The Rng Chapter 4

 

HENRY WILLIS    

THE VOLVO PURRED down the street. Twelve years old. The car still ran like new, well, new with replacement parts, oil changes, and tender loving care. Henry’s car was his buddy. It had driven him to a lot of memories.

Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t care that much about new cars. His neighbor on one side had a Mercedes, the one on the other a Tesla. No way would he own a Tesla, not as long as that pumped up, arrogant squirrel had anything to do with the company.

By rights he should be a Republican. He and Medora had enough discussions, if one wanted to call it that, about the parties. Right before she died, Medora was mellowing. That wasn’t age but what they saw on the news, which sometimes they watched together.

Turning into his driveway, he smiled. He liked his house bought in the early 1980s. And unlike friends and clients with huge mortgages his had long been paid off. Henry knew he wasn’t a traditional consumer, but half frugal Yankee with a successful real estate agency.

His neighborhood had been built after World War II, an upscale Levittown. Over the decades, the houses no longer looked alike with additions, window changes and more.

The early days, when he was building his agency which now had 10 offices in the area, he wanted to move up to something bigger, better.

His wife had said no. The house was her home and if it had gained in value so be it. She wasn’t moving.

Interestingly, many of their neighbors felt the same. None seemed to follow the financial advice shown on television and sided with his wife.

Because it was a dead-end street, their kids played ball in the road. In the summer the families had neighborhood barbecues. Two had swimming pools which they opened to all at pool parties and relief from extra hot days.

When Mary died in a car crash, Henry was inundated with food as if every house sheltered a caterer just waiting to make a casserole.

He could have finally gotten a bigger house, but he couldn’t bring himself to sell his memories. Mary had been right.

Medora lived three doors down and had been widowed five years before Mary’s death. The two women had been friends.

It was natural the widow and widower would start dating, which thrilled the neighbors. Curtains were peeked through whenever the two left together or one went into the other’s house.

What they didn’t know, it was more of a friendship with very, very rare benefits. Sometimes a bad day for one or the other would lead to a cuddle then an overnight.

When Henry saw Medora’s daughters’ cars in Medora’s driveway, he guessed they were going through their mother’s belongings trying to decide what to keep and what to sell.

He had assigned his best real estate agent to help them with the sale. He told them he was too closely involved to be their direct agent. Margo understood, Heather did not.

He had a mission. A day before Medora died, she slipped a ring from a blue velvet box. When she opened it, he tried to remember if she wore it ever. Medora seldom wore anything but her wedding ring. Henry took that as a sign she didn’t want a new relationship.

For the same reason he continued to wear his wedding ring. When he was younger women would hit on Henry, but that hadn’t happened for a long time.

“Can you make sure Margo gets this, not Heather? It was my grandmother’s and her mother’s,” Medora said. Her voice had been weak, but the words were clear.

Henry wanted to make sure he had heard correctly. He had.

He knew Medora had no understanding of her younger daughter, where Heather was a golden-haired child. Even if he disagreed with Medora’s assessment of her girls, he felt that he had no right to interfere, so he took the ring, a gold leaf with diamonds in the middle. He slipped the ring into his shirt pocket.”

“It goes to the youngest girl. Family tradition. Not sure I understand it.” She took a hit of morphine. “It is what it is.”

He watched her eyes close.

“I’m so tired.”

Henry put the memory of the conversation aside and went home to get the ring. He didn’t drive back to Medora’s house, but walked, the ring safely in the blue velvet box.

 

He had a mission. A day before Medora died, she slipped a ring from a blue velvet box. When she opened it, he tried to remember if she wore it ever. Medora seldom wore anything but her wedding ring. Henry took that as a sign she didn’t want a new relationship.

For the same reason he continued to wear his wedding ring. When he was younger women would hit on Henry, but that hadn’t happened for a long time.

“Can you make sure Margo gets this, not Heather? It was my grandmother’s and her mother’s,” Medora said. Her voice had been weak, but the words were clear.

Henry wanted to make sure he had heard correctly. He had.

He knew Medora had no understanding of her younger daughter, where Heather was a golden-haired child. Even if he disagreed with Medora’s assessment of her girls, he felt that he had no right to interfere, so he took the ring, a gold leaf with diamonds in the middle. He slipped the ring into his shirt pocket.”

“It goes to the youngest girl. Family tradition. Not sure I understand it.” She took a hit of morphine. “It is what it is.”

He watched her eyes close.

“I’m so tired.”

Henry put the memory of the conversation aside and went home to get the ring. He didn’t drive back to Medora’s house, but walked, the ring safely in the blue velvet box.