Susan had never wanted to be a public spectacle, in life or in death, so her sons held a private memorial service by the lake at the Pines. The place looked much the same as it had six years earlier, when she’d announced that it would remain a nudist camp. Even the people were the same, although we wore somber looks instead of smiles, suits and dresses instead of sunscreen.
Kirk and Doug thanked everyone for coming and said a few words. They looked like I felt, haggard and still in shock. They reminded us that Susan’s graveside service would take place at Arlington National Cemetery. She wanted to be buried with her husband, Jack.
Several others spoke. I wanted to say a few words myself, but I couldn’t do it. I literally couldn’t. I tried several times, but my throat closed up and I had to blink back tears. I finally gave up and trusted that Susan would know what I felt in my heart.
Someone began singing “Amazing Grace.” Christy squeezed my hand and gave me a teary, comforting smile. Then she sang for both of us.
“Thank you all for coming,” Kirk said afterward. “The women from the shelter made lunch. It’s waiting for us in the clubhouse.”
I eventually found my voice, and I joined the others as we reminisced about Susan and her life. I heard more laughter than tears, but there were plenty of both.
Doug’s wife, Olivia, appeared beside me. She pressed a bracelet into my hand. The metal was warm from where she’d been holding it, and I knew what it was without looking at it.
“I took it from her jewelry box,” Olivia said. “She— Sorry. We talked about it. She gave me a list. She wanted you to have it.”
“Thanks. I…”
“I know,” Olivia said. “Me too.”
The charm bracelet didn’t have any real value—it was just a silver chain with six P’s—but it brought back a rush of memories. I had to suppress another wave of grief, so I dropped it into my pocket. It landed with a little jingle.
Susie tilted her head. “What was that?”
“Just a keepsake.”
Her forehead creased.
Olivia knelt and said, “It’s something to remember her by.”
“Susan?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Hey, Suse,” I suggested, “why don’t you tell Olivia about your name.”
“No,” Susie replied with seven-year-old dignity, “I think I should wait. It’s too soon.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“But she knows. God probably told her.”
Olivia stood as Doug approached.
“What’s this?” he asked. “About a name?”
“Susie was thinking about changing her name,” Olivia explained.
“I’m named after your mother,” Susie added, “but everyone calls me Susie. Or Suse. Sometimes Boo. Well, only my dad and sisters. Mom never calls me that. She only ever calls me Susie. Unless I’m in trouble. Then she calls me by my full name.” She did a pretty good imitation, “Susan Renée Hughes,” to amused chuckles. Then she turned serious again. “Only, I think she’d want everyone to call me Susan. Now, I mean.”
“I—” Doug managed a smile. “I think you’re right,” he said at last. “And she’d be proud of you for speaking up.”
Susie’s bright eyes glinted, just like her namesake. “I take after her, you know.”
“You do,” Doug laughed. “You certainly do.”
* * *
Christy and I were fashionably late when we arrived at the attorney’s office the next morning. I gave the receptionist our names.
“Of course. Mr. Wei is expecting you. I’ll take you back.”
We followed her to a conference room, where a middle-aged man with Asian features rose to greet us. His salt-and-pepper hair was conservative, and he wore a dark gray linen suit. He looked respectable and even-tempered, exactly how I’d imagined when he’d told me on the phone that he was Susan’s executor.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hughes,” the receptionist told him.
We shook hands.
“Nathan Wei. Thanks for coming.” He was friendly and informal, and his accent was generic, California with a hint of South Carolina in the vowels. That made him a local instead of a recent transplant. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It was… a shock.”
“To say the least,” he agreed.
I glanced at the others around the conference table. Kirk and Dawn, Doug and Olivia, and Stacy and Jason all smiled or waved. Vonda Jarvis sat by herself and nodded a greeting. We’d seen everyone at the memorial, so we didn’t need to catch up. The attorney gestured toward a younger Black woman seated at his left.
“You’ve spoken to Tanisha, my assistant.”
“Yes.” We exchanged polite smiles. “Nice to meet you in person.”
“You too.”
“I believe you know everyone else,” Nathan finished. “Please, have a seat.”
“Sorry we’re late,” I said as I pulled out Christy’s chair for her. “We had a mix-up with childcare.”
“And by ‘mix-up,’” she admitted, “he means that I lost track of time.”
“That too.”
The others chuckled and the mood felt lighter, if only for a moment.
“Thank you again for coming,” Nathan said as he returned to his own chair at the head of the table. “And I’d like to reiterate my condolences.”
We murmured thanks, and he nodded to Tanisha, who began passing out slim binders.
“Here are copies of Mrs. MacLean’s will,” he said. He waited until we each had one before he continued, “She named many of you as beneficiaries…”
The attorney summarized the first part, which was standard stuff. Susan’s sons inherited the camp itself, all the undeveloped land, and her tangible personal property. She set up trusts for each of her grandsons, enough to pay for college and buy a house after they graduated, but not so much that they’d never have to work.
“Kirk and Doug each receive a 7.5 percent share of the total estate,” the attorney went on. “Vonda should have an updated number for us.”
She did, and Trip had been right about Susan’s net worth. Her sons’ combined 15 percent was still an eight-figure inheritance. Vonda was stunned to learn about her own 3 percent share, while Stacy and I each received 1 percent, which also came as a surprise.
“You know how Mom felt about you,” Kirk said to the three of us. “Vonda, you especially.”
Doug agreed with a somber nod.
“Indeed,” Nathan chimed in. Then he began reading where he’d left off, “The residue of the estate shall be placed in a trust, to be used at the discretion of the York-MacLean Foundation.”
She named five of us to the board: Kirk and Doug, along with Vonda, Stacy, and me.
“The foundation will continue Mrs. MacLean’s work,” the attorney read on, “to support women and girls, minorities and immigrants, and anyone who exists at the margins of society.”
That was typical Susan. She’d always done her best to help people, and she’d done it as long as I’d known her. She’d woven it into her life, an unbroken thread in the warp and the weft of everyday existence. Sometimes she’d done it with a personal touch, like with Stacy and me. Other times she’d used money and influence, like the women’s shelter, job training center, and day care.
I thought about all she’d done and felt her loss more keenly than ever. She’d been part of my own life for decades, from before I could even remember. And in the years since that fateful summer, the one of the storm and frozen peas, she’d been a lover and a friend, a mentor and a boss, a client and a business partner. Throughout it all, she’d been someone I admired, the kind of person I wanted to be.
I eventually returned to the present and realized that my life was at a crossroads. I could stay on my current path and enjoy a comfortable life, or I could follow Susan and do what she’d always done. I sat there and thought about it for what seemed like a long time, although it was probably less than a minute. Then I sighed and felt a profound sense of calm.