Page 19 of Merging Wright

“To my son, I leave my 1965 MG.” The empty silence that follows the single item causes Frank to shift and my mother to gape at her brother, shock written on her face. The classic convertible was a restoration project which Fischer prided himself on rebuilding throughout Frank’s younger years. When Frank was old enough to drive, he and a friend took the car out for a ride without Fischer’s permission and crashed the thing. From stories we’d been told over the years, Fischer rebuilt the car a second time piece-by-painstaking piece, promising that each material expense plus the laborious time taken by Fischer would be deducted from Frank’s inheritance. Apparently, Fischer hadn’t been joking.

“That’s it?” Frank snaps.

Landon looks up at his old friend, chagrin in his expression. “That’s all.”

Frank curses under his breath, and Ma shakes her head with disappointment in a man who disappointed her in more ways than one throughout her life. She shouldn’t be surprised her father left her older brother so little.

“To my grandson Myles. I continue to gift the Small House, the official name given to the smaller structure on the property of the aforementioned address, allowing for his comfort until such time he is no longer comfortable in said space. At which time, the building will revert to Camilla Wright.”

Myles scoffs at the details. “Still considering me a cripple even from the grave.”

The comment surprises me. Myles and Fischer were close. Closer than ever when I finally ditched this place.

“And finally, to my grandson Machlan, I leave the town of Wrightwood.”

“What?” My outburst is echoed by several other voices.

Landon glances at me over his reading glasses then shifts his gaze to my mother before continuing. “The buildings, which include twelve business-zoned properties, along with several municipal lots, and a strip of riverside land used for both recreational and professional purposes, which in short includes the entirety of the Bridge Alley area, are all bequeathed to Machlan Wright.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with the town?” I straighten in the uncomfortable wooden-back chair I’ve been sitting in. Jane sits quietly beside me.

Landon eyes me once more. “With a contingency.”

“Of course.” I huff.

“The deed to said property will be shared in joint ownership with his wife with the understanding they are to rebuild Wrightwood together.”

“Rebuild?” Uncle Frank interjects.

“My wife,” I blurt.

Landon eyes his old friend but continues. “The endeavor should take no more than one year, at which time a sum of one million dollars will be bestowed upon Machlan as his rightful inheritance.”

I stare at Landon, uncertain I’ve heard him correctly. The town of Wrightwood. Shared jointly with my wife. One million dollars. Fischer knew about Tracy. He knew I was no longer married. How could he do this to me?

“Why the hell would Da want to rebuild this town?” Uncle Frank mumbles.

Ma narrows her eyes at her brother.

“This is all contingent on me having a wife, correct?” I strain for clarification.

Landon’s eyes shift to Jane. He lowers his glasses, peering at Ma a moment before returning his attention to me.

“I’m going to spell this out in more simplistic terms. You and your wife”—Landon glances at Jane—“are to rebuild this town within one year. Upon which time, you will then receive one million dollars. Another million has been set aside for the sole purpose of restoring Wrightwood to what it once was, at your discretion for expenditures which must be made on the properties mentioned.”

“This is bullshit,” Uncle Frank argues, and I have to agree with him. “Da knew I had plans for this town.”

“And if I don’t have a wife?”

Landon glances at Ma once more. Why does he keep doing that? He turns back to me. “Your grandfather was clear. No wife means no money. And no project. Thus, the land will be turned over to the state of West Virginia.”

Frank gasps. “The state?”

Landon pauses before continuing. “I’m going to be blunt. Refusing this directive puts all the businesses in the downtown area at risk of losing their livelihood and disrupting the economics of this community. Without industry of some type, the owners and their families will be forced to move elsewhere. Wrightwood will have no appeal. We’ll essentially turn into a ghost town.”

“What do I care?” I snap.

“Mach.” Jane rests her hand on my forearm, reminding me of her presence in the room.