Chapter 4

Zeke had pulled into the LaQuinta parking lot around ten-thirty in the evening. Despite all the caffeine and junk food, he was exhausted. He stretched and headed for the lobby. The gaunt night manager had been over-the-top polite. Weird. It was as if he’d been informed the infamous Ezekiel Jabez Clay was coming to town—be ready to serve his every need.

Probably, Zeke thought about it the next day as he drove to his appointment, Mr. T.J. Rivers had made the arrangements for all the people called to this reading, and instructed the motel to treat them with kid gloves.

“Whatever.” He chuckled.

He glanced at the photocopied map and flipped on his turn signal. At one-forty, Zeke turned into the Pueblo business district. The flurry of vehicles and people made it difficult to find a parking space along the repurposed cobblestone sidewalk.

A period-appropriate black columned post stood at the corner of the intersecting streets. It supported a clock that resembled a giant pocket watch. Black awnings smartly covered every storefront display window and doorframe. The entrance to the law office faced neither intersecting street, but the center of the curve between them both. It was a striking three story building of red brick and a clay tiled roof.

Finally parked, he sprinted up the hot sidewalk. Was he late? A reassuring glance at his phone told him he was not. Two o’clock on the dot.

The interior was exactly what he expected of a law office, leather and polished wood. A well-oiled hardwood floor echoed his every footstep. He had pressed his clothes at the hotel. He did his best to dress nice, but a porcupine in a balloon factory would have been less conspicuous.

“Zeke—Uh, Ezekiel Jabez Clay,” he said to the male receptionist whose gaze had not left him since he entered the doors. “I have an appointment with Mister T.J. Rivers.”

An ear phone protruded from the receptionist’s razor trimmed and gel-shaped hair. Mr. Clifford Valdez, according to his name plate, smiled a strange smile he could not interpret.

“Please be seated.” Clifford gestured toward an upholstered settee. “I’ll let ‘em know you’re here. How was your drive?”

Zeke turned back to him. “It was all right. A lot of caffeine and loud music, but it wasn’t too bad.”

Clifford smiled and nodded. A strange trill sounded. He reached under his reception shelf and touched his phone. “Law Office.”

The professional, unisex voice he’d heard yesterday. The phone and other objects on Clifford’s desk were obscured by an opaque panel wrapped around the circular top shelf. It was very ... space-age-modern for such a wood-paneled law office.

Despite the fact he had just met Clifford, he liked the guy. This immediate camaraderie was another odd thing to add to his long list of odd things about this whole experience.

The quick pace of heels clicking pulled Zeke’s attention toward an ornately carved wooden banister. A dwarf descended the stairs and made her way toward him. Okay, an extremely short, older lady. More salt than pepper in her hair, cut in a crisp chin-length bob. Her high cheek bones and tight lips reminded him of Edna from the Pixar movie, The Incredibles. Darker complexion, maybe, whiter hair—but similar.

“Mr. Clay, I presume.” The voice was nothing like Edna’s. It was shaky and old.

“Yes.” He stood to accept her extended hand and fought the urge to bend his knees to align himself at her eye level.

Her handshake was firm and quick, with a slight palsy tremor.

His dad judged people by their handshake, and Evan might have been impressed with this lady’s. Even though she was old, and female, and small, her firm grip surprised Zeke.

“It’s so nice to meet you at last,” she said. “I’m Twyla Rivers. Our meeting is upstairs, please follow me.”

Twyla Rivers? T.J. Rivers? Zeke glanced over at Clifford.

The receptionist pressed his lips tight and nodded.

No wonder he smiled so strangely. He shrugged toward Clifford as he passed the round arc-style desk.

Clifford smiled and shrugged back.

Ms. Rivers gracefully climbed the stairs. “Unseasonably warm weather we’re having.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Was she seriously discussing the weather?

“Well, never fear. We could still have snow through May, I assure you.” She led him down the hall to a glass conference room. Neatly stacked bright-red accordion folders, at one end of a highly polished, oval conference table, stood out as a stark contrast against the otherwise monotone room. It looked like one of those black and white commercials where only the two pills being advertised were red. Ten unoccupied chairs sat at attention around the table.

Ms. Rivers paused in front of the folders. “Please have a seat, Mr. Clay.” She gestured toward the chairs. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“No, I’m fine.” He really wanted some water, but for some reason didn’t feel comfortable asking for it.

“Okay, let’s get started, shall we?” She pulled out the high-back chair and struggled to lift herself into the seat.

His eyebrows drew together as he glanced around.

“Yes, you are the only person attending the reading.” She nodded and waited until he was settled in a chair.

He chose two over from hers, leaving an empty one between them.

“Now, I’m not going to read Luther’s entire will. A lot of it does not pertain to you, precisely. Also, the sections that do pertain to you are dependent upon your decision to accept the inheritance as prescribed by my client.”

Huh? He waited when she paused. To say that she spoke at her own pace would be an understatement. Zeke fought a losing battle with his patience while Ms. Rivers explained who Luther Clayton was and how all this pertained to Zeke. He had never heard of this man. How could he be sure this wasn’t a mistake?

After thirty minutes of a genealogical lecture he found that Luther was the unfortunate, illegitimate son of a German worker on the Clayton estate. When his mother died under dubious circumstances, he was fortunate enough to be adopted by the landowner and his barren wife, William Ezekiel and Emma Clayton.

Zeke glanced at the clock on his phone, under the table, and resisted rolling his eyes. Why didn’t she simply tell him what he was going to inherit? She seemed to relish enunciating “your great-great-great grandfather, William Ezekiel Clayton, Senior” every single time she mentioned him in the laborious lecture.

Ms. Rivers was in the wrong profession; she should have been an anesthesiologist. This entire long, drawn out history lesson was certainly putting him into a coma.

When Rivers explained how William Clayton’s second wife, a Ute Indian slave, would have been christened with an English name in order to marry the landowner, Zeke’s eyes had their way and rolled in their sockets. An enormous sigh escaped his lips.

He tried to correct his actions by sitting up straighter in his chair and focusing on the rambling woman.

As she divulged the account of the Ute slave’s renaming, Zeke sensed terseness in Rivers’ voice. She obviously had an unfavorable opinion about this but was trying to disguise it beneath a professional façade. He filed it away as curious, possibly interesting.

The room went quiet. Zeke shot a startled glance at Mrs. Rivers and realized she had been staring at him for a moment. She shrugged. “It was how things were done back then. But, then, I digress...” Ms. Rivers looked down at the folders and sat still.

No kidding! This was really pushing red on his patience meter. He gritted his teeth and snuck a peek at his phone. God, another thirty minutes had passed.

“Well, any who...” Ms. Rivers puckered her lips. Was that a smile? “The second Mrs. William Clayton gave birth to your great-great-great grandfather, William Ezekiel Clayton, Junior. That’s how it is that you, Ezekiel Jabez Clay, are the last living descendent of Mr. Luther Ahren Lehman Clayton, my client and friend.”

A smug smile settled on her face as she rested her hands upon the red folders.

Did he dare ask a question? “Ms. Rivers, I wonder if there’s been a mistake.”

She placidly stared back at him.

“My name, as you know, is Ezekiel Clay. These men you speak of are Claytons. We can’t be related. I never heard of William Ezekiel Clayton or Luther Aaron Lehman Clayton.”

“Oh, yes, well, my apologies. I should have also explained that to you.”

Oh no! Zeke drew in breath and leaned back in his chair. What have I done?

“You see William Clayton Senior, as we have discussed, beget William Clayton Junior. William Junior beget...” she opened the red folder for the first time and shuffled down into the stack of papers.

He fought to be still, willed his eyes to not rotate in their sockets. He envisioned himself jumping over the table and stabbing the tiny lady with a ball point pen, anything to get this over with.

Stopping at a specific page, she began to read. “William Ezekiel Clayton, III. William the third and Junior had some sort of disagreement resulting in William the third moving to Texas and legally changing his last name to Clay.” She gestured a flat, uplifted palm, toward Zeke. “William Ezekiel Clay then beget Ezekiel Evan Clay, um, your ... grandfather. And Ezekiel Clay beget your father Evan James Clay who in turn beget you, Ezekiel Ja—”

“Yes, yes, I know my name.” Zeke sat forward. “Okay, let’s say I am related to this Luther Clayton.”

“Yes?” Ms. Rivers lowered the list of names.

“What am I inheriting, exactly?”

“Well, Mr. Clay, explanations were in order.” Ms. Rivers’ mouth drew into a lopsided “o.”

“Of course, my bad, I mean—my apologies.” He stole a glance at his phone. “Please continue.”

“Well.” She sat back, lowering her chin like a toad billowing its throat to croak a chorus. “All right, then. Luther, your great—”

“Can we just call him my uncle?” he pleaded.

“Yes, all right.” She nodded. “Your uncle stipulated a condition, to which you must agree, in order to receive this inheritance.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“You are to be given one week to think it over. During that time you are to stay in his home. It has been fully stocked with food and technical devices for your physical and mental ... entertainment. There is also a well-stocked library if reading is your”—she leaned toward him and grinned—”cup of tea, as it were.”

She glanced at the glass doors. “Clifford, whom you met downstairs, has assured us the equipment is appropriately installed and cool”—stubby fingers traced quote marks in the air—”enough for someone of your ... demographic.”

She paused again and stared at Zeke. Was she confirming he understood? Maybe she needed time for her battery to refresh.

“Okay, and so what are these conditions? And what is my inheritance should I decide to accept it?”

“Oh, yes. Well...” She reached into the red folder again and exhumed another printed piece of paper. “Now, you understand, these are Luther Clayton’s exact words. We at Carlile, Rivers, and Tyler have no liability or concern with what Mr. Clayton proposed for these conditions.”

“Yes, yes,” he said with a shoo-fly gesture. “Please tell me the conditions.”

She cleared her throat several times.

Why is she tiptoeing around this? Surely she’s seen it all, heard it all. He waited.

“The condition of this inheritance is—you, Ezekiel Jabez Clay, must, and I quote, seek to break the Clayton Family curse, and”—her voice lilted up a half octave—”find and resolve the loss of,” she cleared her throat, “true love. Unquote.”