Roz Denny Fox - Annie's Neighborhood

That had all taken place thirty-four years ago—her entire lifetime, Annie thought, wiping away tears of grief. For the past fourteen years she’d lived and worked in L.A. The truth was that she’d fled Briar Run because the boy she’d dated for two years and was sure she loved and loved her in return had let his parents break them up over Annie’s iffy parentage. That created a grievance, which stuck with her long after Gran Ida informed her Brock Barnard and his family had moved away. The hurt went so deep, Annie hadn’t been able to come back to Briar Run even for short visits until two weeks ago, when it became clear that Gran desperately needed her.

During those intervening years she had earned a master’s in social work, and had taken a job in L.A. Her hours as a caseworker in a depressed area were horrendous. Her original aim had been to help young women like her mother. In the back of her mind, she’d foolishly imagined finding her father—which never happened. Letting an unknown, uncaring dad and Brock Barnard’s rejection drive her decisions for so long made no sense. And now, too late, Annie wrestled with guilt for avoiding Briar Run all this time.

And why hadn’t she insisted Gran come and live with her? Maybe she could have gotten her the kind of medical care that might have prolonged her life. Gran loved her yearly visits to the coast, and Annie always sent her plane tickets. But Gran never stayed for more than a month. For the remainder of the year they spoke on the phone every Sunday evening. That felt like a cop-out now. She should have noticed signs of heart trouble during Gran Ida’s last visit. She’d chalked up Gran’s occasional memory lapses to old age. Annie truly hadn’t suspected something might be seriously wrong. Not until a neighbor called to say Ida had trouble finding her way home from the grocery store. Or she’d put a kettle of water on the stove and let it burn dry. Annie had immediately phoned Gran’s doctor. He’d said bluntly that Annie needed to come to Kentucky and arrange assisted living for Ida, whose arteries were hardening—arteriosclerotic heart disease, he’d called it.

Taking any time off meant Annie had to dump her caseload on her overburdened coworkers—which took her a while. Then, after she got here, Gran flatly refused to discuss moving to a senior center anywhere, certainly not one in California. In fact, these past two weeks Gran had talked and acted as if Annie’d come home to stay.

The car stopped behind the hearse, next to a grassy knoll where a blue canopy stood. Annie’s mind blanked when the funeral director opened her door, helped her out and led her to where Ida’s pastor waited at the head of an open grave. Copious tears clogged her throat. Few people had come to the graveside service. Annie acknowledged Ida’s next-door neighbors, the Gilroys and the Spurlocks. There was a well-dressed older gentleman she recalled seeing at church, but she didn’t know him.

After the minister wound down a short eulogy, too short in Annie’s estimation, mourners murmured condolences and drifted away. Annie hadn’t planned a reception. First, she didn’t think she could face one. Also, even Gran Ida had said a lot of their old friends and neighbors had moved away.

Annie bent to place a long-stemmed white rose on Gran Ida’s casket. Gran Ida loved flowers, roses in particular.

The well-dressed stranger approached as Annie straightened. He gave her a business card, saying, “I’m Oliver Manchester, Ms. Emerson. I handle your grandmother’s legal affairs. We should meet at your earliest convenience to go over Ida’s will, you being her only heir,” he said.

Annie had been so grief-stricken by Gran’s death, she hadn’t thought beyond arranging a funeral. She read the man’s card and tried to compose her response. “I, ah, left my rental car at the funeral home. If you’re free at one o’clock,” she said after a glance at her watch, “I can stop by. I’m anxious to get everything sorted out because I need to get back to my job in L.A. as soon as possible. I only arranged for a four-week leave.”

“One o’clock is good. Our meeting shouldn’t take long. I must admit, though, I was under the impression that you weren’t returning to California. When Ida phoned me to say you were coming, she indicated you’d be staying on to help revive the neighborhood.”

Annie frowned. Her grandmother had said something similar to her several times. She hadn’t argued, and now there seemed no point in making excuses to Mr. Manchester. She tucked his business card in her purse without further comment, and watched him walk to a dark blue sedan. As he drove away, Annie belatedly wished she’d asked if her grandmother had many outstanding bills. Oh, well, it didn’t matter; she was prepared to settle them. For a number of years she’d sent Gran Ida regular checks to cover rising food and living costs. Considering how badly the once-pristine home needed painting, Annie wished she’d sent more. What she really wished was that she’d made time to visit. Once again her heart constricted with guilt. If Gran had ever said she needed her, Annie would’ve come. Now all that might have enticed her to stay was gone.

* * *

IT WAS TEN after one when Annie jockeyed her subcompact rental car into an on-street parking spot outside Oliver Manchester’s office. Climbing out, she paused to lock the door, and tightened her grip on her purse; she’d noticed that all the offices and shops had iron grates installed over their doors and windows.

She racked her brain, but couldn’t recall Gran’s ever mentioning the town’s business district going downhill.

At the barred door, Annie read a typed sign instructing callers to push a buzzer for admission. Strangely this reminded her of the area where she worked—in the tough, run-down neighborhoods of south L.A.

A woman opened the door and unlocked the outer grate after Annie supplied her name. “Mr. Manchester’s expecting you,” she said. “Would you care for coffee, or perhaps a cold soda, before you go into your meeting?” She smiled at Annie as she relocked the grate.

“No, thank you. Mr. Manchester told me he didn’t expect this to take long.”

Nodding, the woman opened a door and announced Annie’s arrival. She stood aside, letting her enter a private office. The attorney’s office was posh in the manner of old-time Southern aristocrats. The dark green pile carpet was deep. Leather chairs and an oversize mahogany desk befitted a well-to-do lawyer. Oil paintings graced his walls, and crystal decanters sparkled on a corner bar. It was easy to see why Manchester wanted to protect his belongings with bars.

He came around his desk to pull out a chair for Annie. “I’ve gathered all of Ida’s files,” he said, retaking his seat. He opened a manila folder and indicated a spreadsheet on his computer screen.

Annie blanched. Surely Gran Ida couldn’t be so much in arrears that it required a spreadsheet.

“I’m sure you know Ida worked as a lead seamstress for a local lingerie factory until it went out of business.”

“Yes.” Annie’s voice reflected a modicum of pride. “During my senior year of high school, Gran was honored as the company’s longest-serving employee. Her award was a brand-new sewing machine we put to good use sewing my college wardrobe.”

“Ida could have retired well before then. She was fifty-six when you came into her life, and she felt the need to prove to Family Services that she was able to care for you.”

“For which I’m grateful.” Annie smiled.

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Ida bequeathed you the house, of course. It’s a bit of an albatross, I’m afraid, given how this community has declined in the three years since the glove factory, our last major employer, shut down.”