Uncle Burton’s Little Black Book

I opened the door to a delivery man who had me sign for a large manila envelope. I thanked him and wished him a good day.

I was trying to remember if I had ever had to sign for a delivery before. I’d never been involved in anything important enough for anyone to send me something that required a signature.

There was a return address on the envelope, but I didn’t recognize it. I dawned on me that the name seemed to be a group of lawyers.

Was I being sued?

“I think they send a summons,” I told myself, but my stomach began to churn, and I went to the table trembling with trepidation.

Why would anyone sue me?

It was stupid, a totally ridiculous idea. I almost never left the house these days, and when I did I went to perform the most mundane of errands: grocery shopping, gassing the car or taking a home-cooked meal to my uncle.

Well, I hadn’t done that for a while. Uncle Burton had died a few months past, one of the many victims of the world-wide plague. I missed him. He’d been my last living relative. My parents had been gone for years, I was an only child, and so far I hadn’t married or produced offspring of my own.

Getting married and having kids was low on my to-do list, especially during this raging epidemic. I just stayed in my little flat, designing logos for the advertising firm I worked for and using the internet as my main work tool. Meeting Mr. Right was a pipe dream.

I studied the envelope on the table in front of me. I concluded that there was no reason to be afraid of opening it. Even if someone had decided to sue me, it would be woefully apparent in due course that I had nothing to offer but a laptop and a television set. Good luck with that.

I opened my mail.

Inside, I found a letter, a smaller sealed envelope and a slim black notebook.

“Dear Ms. Wells,

“Enclosed, please find the last will and testament of one Burton Wells, your uncle. You have been named heir of his estate, as the last remaining member of the family. However, this inheritance comes with a condition that must be fulfilled.

“After you have read the enclosed document, please call and speak with Mr. Matthews. He will be able to better explain the situation.

“Sincerely,

“Robert Hermanson, Esq.”

I was an heiress!

Wait—Uncle Burton didn’t really have anything. Sure, there was the tiny house, which—if he did leave it to me—was just the right size for a woman in my circumstances. It was paid for, and I would certainly love not having to pay rent.

So…conditions, huh?

I opened the envelope.

Inside, I found a slim packet listing assets that would be mine once I agreed to take on the task Uncle Burton was presenting me with. There was the house, a car, stocks and bonds and a retirement fund. The last page was a Xerox copy of a check, made payable to me, in the sum of $20,000.

The assets were worth more than the check, but according to his will, that would be my total inheritance unless I agreed to take care of his last chore.

“Good grief! This is crazy!”

Chloe, my tiny mix-breed rescue dog, looked up from her little bed, her eyes bright and enquiring. I showed her the black notebook. “Uncle Burt’s little black book, Chloe,” I told her. “I get to call all the women listed in here and tell each of them that he died, and that he loved them to the very end.”

Chloe gave a low bark, and I swear she was laughing at me.

I pulled out my cell phone and called the law firm, asking for Mr. Matthews.

When he came on the line, he said, “Melinda Wells?”

“Yes.”

“Are you laughing or crying over this?”

“Well, my dog thinks it’s funny.” I rolled my eyes at Chloe.

Mr. Matthews had a delightful laugh—his voice was deep and…sexy.

Uh, not the time, Mel!

“Apparently, your uncle was something of a lady’s man.”

“News to me,” I admitted.

“I knew him for years,” Mr. Matthews said. “I was surprised, too.”

“So, now what?” I asked.

“Honestly, it’s up to you. All you have to do is make the calls. When you’re done, everything will be signed over to you. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll deliver the check for $20,000. You’ll be done with it.”

I considered this quietly for a moment. Then I asked, “That’s it? Call on the phone, deliver the sad news, and I get the house, car, everything?”

“Everything, including the $20,000.”

“Wait—that’s a whole separate thing that I get in either case?”

“Yes.” Mr. Matthews laughed again, and a chill went up my spine. “I know it sounds simple, but have you opened the book yet?”

“No…” I eyed the slim black notebook. It wasn’t that big; how hard could it be?

Mr. Matthews’ laughter was giving me a different, less pleasant chill now. I opened the cover of the book and gasped.

His handwriting, neat and tiny, filled every page. Name, address, phone number, about ten per page; how many women was I going to have to call?

“Oh. My. God!” I cried. “Stop laughing, Mr. Matthews! It’s not funny! When did Uncle Burton ever have time for this many women? Oh, my!”

I started laughing, too. I couldn’t help myself.

Mr. Matthews gave a huge guffaw and cleared his throat loudly. “Ahem! Well, what do you think? Shall I deliver the check?”

“Oh, man. This is going to take a while…”

“Oh, cool. You’re going to do it.” He paused. “No cheating!”

“How on earth would I cheat? Take out an ad? Do a group chat?”

We were laughing again, and suddenly, I wanted to see the face of the man who could laugh with me and sound so…I don’t know. Intriguing? It’s just a laugh, I told myself.

“All calls must be from you, personally.” He sighed. “It’s going to take a while, that’s for sure. I didn’t count, but—”

“Rough estimate?” I giggled. “Over two thousand. Good grief, who could have guessed it? I always thought he was a lonely man!”

“Me, too.”

His orders were to monitor my progress at the end of each day—over dinner or coffee. I could feel my eyes narrowing with suspicion as Mr. Matthews laid out my uncle’s plan. “Do you get the idea that there’s more to this than just…this?” I asked. “You’re not a single man, are you?”

“I am,” he admitted, and laughed again. “Hey, if nothing else, we get paid and he gets his way regardless of the outcome.”

“Yeah…I guess…” I didn’t admit that I was attracted to his laugh. He didn’t admit that my ability to laugh at this absurdity was attractive for him, either. We agreed to the crazy plan and to meet in person.

That first day, I began with page number one, woman number one, and over the course of a few hours, repeated the message, “Hello, is this so-and-so? It is? Good. I’m calling to inform you that my uncle, Burton Wells, has passed away. He wanted me to let you know, and to tell you that he loved you until his dying day.”

This announcement was met, unfailingly, with cries of dismay, condolences for me and words of gratitude.

At our first meeting, Mr. Matthews informed me that his name was Michael, and since we’d be spending considerable time together, we should be on a first-name basis. I agreed.

“This is pretty crazy,” I informed him. I sipped my coffee. “I spent all day on the phone, and not one woman seemed angry or upset—I am so curious now! How long did this go on? There had to have been break-ups. Did he leave anything else? Diaries or something?”

Michael shook his head. “At some point you may find something in the house, but for now it has been sealed to anyone except the cleaners that went in and removed perishable foods when he died.”

“I thought that meant the house was going into probate,” I admitted.

“Not exactly.”

Things progressed even slower than I’d anticipated. Every woman I called felt a need to share some memory with me—which was nice, but time consuming. I considered it a good day when I got through thirty calls, which happened less often than you’d think.

In the meantime, I got to know Michael. We progressed from coffee to dinner. Our conversations began to be more about us than Uncle Burton. We visited museums and went to movies and started spending time at my apartment or at his.

Eventually, I did get through the black book, and collected my inheritance.

I realized with amusement that my uncle had been looking out for me all along, with his plan to get me to honor his final wishes. He arranged a meeting between me and a man he admired and liked, and made sure we’d spend enough time together to get to know one another.

It’s amusing now to think that we both thought Uncle Burton was a crazy and lonely eccentric. Uncle Burton was a lady’s man, a hopeless romantic and crazy like a fox. He got his way in all things. I have been Mrs. Michael Matthews for six months now. We live in the little house, drive the car and put that twenty thousand dollar check into a trust fund for any future offspring we might be blessed with.

Thanks, Uncle Burton! You’ve made me rich far beyond the value of money.