“Something for you, miss.”
“Gods bless you for calling me miss. Are you sure it’s for me? Nobody knows I’m here yet.”
He looked at the big, black lettering on the front of the envelope. “You’re Rita Hayworth. Right?”
I nodded dumbly. Hayworth was my maiden name. My head hadn’t yet cleared away the shock of being told by my husband of twenty years that I was old news. I hadn’t even thought about whether or not I would keep his name or reclaim my own. I hadn’t yet called a lawyer, talked to my daughter, or decided to get rid of the navy-blue sedan Cole had insisted was ‘classy’ and just perfect for me.
“Well, then,” the afternoon clerk said, pushing the envelope a couple of inches closer.
I took it. “Thanks.” And began looking for my purse to give him a tip. “Just a second.”
He waited while I fished out my wallet. I was clueless about the going rate of tip for delivering what seemed to be documents, but I didn’t want to be thought of as a cheapskate by the afternoon clerk. So, I pulled out a five and handed it over. By the smile on his face I knew it wasn’t too little. Whether or not it was too much was hard to tell.
I closed the door, set the envelope down on the cheap veneered coffee table and waited for a voice to tell me what to do next. Open it? Take a nap? Go get wine first? The last option was the only one that resonated emotionally.
“Wine it is,” I said out loud to myself. When I realized I was speaking to no one, I added, “I’ve been not-legally single for a day, and I’m talking out loud to myself.”
I grabbed my keys and set off on quest for wine and food that needed no more preparation than a couple of turns in the microwave. While learning the layout of a market I’d never seen before, because I was on the opposite side of town from where I’d lived my entire adult life, I received calls from the animal shelter where I volunteered, the exterminator, and my daughter. I told the first to leave me off the schedule for a couple of weeks, told the second to cancel the account, thinking that insect infestations were the least my soon-to-be ex deserved. Last, I assured my daughter, the college junior who’d heard the news from her father, that I was going to be fine.
Through all of that, I never stopped thinking about the ‘package’, as the clerk had called it. By the time I returned to my (hopefully) temporary digs, I was tired of waiting. I set the two-and-a-half bags on the little countertop and went straight to the envelope.
I ripped the cardboard zip free and removed the contents expecting it to be a notice of intent to divorce. After all, who besides Cole knew where I was? Come to think of it, I hadn’t told anyone, including Cole, where to find me.
It contained a letter of summary and introduction, several legal documents and a printout of travel arrangements in my name. Paid travel arrangements that included a first-class, one-way ticket to London. I spread the papers out on the coffee table and stared for a few seconds before deciding that there was only one reasonable course of action when approaching a rare mystery such as this. Pour wine. Drink wine. Then read.
Congratulating myself on the foresight to pick up a wine opener at the store - because of course there were cheap wine glasses in the cabinet, but no opener - I poured three inches of deep red liquid, intent on feeling neither pain nor guilt. I moved the envelope’s contents to the dinette and switched on the swag light that hung above.
After getting as comfortable as dinette chairs allow, I took a drink of black blend. Not a sip or dainty taste. I enjoyed a full-on gulp with no shame and no one to critique my choices.
Dear Ms. Hayworth,
You have inherited a fine retail property with residence in the Eden of England, Cumbria, and funds sufficient to cover your personal needs and ensure maintenance of the property for your lifetime.
Enclosed you will find documentation of air transportation, a passport, a bit of currency, and a credit card in your name. After clearing customs, kindly look for a sign that reads ‘Hayworth’. We will have a man ready to escort you to a vehicle suitable for completion of the journey. Your auto will be equipped with navigation and programmed to guide you safely here.
Feel free to overnight en route to our picturesque village of Hallow Hill. The choice is entirely yours. We look forward to your arrival.
Sincerely,
Lochlan Jois, Solicitor
This could be better than winning the lottery. Or it could be the opening scenes of a horror movie. There was only one appropriate response. I reached for the wine glass and downed all that was left in the goblet. My head was swimming. Granted, more wine wouldn’t add clarity to the situation. But dammit. I deserved an illogical minute now and then.
I didn’t know which mystery to focus on. How did Lochlan Jois know I was at the Southside Residence Inn? How did he know I had just become available for travel? Perhaps the biggest mystery, how in the name of all that’s holy did he manage to get me a passport and credit card without my signature? Annnnnd, what is a solicitor?
The passport took priority for pressing questions. I opened it to find a recent photo that I don’t remember being taken. It wasn’t horrible. Just bad enough to be believable. And, yep. There was no question about the fact that the signature looked authentic even to me. There were two possible explanations. Late-developing somnambulism or incredible forgery.
Needless to say, everything about the event screamed fishy, fishy, fishy. Because I didn’t really put any stock in the late-developing somnambulism theory. But was that going to stop me? Probably not. A woman stupid enough to marry a man like my soon-to-be ex is stupid enough to fly first class into the great unknown.
I looked at my bags, still standing where I’d left them like dutiful sentries, and wondered if I had the right clothes for late September in England. Even in the midst of bizarre and unexplainable events, I never lose sight of priorities.
The plan crystallized. I would take both bags. If it all turned out to be a gift from fate, my reward for surviving marriage to Cole, then my daughter could send the rest of my things in between semesters. With sufficient bribery, of course.
After clearing customs, which made me curse myself for bringing two large bags, I looked around for a sign with my name. Standing in a row of guys with handprinted cardboard signs was an ancient fellow grinning ear to ear, white hair going every which way. The sign said ‘Hayworth’.
I walked toward him and, when I was close enough to be heard, said, “That’s me.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” he said. “I’m Eckert. Right this way.” He took control of both bags. The fact that they were each four-wheeled made that possible.
“I can get those,” I said.
“Wouldn’t hear of it, Madam. I will see you to your automobile and get your luggage squared away.”
I wasn’t crazy about being called ‘madam’, since I was on the way to shedding that title for good, but he meant well. So I refocused on the airport’s sights, sounds, and the less desirable aspects of overseas travel.
We stepped outside into crisp, Fall air.
“Right over here,” he said, pointing to a very shiny red car waiting at the curb right in front of us.
“How did you get a parking place like this?” I asked. “I thought this kind of thing only happens in the movies.”