Brooks Dumelin.
The tears immediately well in my eyes, and I grasp the envelope against my chest. I have no clue why something has been sent from him, but it’s clearly his handwriting. That’s his name and address in the upper left-hand corner.
I pull the envelope back and look at it. It’s fairly thick and postmarked yesterday, sent from Pittsburgh.
Brooks died eleven days ago. I just attended his memorial in Ithaca, New York, four days ago. I sat in the back of the church and stood at the back of the mourners, watching as his brokenhearted family grieved.
I grieved right along with them, just as I grieve now.
“Damn you,” I murmur low, knowing my words will reach Brooks up in Heaven. “Why are you plaguing me? I’d just shed the last of my tears, you jerk.”
I can almost hear him laughing … he truly enjoyed irritating me.
Swinging my feet off my desk, I reach into my middle drawer for the letter opener. I make an efficient slit in the top and with shaking hands pull out a thick sheaf of papers.
On top is a handwritten letter from Brooks, and it charms me that he took the time to do it. Who handwrites stuff these days? It’s much faster to type.
The letter is dated last September 28. Five months ago.
Dear Little Bit …
His nickname for me, because I always took things in small increments. He was Big Bit, because he went big on everything.
I know this letter is going to come as a shock, and you’re probably going to be pissed as hell at me, but I’m hoping you’ll forgive the favor I’m about to ask.
Enclosed with this letter is my Revocable Trust with a Last Will and Testament I had an attorney draw up for me. This is probably something that’ll never come to pass, as I hope to live a very long life complete with grandkids and rocking chairs, but God forbid something does happen before then, I wanted to make sure things were taken care of. I want you to handle my estate.
No, I need you to handle my estate because, as you well know, it’s going to be a bitch.
I know I should ask your permission first, even though I know you’ll say yes, but the truth is, I’m almost too embarrassed to put this on your shoulders. If you receive this letter, it means I’m dead and beyond embarrassment, so that’s some solace, I suppose. I’ve asked the attorney who drafted these documents to mail them to you after my funeral.
I trust you to make sure my wishes are carried out. I’ve made you the trustee because I know there’s going to be dissension among family members over this, and I know you’re strong enough to make sure what needs to be done is done. You’ll know what I mean when you read the documents.
We’ve talked about it enough, so I know this probably won’t be a shock. More importantly than the trust, though… I need you to make sure he gets the journals. Please make him read them.
He’s going to fight you every step of the way.
Be stronger. I know you can.
Also tell him I love him.
Make him believe it.
Love,
Big Bit
By the time I finish reading the letter, I’m sobbing again. Odin rises from the floor—the dog bed I bought him two years ago ignored because the floor is cooler and he’s a mountain dog—and pads over to me. He sets his big head in my lap, and my fingers bury into his fur for comfort. Bonita pokes her head in my office before bringing me a box of tissues. She backs out quietly as I reread the letter, shutting the door behind her. She’s such a gem, she’ll immediately head to the break room to brew tea.
I take out the trust documents and peruse them with a heavy heart. They were drawn up by a well-known estate firm downtown, and I have indeed been listed as the trustee. Brooks didn’t ask me to draw up this paperwork because he knew estate work wasn’t my specialty. With an estate the size of his, he needed lawyers who knew how to make the thing unbreakable and as advantageous tax-wise as possible.
I am, however, more than qualified to assume the role of trustee. I don’t have to. I could petition the court to appoint someone else, but the asshole—with all due affection—handwrote me a letter and implored me to carry out these wishes.
There’s no way I can say no.
Besides, he’d probably haunt me if I did.
Setting the documents down on the desk, I take Odin’s head in my hands and lift him up so we’re eye-to-eye. “I should have let you bite Brooks that first time you met him.”
His dark brown eyes seem to say he understands.
But truly, I’m not mad at Brooks’s request. I’d do anything to help him, and I hope if he’s watching over me, this gives him peace knowing I’ll do all I can to carry out his wishes.