I poured the coffee into my father’s heavy ceramic mug, watching the steam rise against the cold glass of the kitchen window. The black liquid cost exactly two dollars from the drive-through down the road, but it was the only thing keeping the chill out of my bones this morning.
Karen sat stiffly at the Formica kitchen table, her fingers tapping against a stack of unopened mail.
I looked over at the small wooden key rack hanging by the kitchen door. The brass hook on the far left, where the blue metallic key tag always hung, was bare.
I paused, twisting the silver wedding band on my right hand. “He always kept those keys right by the door, Karen.”
Karen quickly adjusted her pearl earrings, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “I haven’t seen them. Everything is a mess. I can’t keep track.”
Her short, breathless sentences made her sound like she had just run up the basement stairs. I assumed she was simply exhausted from the weight of organizing the arrangements.
“The Shelby is still in the detached workshop,” I said, speaking slowly and letting each word settle before continuing. “We need to make sure the building is locked.”
“It’s locked,” Karen said, her hand darting to her other earring. “It’s secure. Don’t worry.”
She picked up a paper from the table, revealing a property tax bill for four thousand dollars underneath.
“The county sent the final notice on this,” I said, pointing to the red ink at the top of the page. “We need to address it before the estate goes to probate.”
“I have it handled,” Karen said, her voice rising slightly. “Arthur had savings. He must have had savings.”
She slid the bill back under a pile of condolence cards, her fingers twitching against the paper.
My own bank account was not in a position to cover this, and the silent reality of my financial situation pressed heavily on me. The divorce settlement had left me with very little, and my move to a small apartment in Columbus had drained whatever reserves I had managed to keep.
“We all have our burdens, Gail,” Karen said, her breathing shallow as she shuffled the envelopes. “Your father spent every spare dollar on that garage. Thirty years of it. Nothing left for the house.”
“He was proud of his work,” I said, pausing before each sentence. “He wanted the Shelby to stay in the family.”
“Proud of metal,” she whispered, her fingers returning to her earrings. “Just old metal.”
“Walter is coming at nine-thirty,” I said. “He wants to look through the workshop for the will.”
“The will is in the lawyer’s office,” Karen said, her breathless voice quickening. “He doesn’t need to look in the workshop.”
“Walter thinks Arthur had a copy out there,” I said, pausing to look at her. “He said my father liked to keep a duplicate of everything.”
“Your father kept too many things,” she said, her fingers adjusting the pearl on her left ear. “Boxes of old receipts. Parts that didn’t fit any car we ever owned.”
She stood up quickly, her chair scraping against the linoleum. She walked toward the hallway, her slippers clicking against the floorboards, leaving her coffee untouched on the table.
I stood by the window for a moment, looking out at the gray morning, before picking up my coat.
The sharp smell of motor oil and damp leaves hit me the moment Walter opened the side door of the detached workshop at half past nine.
Walter, my father’s lifelong friend and estate lawyer, stepped inside and began inspecting the dusty wooden shelves that lined the back wall.
I searched the workbench, lifting empty grease tins and old rags, hoping to find the spare set of keys.
Walter took off his reading glasses and began polishing them with the wide end of his silk tie. “Arthur was always meticulous about his filing, Gail, yet I cannot locate his recent papers.”
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