Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

“Who died?” After years of believing myself the last of my family line, these unexpected words of consolation didn’t compute. Brian and I squinted across the Starbucks table at the woman. Had my dead-end life just received a transfusion?

“Your Uncle Jack.” She repeated herself, then sipped her coffee, giving me time to process the news.

My fingers fiddled with the insulating ring on my steaming cardboard cup. She’d knocked me off kilter. My mother had been a devoted hippie in her younger days, and I never knew my father. Her carefree lifestyle had led her to an early grave. For the past several years, it’d been me, myself, and I.

I studied the woman. What was in this for her? Was her smile the fake one people make when they’re in a situation requiring sympathy, but don’t really care?

Her gaze was direct, strong. She seemed the real deal. Her obvious honesty prompted me to resurrect mine.

“I’m sorry. I think you’ve made a mis—”

Brian silenced me with a kick to my ankle. I glared. What the heck? I tucked my feet safely out of reach.

He placed his hand over mine, his sympathetic smile 100 percent fake, and squeezed. Hard. “Tell us more. We know little about Uncle Jack.”

I rolled my eyes. What a liar.

“A neighbor requested a welfare check. His mail had piled up, and she noticed an . . . well, an odor. When police investigated, they discovered the deceased.” She paused, glanced at her hands. “Such a pity when someone dies alone.”

I shot a look at Brian. I mouthed, “An odor?” My lip lifted in a squeamish curl. “And how did you connect me to . . . to Uncle Jack?”

She looked up and brightened. Obviously, this part of her job interested her. “He listed your name in the small black journal I found in a drawer. I took several days to work through it, eliminating people one by one as possible relatives.” Modest pride for her perseverance rang in her voice. “Co-workers, bowling teammates, doctors. Once identified, I discarded them as possible recipients.”

“Bowling teammates?” A vision of Jesus in The Big Lebowski, wearing his creepy purple pantsuit, polishing his bowling ball with a lewd sneer, flashed through my mind. “My uncle bowled?” Loser.

Brian kicked again. He apparently had a plan. One involving deception. And, based on the number of kicks I’d received, my tone of voice and my questions didn’t match his narrative.

Ill-gotten gains were not what I wanted.

“They weren’t very close.” Brian patted my hand.

I yanked my fingers clear, scooted my chair away with a jerk.

I wanted to know more about her.

“So, this is your job? You . . . what? Poke around in the lives of dead people until you find someone to inherit their worldly goods?”

Her eyes shone with enthusiasm. “Yes. It’s quite interesting. Like a mash-up between a professional organizer, an online researcher, and a P.I. Some things I’ve uncovered would surprise you.”

“What did you learn about my . . . uncle?”

She consulted a bulleted list on her clipboard.

“Born in 1950. Enlisted in the Army at eighteen. Lived in California for a while.”

“Maybe followed my mom?”

“Possibly. Settled in Fort Worth, Texas, and he never married.”

“Texas? I wonder what drew him there.” My mother was a dyed-in-the-wool California beach bum. Texas had never crossed my mind. I cradled the warmth of my cup in my hands, pondering the heretofore unimagined possibility of family.

Brian fidgeted, clearly uninterested in the spiritual draw of Texas. “You, um, mentioned an inheritance?”

The woman shot him a look of disguised annoyance. Her smile seemed less genuine this time around.

“Yes.” She begrudged her answer. “There’s an inheritance. Jack invested money in a publishing house. Robin, you’re now part owner of the Striped Giraffe Publishing House. It’s small, but quite respectable.”

“Really?” My surprise was the first genuine emotion I’d shared. “How weird. I’ve dreamed of being published. I have three manuscripts written, but I never felt . . . well, I doubt they’re any good.”

She flashed me an encouraging look. “You’re an author?”

I lifted my shoulders in a diffident shrug. “I don’t know that I can claim the title of author. I’ve written some stories. Had a few things printed in magazines.”

Brian snorted. “She’s no Stephen King, that’s for sure. What she’s good at is serving drinks at the bar.”

I tamped down hard on the tiny sprout of resentment trying to push its little green head through the dirt. Having Brian in my life provided my only tie to a meaningful relationship. I fought my imposter syndrome in more areas than just writing.

Until today, my sole inheritance had been some bum health issues. I was alone. When I was in my twenties, my doctors had described me as “fragile.” Things hadn’t improved much over the years. Not exactly a popular draw for a swipe right.

The investigator of dead people blinked. I saw the moment she decided to ignore Brian. She turned compassionate eyes to mine.

Brian, always the social genius, didn’t pick up the signal.

“Part owner, eh?” Avarice gleamed in his eyes. Funny. I’d never noticed that about him.

Ms. P.I. shot a thin smile his way, then turned her gaze to her clipboard. “Your uncle seemed very generous. He donated a kidney a few decades ago. With no other living relatives, one can only assume he did that for a friend. Possibly even a stranger.”

Cold chills prickled on my neck.

“He donated a kidney?” My voice sounded tinny, as if it came from far away. “When was that? Did you find that information?”

“Yes. I tied several of the doctors in the black journal to that adventure. He donated in 1992.”

My breath froze in my lungs. My finger moved to the smooth, curved scar on my belly, tracing it of its own volition. “While he lived in Texas?” I didn’t recognize my own voice.

The woman cocked her head like an inquisitive Beagle. “Yes, while he lived in Texas, but he came here. To California. The surgery happened here.” She paused. “Are you all right?”

I stared at nothing, my gaze turned inward. Did my uncle donate an organ to me? A man I didn’t know? Had never met?

“I received a kidney when I was 20.” I focused wondering eyes on her. “Did my uncle save my life?”

She clapped her hands in delight. “How exciting!”

Unexpected tears flooded my eyes. Why hadn’t my mother ever told me about her brother Jack? Why wouldn’t she share with me the news that someone in this world loved me enough to give me a piece of himself? Grief overwhelmed for the loss of all that time. I had someone. All those years, I had someone.

Brian did a double take. “You’re crying?” An unkind snort of laughter escaped before he remembered to play the part of the grieving almost-nephew. He covered the sound with a cough into his fist.

Something welled inside me. Something bright. Something strong.

Someone loved me. Enough to write my name in his little book. Enough to keep tabs on me. Enough to give me a kidney.

I looked at Brian. “I’d like you to leave.” My voice was calm, strong.

He jerked back as if I’d slapped him. “What?”

“Please leave. And don’t come back.”

His face turned ugly. “Robin, you sure you want to dump the only boyfriend who’s ever stayed longer than the first drunken night?”

Blinders lifted from my eyes. My face hardened. “Get out.”

He stood with an explosive movement. The chair tipped over backward and tumbled to the floor. Customers turned and stared. I didn’t care.

“Don’t bother coming home.” He snatched his jacket from the coat rack by the door. Stormed out.

I watched him leave with a surprising lack of emotion. I turned to gaze at my new friend.

Her eyes shone with quiet pride, and she gave me a quick nod.

“I never knew I had an uncle. And now, I learn he saved my life.” Things I hadn’t felt in a very long time floated to the surface—hope, optimism, confidence.

She returned to her bulleted list. “There’s more. He left you his house in Fort Worth, all of his belongings, and $20,000 in the bank. And don’t forget, you’re part owner of a publishing company. From where I stand, you could start your life over again and follow your dreams.”

I could write. Spend my imagination combining words and ideas instead of creating drinks.

Texas. I could move to Texas. Wide open spaces. Blue skies. Full of possibilities.

Tears welled again. I could start over. Amazing how knowing you’re loved could completely change your perspective.

My life stretched before me, shiny and new. All because of a name written in a little black book.