The Will

I moved back to J.

  My brain cooled when I saw it in her looping script.

  Josie.

  She didn’t write in the lines. She scrawled all over the page however she wanted to do it and I felt my lips tip up slightly even as I felt the backs of my eyes tingle.

  On the page was my mobile number, several before it crossed out when I’d changed them over the decades. Henry’s mobile number(s). Henry’s address in LA with a big looped Pool House scribbled beside it—this meager information taking up the entire page.

  I drew in a calming breath and closed my eyes.

  I opened them and flipped close to the back of the book. I found the number and grabbed the old phone from its cradle on the wall. So old, it had long twirly cord. A cord, I knew, that was long enough that you could talk on it and get to the sink, the butcher block, but not the stove. I knew this because I’d seen Gran talking on it as she moved about the room.

  I punched in the number from Gran’s book in the keypad and put it to my ear.

  It rang three times before I heard a man answer, “Hello?”

  “Mr. Weaver?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Josephine Malone.”

  A pause then, “Josephine. My dear. How lovely it is to hear from you.”

  I swallowed and said softly, “And it’s lovely to speak to you, Mr. Weaver. But, just to say, I’m calling because Ms. Baginski shared about Mrs. Weaver.”

  Another pause before, “Of course. Yes, I should have called and explained. That was why we weren’t at the funeral.”

  “That’s entirely understandable,” I murmured then went on to say, “But I’m phoning to share I was distressed to hear this news.”

  “Yes, dear, it’s distressing,” he agreed in a kindly way, pointing out the obvious without making me feel foolish that I’d done the same.

  Even mucking this up, I still carried on.

  “Is Mrs. Weaver well enough to receive visitors?” I asked quietly.

  This was met with yet another pause before, softly, “I think she’d like that, Josephine. She always enjoyed seeing you. She’s best in the mornings, however. Could you come by tomorrow, say about ten?”

  I didn’t want to go by the Weavers tomorrow at about ten. I didn’t want to visit a kind woman in the throes of a grave illness or spend time with a kind man who was in the throes of possibly watching his wife die.

  But Gran would go.

  And I would detest knowing what I knew about Eliza Weaver and not taking the time to visit at about ten tomorrow to find some way to communicate that I thought she was kind and she’d touched my life in a way I appreciated.

  “I would…yes. I could. Absolutely,” I accepted.

  “She can’t have flowers or—”

  “I’ll just bring me,” I assured him.

  “Eliza will look forward to that, as will I.”

  “Lovely,” I replied. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

  “See you then, Josephine.”

  “Take care, Mr. Weaver.”

  “You as well, my dear. Good-bye.”

  I gave him my farewell and put the phone back in its receiver. Then I moved back to Gran’s book and flipped the pages until I found it. I grabbed the phone and punched in the digits.

  There were five rings before I heard, “You’ve reached the Fletcher residence. We’re unable to get to the phone right now, but please leave a message.”

  I waited for the beep then said, “Reverend Fletcher? This is Josephine Malone. It seems I’ll be in Magdalene for some time and…well, you mentioned dinner. And I would enjoy having dinner with you and Mrs. Fletcher. Or you can come to Lavender House and I can cook for you to express my gratitude for all the thoughtful things you did for Gran. Whenever you have time, I’d be happy to hear from you. You can call me at the house or use my mobile.”

  I gave him my number, said my good-byes and I hung up.

  Once I did, I took in another, deeper breath and flipped to the S’s.

  There was no listing and I found that unsurprising.

  Then it occurred to me and I flipped back to the J’s.

  One page from mine, there it was. Jake and a number.

  I stared at the number for some time before I made my decision.

  I moved to the butcher block to get my phone from my purse. I went back to the address book and programmed his number into my phone.

  But I didn’t use it.

  What had to be said, and done, needed to be face-to-face.

  Therefore, I moved to the drawer where Gran kept the phonebook.

  I flipped through the pages at the back that were printed on thin yellow paper, not knowing what I was looking for.

  Then I found what I was looking for.

  One listing with the bold heading Exotic Dancers.

  It had a phone number and address.

  I ripped the page out of the book, replaced the book in the drawer, folded the page and tucked it in the back pocket of my jeans.

  That done, I moved to the spiral staircase to go to the light room so I could find Gran’s safety deposit box key.

  * * * * *

  I sat in the dark parking lot staring at the building.

  There were no windows in the building. However, the parking lot was well-lit.

  And almost completely full.

  The sign out front said the establishment was called “The Circus.” This sign was surprisingly quite tasteful, black with blue scrolled letters. No flashing lights or neon and there was only one on the front of the building, not even one on a big stand protruding out into the street.

  The building was a lone building in the middle of nowhere, the parking lot large. But there were no weeds growing through cracks. The black paint with gray trim of the building was clean, looking fresh, and expertly done. No graffiti or markings.

  The door to enter was padded with buttoned black leather. There was a large man standing beside it wearing a blue windbreaker and black trousers. And there were a goodly number of cameras mounted under the eaves. Those, as well as the lighting, making the outside feel safe.

  I got out of my car, closed the door and hit the button on the key fob, hearing the beep. I did this wondering if I should have changed clothes.

  I’d never been to a strip club. I had no idea what to wear.

  I’d decided not to change from what I’d worn that day to the market, and while stripping Gran’s bed, doing Gran’s laundry, unpacking my suitcase and emailing Daniel on my phone a variety of reminders of how to take care of Henry.

  I was wearing my dark blue bootcut jeans, my well-fashioned eggplant-colored top that had an intricately draping neckline, and my navy blue patent leather Manolo Blahnik pumps. Before leaving, I’d simply refreshed my makeup and perfume, pulled on a well-tailored black Italian leather jacket, and made my way to the address on the phone listing.

  At that point, it would have to do.

  I walked through the lot and approached the door. When I got close, I noted the man beside it had a twisted wire leading up to his ear.

  As I approached, he dipped his chin, murmured, “Ma’am,” and moved, opening the door for me.

  He gave no sign he was surprised a woman was entering such a club and I found this interesting, as I found his good manners the same.

  I gave him a small smile, walked in and stopped.

  This was partly to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark. It was also partly to allow my ears to adjust to the music. But mostly it was in shock.

  Like the outside, the inside was clean and well maintained, but more.

  There was a large circular stage in the middle on which there were five women dancing. There were shiny silver poles that were not smooth but had spirals formed in them. Off the stage, there were two runways that led back to a wall and across the length of it, these with more poles and dancers.

  It was not a surprise that they were not clothed. They had on G-strings and nothing else.

  What was a surprise was that they
were all very attractive with lovely, toned bodies, a variety of interesting and not-unfashionable (but all very high-heeled) shoes and sandals and all but one had very becoming hair (the one who didn’t had her hair dyed a rather brash red that did nothing for her coloring).

  What also was a surprise was that, surrounding the stages, there were rather attractive black padded, semi-circular booths with small round tables in front of them to hold drinks. Further, there were stylish tables and chairs filling the rest of the space with larger booths upholstered in dark blue leather and having larger tables in the middle of them set against the walls not taken up with stage or bar.

  And the bar was also very tasteful, fully mirrored at the back but it had cleverly positioned lights shining blue on the bottles and variety of clean, some of them rather chic, glasses on glass shelves. Around the bar were tall, backed, comfortable-looking stools covered in dark blue leather.

  And the last surprise was that there were a great number of people there. The club was situated between Magdalene and the town to the north, which was fifteen miles away. As there was only one listing in the phonebook, obviously, if you were looking for this kind of entertainment, this was the only place close you’d find it. Therefore, this perhaps should not have been a surprise.

  But it was and it was because it didn’t appear that the place was filled with foul, ill-kempt, lascivious men wearing big coats with their hands in their pockets.

  In fact, quite a number of the patrons weren’t paying attention to the dancers but appeared to be there simply to enjoy a drink.

  And three of the booths lining the stage were filled with women, all of them wearing varying tiaras with one woman who was strangely sporting a hot pink boa of questionable quality. She was also wearing a tiara but unlike the others, hers had feathers protruding from it and words formed in that proclaimed her proudly as the “Bachelorette.”

  How odd.

  I moved to the bar and took one of the stools available at the side close to the wall. I put my purse on the bar and waited for the midnight-blue-shirted, black-trouser-wearing, young and quite attractive bartender to make his way to me.

  He smiled an easy white smile when he did and asked, “What’ll it be?”

  “A Shirley Temple,” I ordered. He blinked. I ignored that and went on, “And I’d like for someone to tell Mr. Spear I’m here, if that’s possible. You can tell him it’s Josephine Malone.”

  He stared at me for a moment then asked, “You want a Shirley Temple?”

  “Yes, please,” I confirmed. “And for Mr. Spear to be told I’m here, if you don’t mind.”

  He studied me another moment before he nodded and moved away. I saw him grab a glass and do things with ice, bottles and the soda gun. I also saw him catch the eye of a large man in the crowd wearing another blue shirt and black trousers.

  That man went to the bar. The bartender leaned into him, said something and jerked his head to me. The large man outside the bar glanced at me, nodded and moved away, his hand going to his back pocket to pull out a phone.

  The man served me my drink. I paid for it after expressing gratitude and he moved away to an area cordoned off from the rest of the bar by two high, curved silver poles.

  It was then I saw the waitress who was waiting there and noted that she, too, was dressed tastefully. I couldn’t see her bottom half but I did see her off-the-shoulder black top that was form-fitting and showed a hint of cleavage but it was far from risqué. She had a black velvet ribbon tied around her neck, her makeup was excellently done from what I could tell with the dim light and she had quite lovely hair.

  I sipped my drink and looked through the crowd to see the other waitresses dressed the same. Off-the-shoulder top, velvet ribbon at the throat and this was paired with a slim-fitting, quite short but not vulgar dark blue skirt. Sheer black hose. Very attractive black platform pumps.

  I surveyed the waitresses and the dancers and even the multiple men in blue shirts and black trousers. None of them were thin, pale, sunken-cheeked, glassy-eyed or appeared woebegone in any way.

  They all seemed simply to be at work and the waitresses quite often smiled what looked to be genuine smiles at their customers while they moved amongst the tables and booths.

  Yes. Glancing around Jake Spear’s establishment, I realized I had done precisely what he said I’d done.

  I’d been judgmental.

  That sour taste came back to my mouth.

  I washed it away with a sip of my drink.

  Five minutes later, the large man who the bartender spoke to walked through the club to me.

  He stopped close, leaned in and said, “Mr. Spear is unavailable, Ms. Malone. Can I give him a message?”

  I was not surprised he was unavailable. If someone had treated me as I had treated him, I would be unavailable too.

  I shook my head but elevated my voice to be heard over the music in order to say, “No, but thank you.”

  He nodded and moved away.

  I sipped at my drink, watched the goings-on at a tasteful strip club and did so considering my dilemma.

  I needed to apologize (again).

  And I needed answers.

  I sighed, knowing I had no choice because Jake Spear wasn’t giving me one and I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t give me one either.

  I reached into my purse on the bar, pulled out my phone, found his number and hit the screen to connect.

  I put a finger in my other ear and listened as it rang five times before I heard his rumbling voice command, “Spear. Leave a message.”

  I got the beep and said into my phone, “Mr. Spear…uh, Jake, this is Josephine Malone. I’m calling because I’d very much like the opportunity to apologize for my behavior and the things I said to you this morning. Also, I’d like the opportunity to discuss, well…other, erm…things. You’ve every right to be angry at me for I’ve behaved very badly. But I’d be most grateful if you gave me the chance to, um…rectify matters.” I paused, not knowing how to end it then I decided on, “I hope to hear from you. Do take care.”

  I disconnected, put the phone back in my purse and again took up my glass. I sipped at my drink until I finished it, thinking I really wished I’d have the opportunity to talk to the redhead about her choice in hair color. If she was dead set on red, a deep auburn would suit her much better.

  There was also a blonde who would benefit from a keratin treatment. Her hair was lovely but there was a good deal of it, it was quite long and it was clear she did her own blowout. This was not clear because it was done poorly, just that it wasn’t as sleek as she was likely going for. With that amount of hair, it had to take her ages to do it. And the way she used it with her dancing, straightened and softened, it would make quite a splash and perhaps up her—from what I could tell protruding from her G-string—still rather plentiful tips.

  She might drive a Corvette and it was clear she was far from the least talented dancer but everyone enjoyed having more money.

  With a sigh, I put my finished glass to the bar, waited until I caught the bartender’s eyes and gave him a grateful smile.

  He returned it, tipping up his chin. I dug in my purse, got my wallet and slid a five-dollar bill under my glass then slid from my stool and made my way out of the club.

  Once outside, the man by the door invited me to “have a good evening.”

  I returned the sentiment then promptly tripped over my pumps when I saw Jake Spear resting lean jeans-clad hips against my driver’s side door, his black leather jacket covered arms crossed on the wide wall of his white shirt covered chest.

  When I tripped, he looked to his feet and I lost his face in the shadows. Luckily, by that time, I’d righted myself without hitting the pavement but I did this mentally cursing my infernal clumsiness.

  I moved to him with no further incident (thankfully) and stopped three feet away.

  When he lifted his impassive eyes to me, I greeted, “Hello, Jake.”

  “She finally uses my name,” he
muttered in return.

  I pressed my lips tight, uncertain what to make of this.

  “Got your message, babe,” he said.

  Well, that didn’t take long.

  “Good,” I replied quietly.

  “Hauled your ass to a titty bar to see me,” he noted.

  “Uh…yes,” I agreed to the obvious seeing as we were both standing outside said titty bar.

  “Classed up the joint in there, Josie,” he went on to remark and I blinked.

  “You saw me?”

  “Got cameras everywhere, inside and out,” he stated, jerking his head toward the building.

  “Of course. Yes. I noticed the ones outside. It’s quite good you have an eye to the security and safety for your establishment.”

  His lips twitched before he returned, “Yeah, good for my establishment when drunk, horny assholes wanna do shit that makes them even bigger assholes, someone sees it, it stops before it starts.”

  I found his comment intriguing and thus observed, “You seem not to have a great deal of respect for your clientele.”

  “Most of them pay for their drinks, give the girls bills to pay for their show, got no problem with them. It’s the drunk, horny assholes who suck.”

  I would imagine this was true.

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  He said nothing, just held my eyes.

  I found this uncomfortable and didn’t know how to begin to say all the things I needed to say.

  Therefore, unfortunately, I decided to stall.

  “Well, Jake, I don’t know if you have advisors that see to this kind of thing, I would guess you do as your club is quite refined, but I’d have a word with them, whoever they are. The redhead is very attractive but with her skin tone, a darker auburn would suit her far better. That said, she’d make a striking brunette.”

  He stopped holding my eyes and started staring at me. There was a nuance of difference but I could sense that difference. Most definitely.

  “And,” I sallied forth when he made no reply, “the blonde could use a keratin treatment. Her hair is remarkable but she’d find it much more manageable on a day to day basis and with her, well…moves, I believe she’d also find it quite beneficial with her…um, work.”

  He again said nothing, simply kept staring at me.