of a notary before the bank will release the rights on the deed. Once the paperwork is clear, we can sell the house and split the profit.”
Ethan leaned against the workbench. “What if you want to keep the house and the property?”
For the first time in that crazy, carousel-spinning afternoon, I stopped and let the possibility sink in. “I don’t know. What would we do with beachfront property in Mexico? We need the money more than we need a vacation spot we could never afford to go visit.”
“You don’t have to make that decision right away, do you? You’re just going down to Mexico to sign over the ownership, right?”
“Right.”
“If it turns out to be some great mansion on the best beach in Mexico, you and Joanne can decide then if you want to keep it.”
“Yes, that’s my understanding.” I kept my voice calm, but inside I was beginning to grasp some of the thrilling possibilities I could detect in my husband’s eyes.
“What are you thinking, Ethan?”
He gave me a charming grin. “This is wild.”
“I know. It is.” I paused and added, “Is this all too crazy?”
“Too crazy for what? Too crazy for you or too crazy for your wacky aunt?”
“Too crazy for us. For me. For now.”
“No, it’s not too crazy. Besides, it didn’t sound like you had a lot of choice in the situation. Your aunt made the arrangements, right? You need to go. When do you leave?”
I reviewed the rushed schedule: fly to California on Monday, meet Joanne on the cruise ship, cruise to Mexico, go to the bank, sign a few papers, then cruise back to Los Angeles, and fly home on Thursday.
“Sounds like it’s a done deal,” he said.
I felt little shivers run up my arms. They weren’t chilly shivers caused by the cold garage floor. They were thrilly shivers. I was boarding a luxury liner headed to sombrero-land in two days!
“Are you and Joanne going to play shuffleboard and learn to tango or something?” Ethan asked.
“Tango?”
“Isn’t that what people do on cruises?”
I laughed. “I have no idea what people do on cruises.”
“Looks like you’re about to find out.”
We headed into the house with our arms around each other. Ethan added as an afterthought, “Why don’t you bring back one of those Mexican blankets? The ones with the stripes.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yeah, show me where you keep the pizza coupons. The delivery guy should be here any minute. Maybe I can place a standing order with him for all the days you’re going to be gone next week.”
I was about to run out the door on my way to the airport early Monday morning when Aunt Winnie called.
“Melanie, I want the fish back.”
I had to think a moment. “Are you talking about the fish you made Uncle Harlan take off the wall?”
“Yes, of course. What other fish is there? I want my Harlan’s fish to come home and keep me company.”
“Aunt Winnie, listen. When I get back from Mexico, I’ll help you figure out what to do about the fish.”
She started to cry. “Please, Melanie, promise me you’ll get the fish!”
“I have to go now, Aunt Winnie. I’ll see you in a few days. Everything will work out. Take it easy, okay?”
“Make sure they give you and Joanne extra towels. I always ask for extra towels.”
“I will. Thank you again for setting this up for us.” I sensed she was calming down. “Joanne and I really appreciate it.”
“It’s what my Harlan would have wanted. Oh, I miss him. I should have gone to Mexico with him when I had the chance. A person goes all through life thinking people will always be there, and then they disappear.”
“I know. It’s okay. I need to go now, Aunt Winnie.”
“Yes, yes. Order a dancing lady for me. Good-bye.”
I had no idea what her last statement meant, but I wasn’t about to pursue it.
“I’ll check on her while you’re gone,” Ethan said, as he backed the car out of the driveway. It was snowing lightly, and I wished we had left earlier for the airport.
“Thanks. I know I’m leaving you with a lot of loose ends.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can handle it. The girls will be fine. You need to relax. Contrary to whatever it is you’re telling yourself, it’s not your responsibility to keep the world spinning. You can take a couple of days off from running the universe, you know.”
True, I had jumped into pulling everything together for this trip at tornado speed, and in the flurry possibly I’d made too many lists and tried to organize too many fronts. It was also true that Ethan probably thought his comment about taking a break from running the universe was supposed to help me feel at ease about leaving, but it only made me mad. That’s how I left him at the airport, with one of those brick-wall kisses that don’t fool anyone.
The first thing I did when I landed in Los Angeles was to call Ethan and apologize.
“You know how I meant it,” he said. “I was trying to say I hope you enjoy the trip. Relax. Don’t worry about anything here. I have it covered.”
“Thanks, Ethan. I did sleep some on the plane, and I feel better.”
“Good. Now all you have to do is have fun and sign some papers.”
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too.”
I grabbed my suitcase at the luggage carousel and ventured outside in my long coat and boots, moving through the crowd with mock confidence, as if this were all an elaborate dream and I was playing the role of a jet-set actress who knew exactly where she was going and what she was supposed to do next.
The sun’s glare caused me to squint as I read the names on the sides of all the vans lined up at the center island. A couple in shorts were boarding the van marked “Fiesta Cruise Shuttle.” I hurried to get on with them. As soon as the three of us were settled in the last remaining seats, we pulled out of the airport and slowly made our way down the crowded freeway. I kept my head turned toward the window, watching for palm trees. A few popped up here and there, standing proud and solemn despite the congestion and the panorama of asphalt and concrete.
Letting out a deep breath, I began to believe I really was here. I was going to Mexico. I pulled out the two photos Aunt Winnie had given me of Mexico and studied them some more. If the palm tree Uncle Harlan planted had survived, it would be over forty years old. I wondered how tall it was, and if he ever had used it to secure the end of a hammock.
The shuttle van pulled off the freeway, and I could see our cruise ship docked and waiting. As we drove closer, the ship seemed larger and larger. Stepping out of the van, I stood besid
e the others while a porter came along and tagged our baggage. In front of me the ship dominated the view. It was huge. Far up on the top deck I could see people leaning on the railing. They were so high up.
An unexpected queasiness came over me, squeezing my stomach and siphoning my breath. My courage had sprung a leak, and I was shocked to realize I was sinkingly terrified.
What am I doing here? I can’t do this. I can’t go on that ship. I can’t go to Mexico. I don’t belong here. I need to go home. Right now.
Perspiration poured down my neck. It took every shred of nerve for me not to let out a shriek and run after the airport shuttle as it pulled away. I’d never had a reaction like that before in my life.
Calm down! I commanded my racing heart. What are you doing? Look, those people are boarding, and nothing terrible is happening to them. Relax!
“May I see your paperwork, ma’am?” the porter asked.
“I don’t have any paperwork.” My throat felt tight. The next sentence came out with a cough. “I was told to ask for Sven.”
The man stepped away to call Sven, and I tried to breathe in slowly through my nose and release the fear-tainted air through my mouth. What was I frightened of? The ship? That was ridiculous—even though it was a tremendously gigantic vessel.
The porter returned. “Sven will come meet you. He apologizes for not being on hand when you arrived. Is this your only piece of luggage?”
“Yes.” I realized that compared to the other travelers on the shuttle, I appeared to be as sparsely packed as a hobo. Stepping to the side, I watched all the other, non-freaked-out passengers with their smiles and eager expressions. They were wearing shorts and T-shirts, and I stood there in my winter coat and boots feeling like a Canadian goose who had flown too far south for the winter.
An older woman in a floppy hat laughed at something her husband said as he handed the porter a five-dollar bill. It struck me that I only had Canadian dollars. That small fact sent my thoughts on a different mental track. I started to plan how I would exchange money when I registered. Knowing that I had a task to fulfill somehow brought my blood pressure back to normal. Charting out my course of action provided a strange sort of comfort. The panic was gone.