Page 12 of Knowing Amelia

“Thank you.” I sit between Dad and my uncle. “Hello, Earl.”

Uncle Earl offers me a small grin. I remember him being a quiet man, and Dad said he was never one for talking.

“Shall we get to it?” Dad knows the drill—no sense wasting time.

Mr. Marx takes a swig from his beer stein. Crap. Did I miss the waitress? Dad and Earl have drinks in front of them as well. My stomach growls, reminding me that I am starving. I hadn’t planned on paying too much attention to the legal mumbo jumbo—that was Dad’s job. I want to eat!

Opening a folder, Mr. Marx passes out a small packet of papers to Earl, Dad, and me.

Dad scans over the first page, and I lean toward him. “Is the waitress coming back? I want to order.”

“I got you a drink.” He slides the glass of water in front of him over to me. Then, ignoring my grimace, he turns back to the paperwork in front of him. “Is this figure correct? It says here this will was prepared only four years ago.” He adjusts the paper in front of him, his brows furrowing.

“Yes, everything’s correct and up to date.” Mr. Marx nods before gulping down another swallow. “Now, Amelia was fairly specific about all her assets. If something seems to be unassigned, she’d like Earl to decide where it goes.”

Dad sighs. I can easily imagine the complaints in his head. What did she have to give? Who would want her other meaningless shoebox items?

“First, her children: to her eldest son, Jonathon, she’s left her lucky silver dollar.” Mr. Marx pats his full head of hair before pointing to the papers in front of him.

Dad nods, looking neither pleased nor disappointed.

Her lucky silver dollar. I don’t even know what that is. I sit up straighter, ignoring my whining stomach, and listen more intently. This must have been important to her, or why would she have taken the time and paid the money to make it law?

“To her second son, Earl”—Mr. Marx flicks his gaze toward my uncle—“is given her full savings and checking—what’s left after her funeral expenses, as well as the family photo albums; there are four in total.”

“From what these figures offer, there should be a fair amount of money left over.” Dad runs his finger down the length of the numbers on a page I haven’t yet flipped to.

“Should be,” Mr. Marx says.

Earl sniffs, but that is the extent of his emotion over being given his mother’s life savings.

I flip through the booklet, trying to find just where we are.

“For Amelia’s youngest son, Red, she’s assigned her 1983 Camaro. It’s currently in storage in…” Mr. Marx’s gaze scans over the page. “Ah. Here in Cody. Paid through until the end of the year.”

“Of course.” A muffled laugh escapes Uncle Earl’s lips.

“Yep, I was waiting for that.” Dad glances at Earl and smiles. He actually smiles at his brother. “Of course her baby gets the Camaro,” Dad says. But he’s chuckling over this car along with Earl.

I’ve never even heard about a Camaro that makes my father giggle. A good memory? I need to ask him.

“May I?” Mr. Marx eyes the pair over the top of his glasses.

They swallow down the rest of their laughter and fidget in their seats like little boys in trouble.

“All righty then. The title to her home and everything within it belongs to a Miss…” He adjusts his glasses and flips to the next page of Amelia’s will. “Ah-hah.” Mr. Marx’s eyes dart up to me. “A Miss Olivia Benson.”

Jerking back, my knees knock into the table, rattling everyone’s drinks. Mr. Marx snatches his mug with both hands, saving his last drop of beer.

I can’t believe this. She wouldn’t give me her house. Her house!

But the truth of his words lay in print on the page in front of us.

“Me?” I whip my gaze from Dad to Earl and back again.

Dad grimaces, Earl grins like a goof, and Mr. Marx laps up the remainder of his drink.

As soon as his glass is empty, the man sets his mug down with an empty clang. “Yes, Miss. You.”