I genuinely began to care about him.
Then Russell got sick.
Everything happened unbelievably fast.
Only six weeks passed between his diagnosis and his funeral.
His children barely looked at me during the service.
The hatred in their eyes made it seem as though they blamed me for their father’s death.
I cried anyway.
Afterward, Russell’s lawyer asked me to come to his office.
When I arrived, his children were already there.
I expected to see a will or stacks of documents.
There was nothing like that.
Only a small wooden box sitting in the middle of the desk.
The lawyer looked at me, then at Russell’s children.
“”Russell left instructions,”” he said.
His daughter gave a quiet laugh.
Then the lawyer slid the box toward me.
“”He made sure you got exactly what you deserved.””
The wooden box was dark walnut, worn smooth at the corners, with a brass latch that had oxidized to a dull green.
It looked like an heirloom, but it carried the weight of a stone.
Across the mahogany conference table, Russell’s daughter, Kendall, crossed her arms.
Her brother, Gregory, leaned back in his leather chair, a smug smirk settling into the corners of his mouth.
“Go ahead, Evelyn,” Kendall said, her voice dripping with venom.
“Open it.
Let’s see what thirty years of an age gap buys you on the open market.”
My hands were shaking.
I wasn’t shaking from greed; I was shaking from the hollow ache in my chest that had settled there the day Russell stopped breathing.
For six weeks, I had washed his thinning hair, read his favorite historical biographies out loud until his eyelids grew heavy, and held his hand while the monitors beeped in rhythmic, cruel indifference.
During all that time, neither Kendall nor Gregory had visited for more than fifteen minutes, always complaining of the hospital smell or an urgent board meeting.
I reached out and clicked open the brass latch.
The lid swung back on oiled hinges.
Inside, resting on a bed of faded red velvet, were three items:
A pair of black, rubber-soled catering shoes—the exact, scuffed pair I had been wearing the night I met him.
A single brass key.
And a handwritten letter in Russell’s precise, looping cursive.
Kendall burst out laughing.
It was a sharp, ugly sound that echoed in the quiet office.
“Catering flats!
Oh, Dad was a genius.
He gave her back the shoes she used to serve champagne in.
Back to the service industry, Evelyn.
Pack your bags by noon tomorrow.”
Gregory shook his head, chuckling as he checked his gold Rolex.
“Well, Mr.
Sterling, that takes care of the gold-digger.
Can we move on to the actual estate now?
I have a tee time at three.”
The lawyer, Mr.
Sterling, didn’t crack a smile.
In fact, he looked at Gregory with an expression that bordered on pity.
“You may read the letter aloud, Evelyn,” Mr.
Sterling said softly.
“Or you may read it to yourself.
But Russell’s instructions were very specific that it be read in this room.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, unfolded the creamy, heavy paper, and began to read.
Russell’s voice was so clear in the words that I could almost smell the faint scent of his sandalwood cologne.
