“Extensive arrangements,” I repeat. “You said you’d get to the point. It’s been a year—like, almost exactly. So I’ll ask again—what’s this got to do with me?”

He opens the folder. “This letter will, I believe, explain everything. But I shall provide you with a brief summary. His last wishes, which he arranged as part of his will, included the transference of ownership of a small piece of property with two cabins some ways north of here in the Appalachian Mountains. He has divided the property and deeded a portion of it to you. Lake frontage, a cabin, and a few acres.”

I feel my brow wrinkling in shock. “Adrian gave me a cabin on a lake in the mountains?”

“Yes, Mr. Fischer.”

“Why now?” I shake my head. “Wills are read shortly after death, not a year later.”

“It was part of his wishes.”

“That I get the cabin now, a year after he died?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It would be inappropriate for me to speculate on that, but all shall be made clear in time.” He hands me the folder. Opens his case again and withdraws another stack of papers. “Sign, please. It is the deed, assuming ownership.”

I sign.

“He left me a cabin in the woods,” I repeat.

“Indeed, he did.”

“And you can’t tell me why?”

“More accurately, I will not. It would go against the nature of his final wishes, which he contracted me to carry out.”

“Okay, then.”

“Read the letter, Mr. Fischer. It will clear up much, if not everything.” He latches his briefcase. “I will mail you a copy of the deed.”

“Are there keys? An address?”

He indicates the folder in my hands. “Everything you need is in that folder.”

“Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

He hesitates. “I said it would be inappropriate for me to speculate. And that is true. But this much I can say that is not speculation: Mr. Bell’s final wishes were elaborately and carefully thought out. It may feel random to you, but I assure you it is not.”

“Okay.” I’m not sure what to say to that.

He stands and inclines his head to me. “Thanks for seeing me this evening, Mr. Fischer. Call me if you have any questions. ”

It’s not until after he’s gone that I think of a question. Who owns the other half, the other cabin? Well, all shall be made clear, he said. I guess we’ll see.

I take the folder to the couch.

Inside is a letter, handwritten in a fountain pen on linen stationary, with Adrian’s name across the top.

Nathan,

Out of the blue, I know. On purpose.