The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 5

Morning broke as a clammy, dismal, and drizzly day, more like what passes for winter here in San Diego than the middle of spring. Clouds hung low to the ground as the early fog lifted into them. I felt surrounded by the dreary gloom as I stepped outside.

The weather might have irritated me any other day. But somehow, it seemed perfectly appropriate for meeting with the probate attorney for Dad's estate.

I ran to my Uber as it pulled up, holding a newspaper over my head, and it took me downtown to an older three-story brick office building. While waiting in the anteroom, I pondered the floor-to-ceiling dark walnut paneling and matching solid wood trim. I considered the deep maroon leather-upholstered chairs, indirect lighting, and copies of oil paintings from artists of the 1800s. I idly contemplated whether the attorneys had chosen the solemn, almost depressing décor on purpose to suit the nature of their business. Or perhaps the lawyers inherited these offices already done this way and thought they were attractive. Was it verboten or considered in poor taste to cast a more positive vibe?

As I considered the architectural choices made by otherwise reasonable legal minds, I nibbled on a Ferrero Rocher hazelnut ball. A chocoholic as long as I can remember, I've often wondered how I've stayed so trim. By rights, I should weigh three hundred pounds. Jessica, my then-BFF, accused me of selling out my virginity for a Dove chocolate bar. She wasn't wholly wrong. I can only say in my defense that he was smoking hot, and it was Valentine's Day.

But my musings would have to end. The administrative assistant at the desk defending the entrance to the attorney's office held two fingers to the speaker on her headset. She then turned to me and said, "Ms. Wynn, Mr. Hanniquet can see you now."

William Hanniquet had been Dad's lawyer for many years, providing for his corporate legal needs. He was one of Dad's most trusted associates in his construction enterprises. I'd visited many times as a child when Dad had business with him. Hanniquet was an older, slender, white-haired gentleman with a mustache and goatee, wearing a quaint bowtie. Colonel Sanders would have been immensely proud. He rose to his feet, stepping around the end of the desk to take my hand as I entered.

"Well, Debra Ann, it is good to see you again. I am sorry it has to be under these circumstances. Please, have a seat," Hanniquet said as he extended his left hand to offer me the chair in front of his mahogany desk.

"Before the funeral, I think the last time we saw each other was at my graduation from USC Annenberg," I replied as I settled into the comfortable tufted leather seat. "Your daughter and I both got our masters that day – we shared a lot of classes because mine was journalism and hers was public relations. I've always thought it was nice that you stopped by to share in the congratulations, Mr. Hanniquet. I heard she's with the governor's office now."

"Please, just call me Bill. Yes, she's doing really well. I remember your father was so proud. I know it gave him great pleasure to tell others about your career. I still have the draft he gave me of your Fat Leonard piece. Great work."

"Thanks, Bill, that's good to hear. I thought it was one of my better articles. Still, you always secretly wonder what real people think," I said with a little laugh.

"I was glad to hear you'd moved on from the paper after that," Bill said with a nod. "You wouldn't have been able to find and push the limits of your talents in that environment."

"I appreciate you saying that. The timing could have been better, something I probably should have considered when it happened," I said, raising an eyebrow and lifting a corner of my mouth. "I hated to leave a situation that paid the bills. But I needed to do other things. It was something that had been building for a while."