The Bequest

"As you know, Lololime has been working hard to expand its market share. We began as clothing designed for pilates workout programs, but we quickly expanded to yoga, running, and racquetball." "I really love the new running line," I say. "Especially the running shorts."

"The images you post from your runs are one of the things that attracted us to you in the first place," Heather says. "But we are now expanding into a whole new realm of activewear. We'll be targeting people in all walks of life, and hopefully bringing a little sophistication and glamour to everyday people. Not just people in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, but also in small towns all over America through our internet sales line. We've redesigned our entire website to be more accessible and give more price point options."

"Really?"

"Until now, we've focused on high quality, moving lower quantity of product with a higher markup. We plan to keep that model, but the reason we're searching for new sponsorships of the highest category, in the amounts we mentioned in our initial email, is that we'd like to find ambassadors who can carry us into new and more expansive markets."

New markets? Lower quality and lower markup, but higher volume?

My image is high end. It's New York glam on a budget, sort of. But the 'budget' is still more than three times what the average American makes. "I'm not sure_"

"We think you're bright, you're at the perfect age for our target demographic, and you have children. That's what we're looking for clothing for the entire family. Bring some class to the everyday, for everyone at home." Class to the everyday? What part of my life is everyday? "My girls go to private schools," I say. "And I-"

"Yes, and we know that's going to be a limitation on your success in this area. It's the reason I'm calling. My boss wants to simply strike you from the list, but I think you can add some depth and dimension to your current posts and expand your following to bring in the 'every woman' even a little more than you already do. Think of it like this. Right now, a lot of normal people watch your account like it's a window into a life they can't ever have. I'm hoping you can open that window and invite them in a bit more."

Uh. Okay.

"How about you focus on trying that for the next, I don't know, thirty days or so, and I'll check back in with you as you do."

"Sure," I say.

But when she hangs up, I realize that I have no idea what she means. Of course, I immediately call my closest influencer friend, GlamBam Thank YouMan. "Zoey!"

"Did they call?” Her voice is way too high pitched, which means she's prepped to celebrate. I need to redirect or I'll hear nothing but shrieking.

"It wasn't a great conversation," I say. "It left me confused." I explain what Heather said. "I just don't know what that means, add dimension." "They want you to do more normal things."

I think about yesterday's post, where I took Maren and Emery to get facials. "Instead of taking the girls to the spa, maybe we get burgers and fries?"

"Sure," Zoey says. "That's a good start."

"But is that enough?" I sigh. "I wish I didn't need to change things."

"Two hundred thousand dollars a year to do three posts a week." Zoey whistles. "I'd jump through a lot of hoops for a contract that promised me that kind of money-for two years."

She's right, clearly, but... "I'm just not sure that burgers and fries are going to be good enough to make us look more accessible." I think for a moment. "Maybe I should, I don't know, paint my own bathroom." That sounds terribly messy, and it would probably take a really long time. "Or I could take the girls ice skating. That's something everyone does, right?"

"Everyone goes ice skating?" I can practically hear Zoey's eye roll through the phone. "Girl, let me think about it and I'll call you back with some ideas. They can't be worse than yours."

By the time I walk back to J. G. Melon's, Roger's already gone. That's a relief I order three burgers and plenty of cottage fries to go. The girls will be thrilled. Now if I can think of a way to photograph that and stay on brand somehow. Maybe if we're sitting in front of Central Park?

Of course, by the time I get everything arranged, the burgers will probably taste disgusting. I check my watch. I was nervous to set up such a late lunch-worried I'd be late to pick up Emery, but this works out perfectly. They call my name, and I grab my bag and scoot out the door. I almost don't realize that my phone is buzzing.

It can't be Lololime again, right? I whip my phone out, careful to keep the bag full of greasy food away from my new silk blouse. I don't recognize the area code, much less the number. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Brooks?"

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Paul Brooks?"

People almost never call me that anymore, not after three and a half years. "Uh, sure. That's me." It's probably a telemarketer. I almost tell him that I don't even own a car, much less need an extended warranty, but something holds me back. "My name is Mr. Swift, Mrs. Brooks. I'm calling with some sad news."

Of course he is. No one ever calls with good news anymore. Whatever happened to the huge checks that one guy brought to your door? Not that anyone I knew ever got one, but it was nice to know the possibility was out there. Now it's just bad news, terrible news, and gosh awful news. "Okay, well, you may as well share it. We aren't getting any younger."

"Ain't that the truth?" He chuckles.

I shouldn't have made a joke. It's only encouraging him to draw this out. I chomp down on an exasperated huff.

"Your late husband's uncle, Jedediah Brooks, has passed away. Your sister-in-law, Abigail Brooks, gave me your number. I'm calling to let you know that your daughters were mentioned in his will."

Jedediah, Jedediah. I rack my brain for any memory of a person named Jedediah. "Is that the uncle who lived on a huge ranch?" My hopes soar. If the girls have inherited a ranch...Maybe I won't even need more dimension. Maybe our fortune, that Paul's death wrecked, might improve through good luck instead of bad.

"It is, indeed. Your husband spent every summer on his uncle's ranch until he turned eighteen. I'm sure he shared many fond memories with you about that time."

If you're loving the book, nel5s.com is where the adventure continues. Join us for the complete experience all for free. The next chapter is eagerly waiting for you!

"Uh, yes." I vaguely remember a few anecdotes about poison oak and stepping in cow pies. "So what exactly did he leave my girls?" If it's even half of what we lost...Paul might have been a monumentally lousy husband, but he was a financial genius. I can still barely think about how he put all our money into brilliant options...that unfortunately expired without being exercised after he died.

I didn't even really know what an option was until one of his co-workers explained that he'd invested heavily in a brilliant portfolio of options that should have yielded close to a hundred million. But options have to be exercised or they expire. And when they expire...they're worthless.

Which is how we wound up penniless, the one good thing about Paul rendered useless by his unexpected death.

For some reason, Mr. Swift has a lot of papers to shuffle. "Well, I was hoping that perhaps your sister-in-law might have already filled you in."

"Abigail?"

"She is your sister-in-law," he says. "Is she not?"

"We aren't very close." The understatement of the year. The first year or two after Paul died, we exchanged Christmas gifts and birthday cards. But since Nate's death, I haven't been sure what to send, much less what words to say. She actually loved her husband, unlike me. I'm sure that made things much harder. "Did she say she was going to call?"

"No, she didn't." Mr. Swift clucks. "Well, your late husband's uncle left a generous bequest to his nephews, or if they predeceased him, which of course they did, to their children. It's essentially his entire estate. All cash, all holdings, the property, the land, and of course, all the cattle."

I can barely breathe. It's all my fondest dreams, finally coming true. Financial stability. An end to my desperate fear that everyone will discover I'm a total fraud and my income will drop to zero. "I'm so sorry for his death, but " "However." He clears his throat. "There is a stipulation."

"A what?" It's something to do with contracts, that much I know. Sometimes I really envy Abigail. Her parents taught her to focus on things that matter, instead of frilly outfits and tiaras made of paste. She must have immediately understood whatever thing Mr. Swift is saying.

"The girls will only receive their equal share of his substantial estate if they relocate to Daggett County, Utah, and live on the ranch for one full calendar year. They're also required to actively work the ranch for that entire year." "Wait. In order to get Uncle Jed's ranch and cows and whatnot, we'd have to move to where?"

"Daggett County, Utah," Mr. Swift says. "It's just south of the Wyoming border. In fact, a portion of the three thousand, five hundred acres that comprise Birch Creek Ranch are actually located in Wyoming."

Lololime is sounding better all the time. "I know less than nothing about ranching," I say. "And my girls are in school."

"I don't think it's possible to know less than nothing," Mr. Swift says. "And I imagine the school year is nearly concluded. I hear that Manila has excellent schools."

How excellent can they possibly be? I groan. "Well, I guess I have a lot to think about."

"You certainly do," he says. "How much time do you need?"

"What happens if we don't come work the ranch?"

"If none of the heirs opt to work the ranch, it will be sold, along with all other property, at auction, and the proceeds will fund Mr. Jedediah Brooks' passion-research into extraterrestrial beings." "Aliens?"

"Even so, Mrs. Brooks. Alien research."

That's ridiculous. "There must be some way to fight this," I say. "I can't possibly pull my kids out of school here. They're at one of the finest schools in America. I'm sure Manila is...fine, but it can't compare to the education I'm providing in New York. I have no idea how they'd ever catch up if we left, even just for one year."

"I'll certainly be happy to send you a will, and you can have your lawyer take a look."

"Fine." I share my email address.

"I'll send it over this evening."

"Thank you," I say. "And Mr. Swift?"

"Yes?"

"What did Abigail say? Did she turn it down, or are they going?"

"She told me emphatically that she plans to decline."

Of course she did. The only thing that might actually make me want to go would be watching Abigail, queen of the corporate world, Miss Composure herself, trying to ride a horse, tie up a calf, and pull eggs out from under a clucking chicken. "I think I'll probably do the same."

As much as I love the impractical dream of lucking into a huge windfall of cash, it's not reality-Lololime's sponsorship is. A two-year contract for regular posts, as many free clothes as I can wear, and the security of knowing that I'll make rent every single month-that's all within my grasp. Or it will be, once I figure out how to add dimension and depth to my posts.

I can't possibly pull the girls out of school in order to chase rainbows.