Trembling fingers snipped grey-green branches of rosemary. Its delicate fragrance rose from the cuts as she laid them next to the basil. Morgan raised her face to the rays of the hot sun, hoping it would burn away the remnants of the dream. Her knee crushed a fallen leaf of chocolate peppermint, diffusing its scent into the air. She inhaled memories of hot tea and late night conversations with her mom, replacing the suffocating terror that still simmered beneath the surface.
The hot, humid weather was perfect for her plants and the myriad of butterflies that danced around them. Not so much for her heavy red curls. She pushed a loose lock away from her face with the back of her wrist, gathered her basket, and stood, contemplating the large Terra-cotta pots all around her balcony. Someday she would have a real garden—after she left the ranks of the unemployed.
Her doorbell chimed.
“Coming,” she called and tugged on the obstinate patio door.
Dropping the basket and garden shears on the counter, she hurried to the front door.
“Yes?” She peered through the peephole. She shut one eye and blinked; she squinted and tried again. A man with knobby knees came into view, impatiently shifting an overflowing mailbag on his shoulder.
“I have a registered letter for Morgana Briscoe,” he called and scowled at the closed door. “I need a signature.”
She flipped the deadbolt and opened the door, glancing over her shoulder in case Mrs. T decided to make a break for it. Not seeing the long-haired Russian Blue lurking nearby, Morgan slipped into the hallway.
“I’m Morgana Briscoe,” she said, careful not to make eye contact.
He shoved the letter toward her, along with a clipboard and pen. Placing the letter under her arm, she juggled the clipboard and noticed the dirt on her fingers. “Sorry,” she flushed, “I was working in my garden.”
“Yeah…sure,” he smirked.
“I mean the pots on my balcony,” she defended.
He reached out, all but yanked the clipboard out of her hand, and turned. “Have a nice day.” He called the afterthought over his shoulder.
She stepped inside, closed the door with her hip, and twisted the deadbolt back in place. Keeping the letter safely tucked under her arm, she washed the dirt off her hands, slipped a knife out of the kitchen block, and moved to the table.
Knives weren’t made for ripping paper, her mother’s admonition played through her mind. Morgan smiled to herself, sat, and slit open the envelope. Bask & Morrisette, Attorneys-at-Law. She shrugged at the unfamiliar name and unfolded the crisp linen paper.
Dear Miss Briscoe:
We are truly sorry for your loss. Please contact us at your earliest convenience regarding a matter of extreme urgency.
Again, we extend our condolences.
Sincerely,
Kristoff Bask, Esq.
The letterhead was almost longer than the message, displaying the embossed address and phone number prominently in an elegant script. Atlanta, Georgia. She didn’t know anyone in Georgia. She placed the letter on the table and stared at it. Had someone died? Morgan reached for the phone and hit speed-dial.
“Mom?” She was cut-off by the answering machine.
She hung up and hit their cell number. Once again, a voice message. Her stomach knotted. She hung up, scanned the letter, and dialed.
“Bask & Morrisette,” a female voice intoned.
“My name is Morgan Briscoe. I just got a letter from a Kristoff Bask—”
“One moment, please,” the voice interrupted.
“Miss Briscoe?” a man’s deep voice asked.
“Yes. I just got your letter. I don’t understand?”
“We have an important matter to discuss with you. Would Monday be alright?”
“Mr. Bask, I’m in Virginia. A trip to Georgia is out of the question. Can’t you just tell me over the phone?”
“When can you come?” He ignored her question.
“I don’t have the finances...” she let the words trail off. Her finances were none of his business.
“Your travel expenses are covered.” His voice was clip. “Your trip, transportation, and accommodations are all included,” he explained, as if pacifying a five-year-old.
“What’s this about?” she demanded, growing more irritated.
“We need to speak in person, Miss Briscoe. If you will hold a moment, I will put you through to my secretary so you can make arrangements.”
“But—”
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