You Don't Have Much Time

“With a name like Mateo, I was expecting him to be droolworthy, you know?” Talia groaned as she weaved in and out of traffic like a racecar driver.

I shifted in the passenger seat and white knuckled the door handle.

“Tali, can you please slow down?” I pleaded, “We have plenty of time to get there!”

“Mia, you’re my best friend. Can you please support me in my time of need?” she snapped, “I basically got catfished!”

I laughed, “You did not get catfished. You went on a blind date and got your hopes up over an exotic name.”

“I knew Kendra would get me back for accidentally messing up her hair, but I didn’t think she could be this cruel” she ranted as she exited the highway to head downtown. “I wasted a $300.00 outfit over a 35-year-old, divorced, unemployed, aspiring rapper who lives with his mother!”

“Well, she did say that he was family oriented,” I snickered.

Kendra totally sent her on the blind date from hell as revenge. She’s a sweet girl, but the hairtastrophy occurred the day before the dream beach wedding she had been planning since she was five. Too many cocktails and too much bleach by Tali melted her hair off. We found a wig for her, only to have the wind blow it right off of her head as she walked down the aisle in front of 300 guests.

Her husband, Dean, snatched the wig out the sky like a pop fly ball and was amazing about reassuring her that she looked beautiful no matter what through her tears. After a quick restyling of the wig and a makeup fix, they sealed their vows with a passionate kiss that made the minister blush.

“Whatever. I’m just going to be single forever,” she huffed as we pulled up to the law offices of Waterman, Cline and Davis, the senders of the ominous letter I got in the mail a few days ago telling me that they had an important matter to discuss with me in person.

After she parked the car, I threw open the passenger door and dropped to my hands and knees, peppering the concrete with air kisses.

“Really, Mia?” Tali asked as she got out of the car and locked the doors to her foreign sportscar, courtesy of her successful PR firm she started years ago.

I stood up and brushed the dirt off my hands and black dress slacks. “Yes, really, Tali. You need to stop taking the arrival time from the GPS as a personal challenge to beat.”

She dropped her sunglasses on her nose and squeezed hand sanitizer from her purse into my open palm.

“Wah, wah. You got here,” she sighed as we approached the ornate brick building with gold trimmed windows, “I’m going to grab a latte at that coffee shop next door. You want?"

"Nah, my stomach is still a little jumpy,” I said rubbing my belly over my cornflower blue dress top, “I'll just grab some water inside."

"Okay, text me where you're at and I'll meet you.” She said as she walked towards the café. “Good luck!" she threw over her shoulder, “Let me know if the lawyer is a hottie so I can adjust the girls” she ordered as she turned on her heel to gesture to her boobs that were encased in a black halter crop top that matched her capris and peep toe wedges.

I shook my head as I watched her disappear into the coffee shop. I took a deep breath and opened the office door. The crisp air conditioning was a welcome relief from the humid, yet sunny Miami morning. The office lobby matched the exterior with rich mahogany tables and chocolate brown leather seats that dotted the area.

I tucked my long brown hair behind my ear and approached the receptionist’s desk that was situated to the left of an elevator with a gleaming golden door. The twenty something honey blonde receptionist radiated pure Miami perfection with professional worthy makeup, beautiful gold jewelry and a tan so deep, she nearly blended into her caramel brown leather chair. She was finishing a phone call and held up a finger as she told the caller to have a great day.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked

“Yes, I have a 9:00 with Mr. Davis.”

“Junior or Senior?”

“Ummmm….” I started as I opened my purse to find the letter I was mailed. I read the appointment information and replied, “It says ‘Senior’.”

“What?!?” the receptionist started to pale and frantically began to dial an extension on her phone. “One moment while I call his secretary. Can I get you a water?”

“Sure. That would be gr---”

“Kelly!” she shouted as she told the caller to hold on. A slender blonde in a pink bodycon dress came running from around the corner. “Bring Miss—I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.”

“Mia. Mia Hernandez” I supplied.

“Miss Hernandez a water please” she directed, “Thank you” she added as Kelly hurried off to retrieve the water.

She turned her back to me and started whispering to whoever picked up the line. I tried to eavesdrop, but couldn’t hear anything. Kelly returned with a bottle of water and handed it to me with a smile.

“Hey Kelly,” I whispered, “What’s the big deal about the Senior Davis?”

Before she could answer, the elevator dinged to announce the arrival of Mr. Davis’ secretary and Kelly disappeared as quickly as she arrived.

“Miss Hernandez,” she stated as she extended her hand towards me. I shook it and replied, “Yes, that’s me.”

“Great! I’m Ann. Let me escort you to Mr. Davis’ conference room.” We stepped on the elevator and she pushed the floor button we needed.

The elevator began to rise as she asked, “Were you waiting long?”

“No, everyone was very quick to help me at the desk,” I assured her.

“Fantastic,” she stated as we rode the rest of the journey in silence. With everyone freaking out about this guy, I mentally decided to make this meeting as short as possible.

We stepped off the elevator on what I can only assume was the executive level. Floor to ceiling windows flooded the suite with sunlight and accented the skyline outside. I was whisked into an equally sun flooded meeting room near the elevator and was welcomed to make myself comfortable until Mr. Davis arrived.

Moments later, an older tanned man walked into the room with a file folder and large manila envelope in his hand. His tailored beige suit hung nicely over his fit frame, with familiar warm mocha eyes behind his tortoise shell glasses. His cufflinks sparkled in the sunlight and his dark hair with streaks of grey was neatly combed.

“You must be Miss Hernandez” he said as he extended his hand towards me.

“Please, call me Mia” I said as we both sat at the table.

“Okay Mia, you must be wondering why I called you all the way down here.”

I nodded in agreement as he continued. “I apologize for being vague in the letter, but it was necessary for everyone involved.”

He opened the file folder and took out a paper and ink pen. “This is a confidentiality agreement that I need you to sign before I can tell you anything.”

He pushed the papers towards me, “Please sign at the bottom next to your printed name.”

I pushed the papers back across the table and stated, “I’m not signing anything until you at least tell me who you’re representing.”

He smiled and said, “You remind me so much of your mother, Amelia. She was just as feisty as you are.”

I felt the blood drain from my face as I asked, “You…you knew my mom?”

My parents died in a car accident when I was fourteen. A drunk driver killed them on their way back home from their date night. My parents were very successful. My dad, Miguel Sanchez, was a famous mystery writer and my mom, Amelia Sanchez, was a painter. When they died, I went to a boarding school in Europe under a new identity until I graduated. When I returned to Miami, I lived my life simply in order to keep my anonymity.

“I met her through your dad. We all went to college together. I was his college roommate, then his attorney when he signed his first book deal. Once he moved to New York, I stayed in Miami, but we always kept in touch. When you were born, he asked me to write his will. I’m actually your godfather, Gabriel. The last time I saw you, I think you were seven. With my job, I didn’t have much time to travel I’m afraid and after your parents died, I didn’t want to bring the media to your doorstep.”

I took an ink pen from the table and signed the agreement.

“Thank you” he cleared his throat as he grabbed the manila folder and handed it to me.

“Open it” he ordered.

Inside was a black leather Moleskine journal like the ones my dad loved to write in. I picked it up and smelled his cologne embedded in the pages. Memories of him sitting in his office every morning, freshly showered and shaved, emptying the dreams and ideas from his head into his journal came flooding back. When I was little, I used to climb in his lap as he was writing, watching the pen glide across the pages and he always let me put the ribbon bookmark in so he knew where to start again the next morning.

When I was thirteen, he gave me my very first Moleskine for my birthday. He would leave me his writing ideas in the back pocket of my journal, so I could tell him what I thought about them. Instead of journaling, I took after my mom’s love of drawing and used my journal for drawing whatever caught my eye. The pages were great for all the art mediums I used and I loved being able to create something new each day without worrying about anything bleeding through the pages.

I took another sniff and moved the black band out of the way so that I could open it. I immediately went to the pocket in the back and pulled out a small piece of paper with a series of numbers on it.

“That is the reason I had you sign the confidentiality agreement. Your mom and dad’s family did not want them to get married. After the wedding, they cut ties with them completely, but as they grew more and more successful, family members came out of the woodwork…demanding things.”

“What things?” I asked.

He chuckled, “Anything. Everything. When they refused their demands, their family would sell stories about them to the media. Your parents wanted to protect you from their venom most of all which is why they ensured that the royalties from their projects went into an overseas account that I have been overseeing since they died ten years ago. They wanted you taken care of, but they wanted to make sure that their family wouldn’t harm you in order to steal their money. I waited to contact you so they would lose interest in finding you.”

“How much money are we talking?” I asked slowly.

“When I checked this morning, your account was worth about $300 million dollars. Well, with the exchange rate, it is closer to half a billion, but it is yours to do what you wish. If you want to be a millionaire, I can give you whatever paperwork you need to make it look legitimate. If you want to stay in solitude, I can deposit whatever amount you want annually so that you’re financially comfortable. The choice is yours.”

“Can I think about it?” I asked.

“Yes, but you don’t have much time. Your cousin, Talia, drove you here.”