Adrian used to make the coffee. He bought special beans from obscure roasters, hand-ground them in this antique thing. He was a coffee snob. I miss his coffee. I make off-brand, bottom shelf garbage, and it tastes like shoe leather and cat shit.

Once the coffeemaker has brewed enough for me to steal a cup, I pour some and bring it back to the couch. I’m sipping it, eyes closed. “I know this is where I’m supposed to offer you some, Mr. Anton, but I—”

“No, please. I require nothing.” He clears his throat. “Take your time, please.”

I take him at his word. Sip, breathe, and try to gather the strength to deal with my dead husband’s estate executor.

Finally, I meet his gaze. “I’m not sure why you’re here. His will was executed a year ago.”

“Well, a portion of it was, yes.”

“A…a portion?”

“He made rather extensive arrangements, you see.”

“Extensive arrangements.”

“I’m making rather a muddle of this, I’m afraid.” He inhales softly through his nose, lets it out. “He gave me instructions to come to you, here, on the one year anniversary of his passing.”

I don’t have to consult a phone or calendar. I know. My heart knows.

“Come here today, why?”

He opens a briefcase. Removes a pair of envelopes. Both have my name written on them in Adrian’s handwriting—in the deep black ink of that fancy fountain pen I bought him for our seventh anniversary.

One seems to contain only paper, but the other is heavier, as if it contains something metal. I feel it—a key?

“What is this, Mr. Anton?”

“His final wishes, Mrs. Bell.”

Something about the way he says that seems funny.

“You remind me of the Hollywood stereotype of an English butler.”

“Most people say Nosferatu. A vampire.”

I snort. “That too.”

“It’s the boarding school education and the elocution lessons. And the hunch.”

“His final wishes,” I say, gripping the envelopes. “You mean, the insurance and the other money weren’t his final wishes?”

“No. Those were his…affairs, you might say.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like me to stay, while you read the letter? In case you have questions?”

“I have a million questions. But…just…just summarize. What is this?”

“It is a letter from him, to you, to be delivered in person on the one year anniversary of his passing. The other envelope contains an address and a key.”

“Address and key? For what?”

“He left you property, Mrs. Bell. Anything else I could say, I think, would detract from the message.”

“Why…” I feel the tears. Fight them tooth and nail. “Why now? Why a year later? What property?”

He shakes his head. “I think the letter will say more, and say it better, than any meager words of mine, Mrs. Bell. I think you would like to be alone, now.”

“Yes, I think I would.”