That got a real laugh, brief as it was.
Then he said, gentler, “Natalie, your father knew this would be painful. He also knew that clarity is often cruel at first.”
After I hung up, I sat in that room until the light changed from gold to amber. Then I opened the other things from the safe.
The ring of keys had a faded leather tag attached to it.
Carmel cottage.
There was a deed in my name, dated last month, and a folded sticky note in Dad’s handwriting: For when you need quiet. The sunrise is spectacular.
My vision blurred all over again.
Under the keys was a small flash drive. I plugged it into Dad’s old laptop and found three files: scanned property documents, a recording of my father speaking from hospice, and a voicemail export labeled Dress.
I clicked that one first.
A woman’s voice filled the room. One of our housekeepers.
“Mrs. Morrison, I wanted to let you know Ms. Rebecca from your husband’s office stopped by Thursday while you were at the hospital. Mr. Morrison let her in to pick up some paperwork. I saw her leave with a navy garment bag. I thought maybe you knew, but then I remembered your blue dress was in your closet last week, so I wanted to mention it. Sorry if I’m mistaken.”