By Lise McClendon
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They hadn’t had a vacation together in years, not since the three of them went to Disney World when Tristan was seven. She took Tristan on trips, once to the Grand Canyon with Stasia and Rick, another time to Vermont. Why hadn’t she insisted Harry come? She couldn’t even remember trying to convince him. There was no point. He was a workaholic. He never talked about going to France, or mentioned this house where his parents had lived. She’d found nothing in his files about it, nothing about France at all.
Except for this year. Tristan had gone back to school three days after the funeral, yes, probably too soon but what he wanted. How could she stop him? She took a deep breath of moist evening air. If she could focus on her financial needs, hers and Tristan’s, she could see her way out of this mess. Grief — or guilt? — is a horrible thing. She couldn’t define her emotions any more. Her mother said grief was a ‘me feeling,’ feeling sorry for yourself. Harry is at peace now, Bernadette said, not hurting or sad or missing you.
Harry’s ancient lawyer, who he’d called The Geezer, was shouting in the hallway. The door opened and he shuffled in with a younger man who introduced himself as Troy Lester, a partner. The old man, eighty-five minimum, Landon McGuinness the Third wore neatly-pressed gray flannel almost as ancient as he was. His thick glasses perched on a beak no doubt less prominent when his cheeks had flesh. The younger partner, Lester, was close to their age but bald on top like the geezer. He was obviously the old man’s right-hand everything.