Heart of Stone, page 7
I threw them in the back seat of the Tesla and drove to the nearest Goodwill store, leaving them on the doorstep before I could think twice about it.
The last thing to do was discard the dirty laundry, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I dumped it all out onto the shining wood floor, plucking a white-collared shirt from the pile, held it to my nose, and inhaled. It still smelled like Trevor, that combination of his cologne and the warmth of his skin. I gripped it with tight fingers, wetting it with my tears as I cursed the unfairness of it all.
In a moment of weakness, I folded the shirt carefully, as if it would disintegrate in my hands if I was too rough, and tucked it under my pillow.
The rest of the clothes I gathered into my arms and carried out into the backyard, cramming them into the sunken fire pit, doused them in gasoline and lit them on fire. Tomorrow I would see Trevor’s body for the last time before he was cremated, so today, I would do the same for the last traces of him that haunted this home. He felt so little joy here, just anxiousness, stress, and crippling paranoia. It felt right to release him from that in all possible ways.
I watched the fire burn with a lump in my throat and sank down on one of the stone benches that ringed the fire pit, wiping my eyes. It was a heavy, private moment. One that I would probably look back on a lot throughout my life. I felt the beginnings of peace, but at the same time, utterly alone.
“Why am I not surprised that you insisted on doing this all on your own?”
Jumping up from the bench, I squeaked, a hand coming up to cover my mouth as I turned to face the interloper that was interrupting me. Once I saw who it was, I relaxed and wasn’t at all surprised that he had found me.
“Maestro,” I breathed in relief. “You scared me.”
He smiled, that knowing look on his face that I was all too familiar with. The expression showed off his smile lines and those tiny crinkles at the corners of his sparkling, heterochromatic eyes. One was the palest blue, like the sky reflecting off fresh snow, and the other a deep brown that was almost black.
“I won’t apologize. You should have been more aware, but I’ll give you a pass after all you’ve been through, lovely Rachel.”
Had it been anyone besides Maestro, a shiver would have run up my spine at his words, but I never felt threatened by him. I had told only those that I was forced to tell about Trevor’s death, and Maestro wasn’t one of them, but the reasoning was two-pronged. One, because Maestro didn’t have a phone number or even an address as far as I knew. Two, because I have come to expect Maestro to know everything under the sun without being told. It added to his mystery.
I was younger when I first met him, having made the drive out to a nearby lake at sunset to ponder the course of my life. I remember sitting on the still-warm hood, knees tucked up to my chest, as the daylight faded, and I was trying to make a choice that felt almost impossible at the time. I could move to LA and pursue my career in hopes of becoming a star, or I could stay in my hometown and continue dating my high school sweetheart, hoping it would work out.
I had felt torn in two directions; my first love and my first genuine passion in life. I had felt hopeless when Maestro first spoke to me.
“Fear tricks us into leading a boring life. Did you know that?” His voice was smooth like caramel.
I had jumped then too. “What? Who are you?”
“Just call me Maestro,” he instructed. “So, what’s it going to be, Rachel? Fear or a boring life?”
“How did you know my name?” I wondered out loud. He continued to look at me patiently, waiting for an answer. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know,” I blurted, those different-colored eyes dragging the answer out of me.
“How about this? Choose fear, and the possibilities it will gift you with, and I will guide you in your times of need. Choose a boring life, and, well, there will be nothing for me to lead you to.”
He radiated calm knowledge and approachable power, and in his words, the answer to the questions I had been asking myself suddenly clicked into place.
“I’ll go,” I said in awe.
“Good girl,” he replied. “I’ll see you again soon.”
Since that day, Maestro had come into my life periodically, always when I was on the verge of a big decision or when I needed to see my path in life more clearly. I never knew his real name, where he came from, or even how he seemed to know me so well. Something about his aura made me trust him intrinsically.
Back in the present, seeing Maestro filled me with a sense of rightness. If he had come to see me, then I was moving in the right direction.
He was a man in his mid to late fifties, dark salt and pepper hair fading to silver at his temples. Tall and thin, Maestro reminded me of a modern wizard, his face handsome and his advice almost magic. He never wore the same thing, but his clothes were always tailored perfectly to his body. For this meeting, he wore a casual navy suit with the buttons of the jacket open and no tie.
With a long-fingered hand, he waved at me to sit, and he took a seat on the stone bench next to me. We watched the clothing burn for a few minutes, his presence giving me the modicum of comfort I had been craving.
“I want to tell you something that will help you in the future, even if at first it seems completely unrelated to this situation you find yourself in,” he said eventually, breaking the companionable silence. I turn my body slightly towards his, ready to listen.
“This is advice I would usually give to a man seducing a woman, but it will also be a skill you’ll need soon, and that skill is confidence. Confidence is key, and the way to exude the confidence is to always make eye contact with someone you want to be drawn into your charm.”
“I think I’m pretty confident already,” I commented, a bit confused by his words.
“Yes, but you’ll need this confidence to get the answers you seek. Making eye contact when speaking with someone will make you powerful, convey your interest, and make people more likely to trust you. If you were seducing someone, it would express that you were confident and interested enough to pursue something more. For you right now, it will open doors and avenues that would otherwise be closed.”
I thought about what he said, absorbing his words, and, as they always did, they both calmed and invigorated me for the difficulties of the path ahead. “I’ll remember that. Thank you, Maestro.”
He stayed with me a little longer, a silent source of companionship, watching the cleansing fire and letting the heat roll over us even in the oppressive Texas weather.
Finally, he stood, graceful and smooth in his movements, and nodded once toward me. “I’m sure I will see you again.”
With an appreciative smile on my face, I watched him walk away toward the front of the house. I knew I wouldn’t see him leaving in any car, and at this point in my life, I was well aware that following him was futile. I’d learned to accept the gifts of wisdom he offered me without asking any questions, and I was glad to have them, especially now.
While I held my own private burning, I was terrified of what the next day would bring. At least Trevor had handled his burial wishes long before he died, so I wouldn’t be stuck picking out caskets and suits for him to be buried in, but a direct cremation just seemed so final and almost brutal in a way. There would be no grave for me to visit and lay flowers on, only a jar of ash.
Face turning red and the smell of campfire weaving its way deep into my hair, I leaned forward and rested my chin in my hands, lost in thought, as the last pieces of my almost-husband that I could reach burned down to ashes.
This was it, the peak that I had been hurtling towards ever since Trevor died. I had looked at myself in the mirror, over and over again, changing my clothes for what felt like dozens of times, trying to find the right thing to see Trevor for our last meeting.
I wavered between wearing something Trevor would have loved and dressing like I was going into battle against the unfairness of it all. The choice was between a lemon yellow sundress that my fiancé had spent many a suntan-lotion scented afternoon peeling off me, or a meticulously tailored black blazer and ankle pants with a crisp linen button-up spotless black Louboutin’s. One made me feel like Trevor’s girl and had memories of our time together in every stitch. The other made me feel powerful, untouchable, and in control.
I went with the suit.
I met with Trevor’s lawyer, a cagey sort of man with a corner office in one of the high-rises in downtown Dallas. He handed me a nearly empty folder, and I sank into a leather chair across from his desk, opening the folder to look through my documents.
“I’m assuming no one else is coming to this will reading?”
The lawyer shook his head. “Only you, ma’am. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Alright.” I sighed. I had been hoping to meet someone, anyone, that knew Trevor beside me, but it looked like it would not work out that way.
He cleared his throat, picking up a pair of reading glasses off his desk and perching them on his nose. “Alright, Miss Rachel Starr, Mr. Trevor Smith has left you all of his worldly possessions. If you flip to the third document in your folder, you can see the list of assets and bank accounts that you now have access to, as well as the temporary access codes. I’d recommend consolidating them into one account.”
I pulled out the paper he was referring to, eyes darting over it, until something stopped me with a jolt. “My name was already on these accounts? And they’re all overseas accounts?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
In disbelief, I brought the paper closer to my face. “It says they are all in my name, as if I am the primary account holder. Why would he do that? Why not have the accounts in his name?”
The lawyer coughed, giving me an uncomfortable glance. “In Mr. Smith’s delicate line of work, it isn’t odd for some assets to be kept under a family member's name, just for safekeeping.”
“I–” I shake my head in disbelief. “I didn’t know they existed. I never gave him permission … and what do you mean ‘his line of work’? He was just an art appraiser.”
“As I said, Miss Starr, it’s my recommendation that you consolidate all these accounts and place them in a new one that you open yourself. If you like, for a nominal fee, we can set you up with a financial advisor–”
“Never mind.” I cut him off, knowing that getting into the implications of multiple overseas accounts would be too much for me in my current state of mind. “I’ll have my own attorney look over all of this later. What else is there?”
“Other than the accounts, there are the titles to his vehicles, and the deed to his house. If you’ll notice, Mr. Smith had already transferred them.”
“Transferred them over to me. I see that.” Concentrating on not letting my hands shake, I replaced all the papers and closed the folder. “Why would he do that weeks before he passed? It doesn’t make any sense.”
I know the lawyer knows more than he is letting on, but he isn’t giving me even a morsel of information. “The only person who knows the answer to that question is unfortunately no longer with us.”
I allowed myself a few seconds to pull it together. The accounts alone were worth millions, but the pieces of the puzzle that was Trevor were falling into place too quickly for me to follow. There had to be a reason he had put all of his worldly belongings into my name, but I’d need more time to figure it out.
I thanked the lawyer for his time, exiting his office with the folder clutched to my chest like a lifeline. There was only one more stop for me, and then all of this would be so much closer to being finished.
Heart in my throat, my engagement ring burning on my finger, I drove to the crematorium.
Whereas the portion of Trevor’s will that noted what was to become of his possessions was shockingly short, since it was all going to me, the second part, where he described his final wishes for what was to become of his remains, was much longer.
Trevor wanted a direct cremation. He wanted it done as soon as possible without autopsy, no wake, or final viewing of the body. My stomach flip-flopped when I saw he had purchased his urn just a few weeks before, but like everything else I was encountering today, I pushed it into the back of my mind, to be dealt with later.
The last line of the will was something I would never forgive him for.
“And finally, my partner Rachel Starr is to witness my cremation to ensure that it is done.”
It was probably wrong to hate a dead man, but as I watched from a windowed room above the cremation furnace as his plain, brown cardboard coffin was wheeled to the door of the furnace, I wanted nothing more than to curse him. It was almost unbearable.
As Trevor has requested in his will, the workers lifted the cardboard lid, and brought it down just a foot or so, so I would know for sure it was my fiancé they were cremating.
It was him, the minor amount of makeup the funeral director had applied not quite covering the burn on his cheeks and forehead. But nevertheless, it was his hair, short and straddling the line between red and brown, his proud nose, and the now-pale lips I had kissed countless times before. It was him, and any small, secret hope I had been harboring about this being some sort of mistake died within me.
I nodded at the workers, and they nodded back, lifting the lid and covering him again for the very last time.
I wanted to scream, cry, be sick … but I didn’t. I just remained motionless and stood guard the way he had wanted me to. Damn him.
I had said my goodbyes alone, in the home we shared, and in my heart. Watching as they slid that cardboard box into the furnace was nothing more than watching the curtains close on the final act of a play.
The workers shut the small door behind his casket, locked it, and with a whoomp I hoped to never hear again, the cremation began.
I didn’t vomit until I was out in the parking lot, and I did it in the bushes, so at least no one saw me perilously close to getting bile on my shoes.
I wiped my mouth on one of the dozens of tissues I had been given, in preparation for the weeping I guess I should have done during the cremation, crumpled it up, and threw it into the bushes right along with everything else.
Seeing my car was a welcome relief after the horrific past few hours, and I had almost dragged my exhausted shell into it when someone grabbed my shoulder from behind.
I jumped, turning to see Sheriff Buck, a cardboard box in his arms.
“Miss Rachel, I so hate to see you here alone. This isn’t something a woman should have to do on her own.”
“It’s done,” I said simply. “Can I help you?’
“I was delivering the salvageable things left over from your fiancé’s accident. Here you go.”
I took the box hesitantly, arms buckling only slightly under the weight. “Um. Thanks.”
Once my hands were occupied, he took the opportunity to stroke my arm, the sympathy on his face glaringly false. “If you’d like, I could follow you home in my cruiser. I know grief can make a woman’s behavior erratic.”
I bristled. “A woman’s behavi—you know what? Never mind. I don’t need an escort home, but thanks for bringing me the rest of Trevor’s things.”
I balanced the box on one hip, fumbling behind me for the car’s handle. Finally, once it had opened, I settled the box into the passenger side and climbed into the driver's seat. I tried to close the door, but Buck stepped forward so his knee prevented me from doing so.
I was seconds away from lashing out when he said, “Alright then, just be careful and call if you need anything, darlin’. I know where you live, and I can be there in a flash.” He then stepped back again and shut my door for me, giving me a stupid tip of his hat before sauntering off.
The vague threat didn’t go unnoticed, but my house had a security system that rivaled Fort Knox. Hands clenching the steering wheel, I resisted the urge to dig through the box of belongings, and finally, I was on my way back to my house and the hollow sort of peace it afforded me.
Chapter Eight
Clouds were gathering in the sky, gray and sinister, as I pulled into the driveway of the Lace Elm house. By the time I got out of the car with my depressing plunder in the cardboard box, I had to run to avoid the heavy drops beginning to fall.
Punching in the code to open the door, I kicked off my heels unceremoniously, taking the box directly to the living room floor. Still in my suit, I sat cross-legged next to the box, and tore it open without a second thought.
Mercifully, there weren’t any of the clothes from the night of the accident, just some of the things that must have been in his car. There was a small attaché that looked like it had been packed in a hurry, a pair of bent sunglasses, a metal water bottle, and his wedding band.
Most importantly of all, though, was his laptop.
I pulled the matte black machine out of its case, laying it on my lap like it was made of glass. The case had protected it from too much damage in the crash, but the laptop's outer casing was slightly dented.
I had never dared look at his personal computer, and I had only seen it a few times in passing. He was as secretive about the laptop as he was the office, which meant it must contain at least some of the answers I had been searching for.
I knew that the healthiest thing for me would be to let it all go and forget about any of the little mysteries that had been plaguing my entire relationship. Maybe hire a locksmith to open the office door and a cleaning company to empty it for me until the room was a blank slate.
It would have been easy, and undoubtedly a weight off my shoulders, but the desire to know what had been going on would drive me crazy for the rest of my life if I didn’t at least try to figure it all out.
I opened the laptop with a fair amount of reverence, under no impression that it wouldn’t be password locked. It powered on once I plugged the charger in. One corner of the screen cracked in a starburst of white light, but it was otherwise in one piece.
