My Year of Remaining Anonymous

By Danelle Hall

On the surface, Hannah’s bequest to Mandy seems beyond wonderful. When a person has lived her whole life carefully watching pennies, a half million dollar inheritance makes dreams come true. But when the money puts her daughter Cheryl in serious danger, Mandy’s view of Hannah’s gift takes on a whole different perspective.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543926460

Book preview

Almanack

PROLOG

I, Mandy Ryan, have a problem.

Actually I have two problems. I probably have more than that, but I have two problems that are keeping me awake at night.

Sheriff Tom Lennon still lives out in Juniper Flats while I’m in Oklahoma City preparing to start back to work in September. How dumb is that when he’s the best thing to happen since sliced bread. (Sorry. That’s an Okie cliche)

The other problem is how am I ever going to pay off the three credit cards that I trashed out totally during my year in the yurt?

As a result, my current To Do List is troublesome:

CURRENT TO DO LIST

Go back to work and start chipping away at my credit card debt.

Hope for a solution to the Tom dilemma.

Then my good friend Hannah’s will surprised all of us

and I had to revise my To Do List.

REVISED TO DO LIST

Dodge Hannah’s greedy and angry nephew, Henry.

Avoid nasty litigation.

Protect my daughter, Cheryl from serious and totally unexpected danger.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. First came Amarillo, Texas and Hannah’s surprise.

CHAPTER 1

Although I’m an accidental author, I know enough about writing to never start a story with the main character looking in a mirror. It just isn’t done. But Arnold Biehl and I sit at one end of a fine grained mahogany conference table in his office complex in Amarillo, Texas, and there’s a large mirror in a carved mahogany frame across from me.

While Arnold settles the two of us and goes about his duties as host, and soft guitar music spills from hidden speakers, I try without much luck to ignore the smattering of freckles over my forty-three year old face. We won’t talk about my wild rust-colored hair partially tamed into a thick braid. Unfortunately, in spite of mousse and hair spray, it still looks like I have my fingers in an electric socket.

Who is Arnold Biehl, and why am I sitting in his office? That’s a question that has haunted me since my good friend Hannah died. Before she died, Hannah made me promise I’d go see her lawyer. It’s taken me until now, several months in fact, to be able to face this trip. But here I am now in Amarillo, Texas sitting across the conference table from Arnold Biehl.

Arnold, round faced and young looking, is the man I saw talking with Hannah’s nephew Henry at her funeral. I also met him when Hannah rode to Oklahoma City with me that one time. So we’re not exactly strangers. Still I appreciate his gentle lead-in to the reason I’m here. My father, he explains to me, handled Hannah’s affairs for many years until he retired. Now I handle her affairs.

I’m grateful he speaks of Hannah in the present tense. As if she’s sort of gone, but not really gone.

Hannah was my fairy godmother and protector during my sabbatical from my job as a government documents librarian. I spent a year in a yurt, pretending to be an author and writing a book about the experience. She sheltered me, fed me, made sure I had water. She introduced me around the community and raised hell when I did something stupid. When she finally had to admit she was ill, I helped her as much as I could and was with her when she died. I still to this day feel an ache beneath my heart when I think about Hannah.

I toy with my Dr. Pepper poured over ice in a stemmed glass. Arnold sips Earl Grey tea from a beige mug that says in dark script, Whoever tells the best story wins.

At least it’s not that awful lawyer quip, Where there’s a will, there’s a lawsuit.

I have to thank you for making Hannah so happy this past year, Arnold says after the silence between us has stretched to the point of discomfort.

Grief ambushes me. My eyes tear up suddenly. Hannah took care of me, I say when I can speak.

He watches as I pull my poise around me like a cloak. Nods in what looks like approval. Hannah left several items for you. I’ll get them, and leave you to go through them.

Arnold’s soft leather chair rolls easily on his plush green carpet as he shoves back from the table. He leaves the room, returns a few minutes later with a red lacquered box roughly the size of a ream of legal paper, decorated with East Indian images of flat tigers, fluffy trees and pale mountains. A decorative key sticks out from the keyhole. He also carries a white envelope, a form with his letterhead at the top and a fat black pen. If you’ll sign this form, affirming that I have indeed passed possession of these items to you, I’ll let you see Hannah’s surprise for you.

I skim the contents of the form that states I have received a locked box, contents unknown, a key and Hannah’s letter. I sign and stare at the items as Arnold leaves the room, his steps muffled by the thick carpet. He closes the door so gently there is scarcely a click.

I can’t move. Three months of healing disappears. I close my eyes and see Hannah’s weathered face, her leathery hands.

With trembling fingers, I open the white envelope.

Dear Mandy, Thank you so much for a wonderful year. I don’t know how to tell you the pleasure you brought me by being my friend. You are the daughter I never had, and I feel blessed to have known you. Be of good courage, my dear. You have a wonderful and exciting life ahead of you. Love, Hannah

My hands shake so hard her letter crinkles and rattles in my hands. I don’t think I can do this. I’ve had this summer to come to terms with her death. I thought I was ready to move on. But the letter sounds so much like her, for a moment it’s as if she’s in the room with me. I turn my head cautiously, expecting to see her sitting across from me, looking smug and pleased with herself.

Suck it up, Mandy. She wanted you to come so you’re here. Open the damned box.

My hands still shake as I slip the letter back in the envelope. Deep breath then, actually several of them as I pull the red box toward me and turn the key. The lock opens easily. The lid on the box opens easily as well.

On top is a bulging manila envelope. Carefully I unfasten the metal clasp and open it.

OMG, I gasp and drop it back into the red box as if it were covered with spiders.

Now my hands are really shaking.

The envelope seems to be filled with currency. Cautiously I pull out a stack of bills held together by a rubber band. I flip the end of the stack and see that it is made up of one hundred dollar bills. Another stack is made up of fifties. I replace the money, gulp, and close the envelope carefully.

Another envelope, small and white and clipped to a couple of official-looking forms, contains two keys that appear to be to a safe deposit box.

I pick up my glass of Dr. Pepper in both hands and wet my dry throat.

A scan of the forms reveals I need to have Arnold witness my signature to have access to the box. According to the bank logo and address, it is located in Oklahoma City.

The journal and pen I gave Hannah for Christmas are in the box with a post-it note inside the blank journal, You need this, Mandy. My story is already written.

Edgar, my editor and a royal thorn in my …, well you get the idea, wants Hannah’s story to be a part of my manuscript. I look at the three worn and well thumbed notebooks that rest on the bottom of the box in a gallon-sized zip lock bag. I open one, see the date and realize this is a part of a journal. Even before I see Jeremy’s name on the page, I know that this is Hannah’s journal, kept during her marriage, probably during the three ‘good’ years she’d mentioned.

Now if I’m not mistaken, I can give Edgar Hannah’s story. In fact, once Edgar reacts to my manuscript with this new information, and I do the edits that I know he’ll want, I’ll be a published author, thanks to the yurt. And Hannah.

And now these notebooks.

Under the notebooks, on the very bottom of the box, and so small and thin I almost overlook it, is a savings account record book. I open it and see my name. I turn a page and see figures recording a series of deposits ending in a balance. I read the numbers of the balance five times and count over from the decimal point before I can take in the amount—$3,728,462.93. Nearly four million dollars.

I sip my Dr. Pepper again. I try to breathe and find my chest frozen. The Dr. Pepper sloshes onto my wrist and onto the table.

A letter with Arnold’s logo at the top and a copy of Hannah’s death certificate are clipped to the book. The letter says, This letter will introduce you to Mandy Ryan, in whose name this account was established. Please release the funds to her. Taxes have already been paid.

I’m still staring at the little book and trying to breathe when Arnold comes back into the room. He smiles at my bewilderment.

Do you need champagne or a shoulder?

I laugh and realize I’m crying at the same time. I try without much luck to take another sip of my soda.

You no doubt have questions, Arnold says as he reclaims his lawyer mug.

I just look at him. Of course I have questions.

He sits beside me, settles himself, takes a sip of what has to be cold beverage.

"Hannah was the only child of a very wealthy family in Denver. Her family made its money in mining. Precious metals, I believe. Something along those lines. Anyhow, when Hannah married Jeremy, her father said Jeremy was a fortune hunter and disowned her. He cut her off without any money at all. Her family expected Jeremy to bail and Hannah to come running home.

But Jeremy didn’t bail and Hannah didn’t come running home. He and Hannah followed the rodeo circuit for several years. Jeremy wasn’t worth a damn in any of the rodeo events, but he was a great clown. They made enough money to buy the Rolling Barrel Ranch and renovate the old ranch house. Then Jeremy got himself killed, and Hannah’s family stepped in and took her back. She inherited their entire fortune. Now she’s passed most of it along to you.

Why would she do this?

She loved you, Mandy. You pleased her with your off the wall project, with your tenacity and your uncomplaining way of dealing with problems. You always had time for her.

Tears are running into my mouth now. I look around for a tissue. Arnold hands me a box of them. You have a safe deposit box in Oklahoma City. The keys are in the envelope, and the name of the bank is on the envelope. Hannah had some jewelry she thought you’d like. You’ll find those pieces in the safe deposit box. He pauses. And that savings account is at the same bank.

I stare at the box, at the notebooks and the savings book. I must have looked shell shocked.

Won’t her nephew contest the will?

Henry?

I nod.

She left Henry the ranch, free and clear, so he can’t claim unfair treatment. The money is Hannah’s, from her family and has no connection to Jeremy’s side of the family. It was Hannah’s to do with as she wished. Henry shouldn’t be a problem.

I nod, but uneasiness crawls inside my stomach. If Arnold thinks Henry is in any way, shape or form reasonable, he doesn’t know Henry.

I can still hear Tom saying to his deputy Gonzales after Henry’s confrontation with me last summer, "Watch your back, Friend. Henry’s like a coyote. He’ll come at you from behind.

Maybe if I never spend a penny of the money, Henry will never know I have it. Maybe I can claim the money is income from the sale of my book.

Arnold’s voice pulls me back into the conference room and it is as if he read my mind. Mandy, the first thing you need to understand is that there is no hurry to do anything. You don’t have to change your lifestyle at all. You don’t have to make any decisions about the money. If you leave it in the savings, it will simply continue to draw interest. Not much. Interest rates are really low, but it will draw something.

I nod.

Another possibility is to build a stock portfolio or move the money into zero coupon bonds or treasury notes. Banks won’t insure the total amount of your inheritance..

Stock portfolio? Zero what? I’m fast losing the thread here.

Arnold continues. When family and friends find out someone has come into a large amount of money, all manner of complications arise. May I suggest that you take some time to consider all of this before you discuss the matter with anyone else? My firm will be happy to serve as your agent in setting up whatever arrangement you desire or we can recommend a reputable firm in Oklahoma City. The more anonymous you can be for a while the better."

Take some time. That at least is something I can understand. I feel smug at this life lesson the year in the yurt taught me—Think before leaping. Yes, I will want you to continue helping me just as you helped Hannah.

On the monthly statements I’ll be sending you, you’ll notice a withdrawal of $750.00 per month. This is the one charity that Hannah asked be continued. She apparently befriended a Vietnam vet who didn’t get enough disability to live on. Homer Gantry. He did the odd jobs and the heavy lifting for her around the ranch. She supplemented his income. She hoped you’d be willing to continue that.

Homer Gantry. H. G. An image of a small house on the east edge of Carson Corners imprisoned behind a forest of elm saplings flashes into my mind along with the tale of the Vietnam vet who returned from the war and never talked to another person. He’d talked to me briefly during my one and only illegal breaking and entering escapade.

I remember Rusty’s postcard about Homer Gantry streaking Carson Corners Main Street. The mysterious, fudge-eating, wood-supplying Homer Gantry must live somewhere near my yurt site.

Hannah, you sly witch.

Of course.

Arnold nods, seemingly pleased. You need a will, naming your beneficiaries. Do you have a will?

A will? Isn’t that something for old people? No, I say.

He helps me write out a simple statement that in the event of my death, all my worldly goods are to be divided equally between my son David and my daughter Cheryl with the exception of the ongoing monthly bequest to the anonymous recipient.

He arranges to transfer $75,000 into my new checking account at a different bank from the one my ex-husband Roger and I used during our marriage. The money will allow me to deal with my credit card debt. I think I mentioned the three maxed out cards that kept me fed and clothed during my year in the yurt. Just the interest on them has become a problem, never mind the principal.

Should I decide not to return to work, the money will also pay down the sabbatical salary I received as well as any other loose ends from my sabbatical year and from ex-hubby Roger’s rampage through my finances. David and Cheryl both have college loans to deal with. The money can help with that as well.

Then I realize something momentous.

I don’t have to go back to work in September if I don’t want to. I don’t ever have to work again unless I want to. I pull myself up short. The amount of Hannah’s gift seems enormous to me at this moment, but who knows what the future will bring. I’m young. If all goes well, I should have a lot of years ahead of me. I’ll revisit the question of working or not working later.

Hannah has made sure I have choices. Too many choices? Winter in Antarctica? Summer with the bears in Canada? A house by the sea?

Tom’s house in Juniper Flats?

Sheriff Tom Lennon, a candidate for my next significant other, suddenly is a possibility. I don’t have to live in Oklahoma City while he lives out in Juniper Flats. I can live in Juniper Flats also, if I want to. I can write full time without the worry about living off of what I’ll earn writing.

So, Hannah’s gift has solved both of my insomnia producing problems or at least made a solution possible. Now I just have to decide what to do with Hannah’s money.

CHAPTER 2

I decide I’m too shaken to drive back to Oklahoma City. Arnold calls and arranges a room for me in a nearby Holiday Inn Express. He says he’d take me to dinner, but he has to catch a plane. That suits me fine. I need some down time to absorb this new turn my life has taken. When I leave Arnold’s office, I opt for a drive-through milkshake and burger and take them with me to the motel.

Once in the serenity and anonymity of the room, I collapse on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Then I stare at the red lacquered box on the bed beside me.

Holy crap. I, Mandy Ryan, am a millionaire, several times over.

Not too shabby for a former government documents librarian and accidental author.

And wife.

Ex wife.

I bury my face in one of the pillows and pound on the mattress. I don’t want to pollute this incredible moment with thoughts of Roger, my rat bastard ex. He hovers on the back side of my consciousness though like an ugly shadow.

I sit up. I don’t have to think about him. That phase of my life is over. But, oh, I wish I had someone to share this amazing news.

I could call Tom, but he’ll probably be working. My friend Julia would be my best choice but she’s in Chicago at her conference. What would David say? Or Cheryl?

Am I ready to go public with my news? If I share this news with either of my offspring, I’ve gone public. David will show restraint but I can hear him in my mind saying as he turns to his new girlfriend, Gee, guess what. My mom just inherited a bunch of money. Cheryl would broadcast the news from the rooftops.

Hannah’s gift is a fortune, a real fortune, as in I don’t have to balance my checkbook anytime soon fortune. I can pay off David’s and Cheryl’s student loans. I can deal with my enormous credit card debt from this past year. I can travel, buy all the Hershey bars I’ll ever want, buy a yacht or an island if I wanted either one which I don’t. I could donate money and have buildings named after me … Nah, no yachts, islands or buildings.

Damn, what do I do with a big chunk of unexpected money?

Hannah even paid the taxes on the money so I don’t have to get up close and personal with the IRS until next year when the interest income trickles in.

Maybe I don’t do a thing differently except pay off the damned student loans and the damned credit cards. Maybe working off my obligation from my sabbatical will give me time to decide what I want to do with my fortune and my life.

But then I’d have to live in Oklahoma City while Tom is off doing his thing in Juniper Flats.

Choices.

I feel like a very small fox terrier trying to bury a T-Rex thighbone while a saber toothed tiger lurks nearby.

It’s terrific to have the money, don’t misunderstand me. It’s just that I don’t know what to do with it. Like that small dog with that big bone, I’m overwhelmed. I can do anything I want to do, so now I have to decide what I want to do The only thing