Chapter 2

Magnanimously, the Reverend agreed that Celeste could stay until high school graduation which would be in three weeks. But he demanded to be let into the home, to photograph the contents. He did not trust Celeste to leave all contents with the home.

“Darius, this the church you been telling me I needed come to?” the other officer finally spoke up.

“Yeah,” the first man agreed.

“Yes, yes, we have worship at…” Reverend Little began, smiling smugly.

“Uh, yeah, no. Don’t think I need hear the word of God from nobody like that,” the second officer said, shaking his head. “God ain’t no bank account, know what I’m saying?”

“Ah! And all banking records, please,” the Reverend brightened. “I demand that I be given access to Mrs. East’s banking records.”

“Wow,” the second officer shook his head in disgust at the reverend’s antics.

“Yeah man, don’t worry ’bout coming to church with me this Sunday,” Darius said. “I won’t be there. And once they find out about this shit? Bet a whole lot of people won’t be there.”

“Grandma did that digital banking,” Celeste thought quickly.

“Okay,” Reverend Little agreed.

“Well, she didn’t give me her password so I have no way of accessing her bank account,” Celeste continued. “Guess you going have go down to the bank and see what they say.”

“Fine, fine,” the man turned to Jamie, who had stood by, looking very uncomfortable from the moment their intended showed herself to have a backbone. “What bank did Clara East use?”

“According to this, the First Union Bank of Myndee,” Jamie said.

Celeste fought against the smirk; Grandma had closed her accounts at First Union when the computer inadvertently charged Clara for an overdraft she had not committed. Despite the bank issuing a full refund and apology, Clara moved everything from First Union to National Commerce Savings & Loan on Halliwell Drive.

“Ma’am? Just for my own understanding,” Celeste said as the minister tried to hustle the attorney to his luxury sedan. “Could you tell me when my grandmother filled out that will?”

“Um, hmm, yes, yes, that, that was March of two thousand and nine,” Jamie verified, looking at the sheaf of paperwork in her pudgy fist.

“Hmm,” Celeste said, then thanked the two officers for their assistance.

She unlocked the door of her home and hurried into the home. Rapidly, she locked the door before Reverend C. Thomas Little could barge in, camera at the ready. She then scampered to the kitchen and almost pulled the junk drawer out of the cabinet.

There, underneath the deck of playing cards that only had forty nine cards, the neatly arranged statements from National Commerce Savings & Loan, packet of rubber bands, the assorted ink pens that had dried up and store receipts dating back to before COVID, Celeste found the packet from Graham Ubelhauser, Attorney At Law. Using the letter opener that had somehow wiggled down to the bottom of the drawer, Celeste opened the envelope.

“Yes!” Celeste breathed a sigh of relief.

In March of 2009, Grandmother had believed that Brian and Allison Clay would care for and raise Celeste. Seeing that the Clay family were financially established, Clara gladly left her estate to the church.

But when she assumed the care of her only granddaughter, Clara had prepared a new will. When she called the Law Office of Werner, Franklin & Associates, the paralegal answering the phone had been rude so Clara decided to go with the office of Graham Ubelhauser. After all, Carl Ubelhauser managed Clara’s investments accounts and did so very masterfully. Besides that, Carl Ubelhauser and the staff of Ubelhauser Investments treated Clara with the deference she believed that she deserved.

“To my beloved granddaughter, Celeste…” Celeste read the new, revised will that was dated December of 2017, the year she’d come to live with her grandmother.

“…The Bible does say we are to tithe one tenth of our possessions to the church…” Clara had stated to Graham Ubelhauser, bequeathing ten percent of her investments to the Reverend Little’s church.

“Ubelhauser and associates,” a pleasant sounding woman answered the telephone.

Graham extended his condolences. Celeste did thank him for the beautiful floral arrangement the firm had sent, then got to the reason for her call. Graham assured Celeste he would take care of everything.

“Tis… You said Tismann? Jamie Tismann?” Graham laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, don’t worry; I’ll take care of this.”

Everything finally resolved, Celeste gave in to the temptation and made herself a whiskey sour. The first sip had the same effect as the previous evening; that curious warmth, that sense of ease and comfort.

A note affixed to the door the following afternoon told Celeste she had a certified letter. She drove to the post office and signed for the letter from her attorney. She smiled when she read that the execution of her grandmother’s will would be on Tuesday at four thirty in the afternoon.

Tuesday afternoon, Celeste entered the lobby of Ubelhauser & Associates and quietly informed the very attractive receptionist whom she was and whom she was there to see. The woman gave Celeste a beaming smile and directed her to take a seat.

“Would you care for coffee? Perhaps a soda?” the woman asked.

Celeste did think it somewhat odd, how the woman swiveled her head.

“Um, no, no thank you,” Celeste said, selecting a seat away from the Reverend and his attorney.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” the woman smiled, now facing Celeste.

“How much longer?” Reverend Little brayed, attempting to sound aggrieved.

“Now that Ms. Clay is here, it should not be too much longer, the woman said, smiling as she punched a number on her computer keyboard. “Yes, Mr. Ubelhauser. Ms. Clay is here.”

Celeste studied the woman’s very pale features. With her black hair and black eyebrows, the whitish looking skin was a sharp contrast. With slim face, slim nose and pouting pale pink lips, Celeste thought the woman was strikingly beautiful.

“Well, we did miss you in church this Sunday,” Reverend Little accused as Celeste sat and waited.

“Seriously? The day after my grandmother’s funeral? You try to have me thrown out of my own home,” Celeste exploded. “And you think I would come to your church? You are a lunatic.”

“Uh, yes, yes sir,” the receptionist said into her headset.

“The word of God…” Reverend Little intoned.

“Is being proclaimed at St. Anthony’s,” Celeste taunted, knowing the reverend’s animus regarding the Catholic Church.

“Ms. Clay? Mr. Little?” the receptionist said, soft, musical voice rising to be heard over their verbal exchange.

“That is Reverend Little,” Reverend Little announced.

“Mr. Ubelhauser will see you now,” she said, not bothering to correct herself. Conference room A; first door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Celeste said as she turned to the hallway.

“You are welcome,” the woman smiled.

Had Jamie Tismann not held onto Reverend Little’s sleeve, he would have knocked Celeste aside in his rush to get to Conference Room A. Looking over once more, Celeste did think it somewhat odd, how the receptionist sat, blankly staring at nothing.

“Again, Ms. Clay, I truly am sorry for your loss,” Graham Ubelhauser said, rising and shaking the young woman’s hand.

When he discovered that he had no claim to the home or to the contents, or to Clara East’s newer luxury sedan, Reverend C. Thomas Little was very unhappy. Graham sat, blandly regarding the man’s histrionics. Jamie Tismann looked very uncomfortable; Celeste believed that this was a normal look for the woman.

“We will sue,” Reverend Little declared.

“Oh, I look forward to the hours I will bill to you,” Graham smiled widely.

Celeste signed documents, received packets, received verbal instructions; her head was swimming by the time she stood to leave Conference Room A. At the last moment, she did ask about retaining Graham Ubelhauser as her personal attorney. The man smiled and had her sit once more.

“Don’t worry; it’s just a few more forms,” he assured the young client. “I know, I know, you’re getting writer’s cramp from all the signing and initialing, but…”

Stepping into the lobby, Celeste saw that the young receptionist was no longer at her post. She shrugged; it was nearly six o’clock in the evening; the young woman was probably off. Stepping outside, she saw the receptionist standing, an aggravated look on her beautiful face.

And Celeste saw the long, thin white cane in the woman’s hand. She also saw the dark glasses on the woman’s face.

“Hi,” she said, approaching the woman.

“Uh. Hi,” the woman agreed, sounding very guarded and physically shrinking away from Celeste.

“I, it’s me, uh, Celeste. Celeste Clay,” Celeste said, assessing the woman’s hesitant nature. “I was just in…”

“Hmm? Oh, oh, the client that was just… Everything go okay?” the woman relaxed.

“Yeah, yeah, better than I had hoped for,” Celeste admitted.

“Oh, oh good,” the woman said, then swiveled her head as they heard a car pull into the parking lot.

The car kept driving past them and the woman huffed in impatience. Celeste watched as another woman exited the building and strode to the car.

“Uh, you, who you waiting on?” Celeste asked as the car sped away.

“Bruce. My brother,” the woman said. “And, golly gosh, no surprise but the butt head is late. Again. I swear to God, he, he would be late to his own funeral.”

“Well, where do you live?” Celeste asked.

“Trenton. Seven twelve Trenton, right by…” the woman said, even pointing to the left toward the lower middle class neighborhood.

“Which is right around the corner from my house,” Celeste said, then giggled, realizing that it truly was her house.

Ashley sent her butt-head brother a text message. Celeste gawked as the cell phone spat out some rapid-fire squawks and Ashley shook her head.

“He forgot,” Ashley informed Celeste as she gripped Celeste’s arm. “Believe that? He’s got one job. ONE JOB and he forgot.”

On the car ride from law office to 712 Trenton Street, Celeste found out that Ashley was totally blind; congenital glaucoma. Her pale features were from a lack of pigmentation but she was not a true albino.

“But burn? Oh, I burn so easy,” Ashley admitted.

“Let me guess; you just love the beach,” Celeste joked and Ashley giggled.

“Hate it,” she agreed. “Once? When I was what? ‘Bout eleven? We went to um, Fort Walton Beach in Florida. They’d just had a hurricane so the water was so nasty, all that seaweed and sand? Oh my God! Sand got everywhere; thought I was never going get all that sand out of my hair or off my skin.”

“Yeah; I don’t even like going to the Heart’s Bend,” Celeste agreed, naming a local beach area that was nestled in a natural sandy bend in the Kelliken River.

“I know? But every year? That’s where my butt head brother wants to celebrate his birthday; Bruce’s birthday’s on the Fourth of July,” Ashley said.

“The fireworks? Yeah, much as I hate Heart’s Bend, it is the best place to watch,” Celeste said, then groaned as she realized she’d just used the word ‘watch’ in front of a blind person.

“Oh God, don’t. All right? Just don’t.” Ashley said, pretty face even prettier as she smiled an easy smile. “I use words like ‘see’ and ‘look’ and ‘watch’ all the time. But you’re right. The Heart’s Bend is the best place to watch the fireworks.”

Pulling up to the house, Celeste blurted out her address, even giving Ashley directions to the house. Inadvertently, she forgot and mentioned that it was the house with the gaily painted wooden wheelbarrow in the front.

“I mean…” Celeste trailed off, feeling very foolish.

“Bive me your phone number?” Ashley asked, fishing her cell phone out of her purse.

They exchanged phone numbers. Ashley thanked Celeste for the ride and got out of the car. Celeste wanted to call out for Ashley to watch out for the car parked in the driveway but restrained her tongue.

Home again, home, in her home, her very own home, Celeste made herself a quick meal. Then she had her first whiskey sour in her own home. Sitting on the recliner, Celeste felt her cell phone buzz and read a text message from Ashley. With a squeal and giggle, Celeste responded.

Through the text messages, Celeste found out that Ashley was nineteen years old. She’d spent every summer at the Louisiana Center for the Blind at a summer camp for blind children. That was where her seemingly incredible independent skills came from.

“All the teachers are blind,” Ashley disclosed. “So, anything they tell you to do? They’ve already done it and know how to do it.”