What To Keep

But none of it would be true.

Someone once told me the reason people lie is because it sounds better. They were right. And life, as my mother used to remind me over and over, is raw and ugly. Part of that is true. Life is raw and ugly if a person makes it that way. Maybe that’s why my mother lied so much.

I’ve decided not to fabricate anything, especially to myself. At one time I was big on that. I’d tell myself I was happy when I wasn’t, tell myself a man cared when he didn’t.

So the truth is I inherited an old Southern house from a man who just happened to be my uncle. I barely had a few faded memories of him. I became the owner of his house because I’m the only family member left. And that one little mistake of Grey Alexander not making a will changed my life forever. Because before all this happened I believed money would make my life better, different, worth living. What I didn’t know was that no amount of money could help me. It took something so strange, like inheriting an old Southern mansion that shouldn’t have belonged to me, to make me see what’s really important.

CHAPTER 1

Las Vegas, NV

June 2000

Barbara, the only other female blackjack dealer on day shift, just tapped me on the shoulder for my break. I’ve been dealing blackjack to two deadbeat guys for the past forty minutes. Dealers deal for forty minutes, then break for twenty, over and over until their eight-hour shifts are finished, just like in a factory—in this case, a big, smoky money machine.

I clap my hands to show I’m not stealing chips, and I’m halfway down the middle of the pit when the pit boss motions me over to the center podium.

“Message for you,” Joe says. He adds, “Casino policy says no personal phone calls.” Even so, he hands me the yellow Post-it note he’s holding between his thumb and forefinger. Joe, as always, is wearing plenty of gold jewelry. And I just know his navy suit must have cost him at least a thousand. Joe makes two thousand a month before taxes watching people deal cards. Most pit bosses try to pretend they own the casino, probably just to make their lives bearable.

“Thanks,” I force myself to say. I’ve worked at the Golden Nugget for three years. Joe has only been here six months, and he’s been on my ass since the first day he walked into the pit. He’s asked me to go out and have a drink but of course he doesn’t talk about his wife when he suggests we walk across the street to the Horseshoe after work. He’s just trying to get laid. Casino bosses think they have a right to the help, but even if I found him attractive, I’m totally through with men, especially men like Joe who pretend they have more than they do, or that they’re single, or both.

I fold the Post-it note in half, smile and walk back to the break room. A moment later I unfold the yellow square. Joe printed “Ron Tanner,” a name I don’t recognize. And now I’m thinking Bill, my ex, might be in a jam. And this scares me, how easily he can pop into my mind. I’ve been working extra hard to forget. Guess I’ve got to try harder.

I walk over to the table by the pay phone, pick up the phone book and check the area code. Whoever Ron Tanner is, he’s calling from the western half of North Carolina. And he probably doesn’t have anything to do with Bill. That man, I am sure, has never been east of the Arizona border.

However, my father was born and buried in North Carolina, and he, my mother and I lived there for a brief time. I have one uncle who lives there, but we haven’t seen each other or spoken in thirty-five years. I ball up the tiny piece of paper and walk to the trash. Before I can pitch it, my curiosity gets the best of me. A moment later I dial the number using the last bit of credit on my phone card.

The voice on the other end announces law offices. I tell myself to hang up. With Bill, I found out law offices can only mean trouble with a capital pain in the ass, but instead I identify myself and ask to speak to Ron Tanner.

A minute later, in a strong Southern accent, Ron Tanner announces that he’s acting as the court-appointed executor for Grey Alexander’s estate. I hear him take a deep breath then, at a quick pace, he explains he’s sorry to have to tell me, but my uncle passed away three weeks ago, and I have inherited his estate because I’m his only living relative.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yes. What happened to my uncle?” I ask, confused.

“He had cancer. From what I understand he fought it for quite a while. I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a long silence while my mind tries to wrap around what I’ve just been told.

“I’m sure you have a few questions,” Ron says.

A little sound like “oh” bounces out of my mouth.

“No?”

“Sorry. What exactly do you mean by estate?”

“It consists of your uncle’s house and his belongings, which aren’t much.”

My uncle. I hadn’t thought of him in years, and now all of a sudden I have his house.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his smooth, deep accent getting deeper.

“Yeah, I’m okay, just surprised.” I shake my head—feel dizzy. When was the last time I saw my uncle? Then I remember. My dad, mother and I were driving away from my uncle’s house. Grey Alexander, a tall man with blond hair, in a navy jacket and cream pants, was standing on the front porch of his large house, his arms crossed, staring at our car. I waved a five-year-old goodbye—he never lifted his hand.

“I certainly had difficulty locating you,” Ron Tanner breaks in. “Do you know your phone’s disconnected?”

Did I know? I’ve been without a phone for a month, hoofing it down to the 7-Eleven on Sunset and Green Valley Parkway to make calls in an attempt to straighten out the mess Bill left me in. But I don’t tell Ron Tanner this. He probably doesn’t want to hear my sad story.

“What exactly is in Grey Alexander’s estate?” I ask, and then remember I’ve already asked this.

“A house. A car. Not much else.”

“What’s the house like?” I wonder if it is the same one, the one I stared at through the back window of our family car, the same one where I ran down the hallway to a roomy kitchen.

Ron explains it’s very old and pretty run-down.

“How do I sell it?” I ask, thinking about the extra money I so desperately need.

“You might consider coming back to Greensville. The house has to be inspected. Then you could talk to a Realtor.”

I think about how Joe hates me ’cause I won’t go out with him; he would never let me off, even for a few days.

“I can’t. I have to work. No vacation left. Can I get in touch with a Realtor from here? Have her take care of the inspection?”

“You can,” Ron says. “I can get you a few names.”

Moments later, still dazed and wondering if this is all a big joke, I cradle the phone and lean against the wall. Leanne, the break-room waitress, walks up to me, glances at her watch and asks if I want anything to eat. I look up.

“Are you okay?”

I shake my head, blurt out I’ve just inherited a house in North Carolina.

“You’re lying!”

“No, it’s true, or at least I think it is. I just spoke with the attorney.”

“I’m so sorry about your loss.”

“I really didn’t know the person.”

Leanne pats my shoulder then steps back a little. “Well, now there’s no excuse not to get out of this hellhole.”

My mother, when I’d talked about moving away from Vegas, always placed her hand on her chest, right in the middle and whispered how alone she was in the world, how she needed me. Which now, years later, I know was total bullshit. But her drama gave me a good excuse for not moving—this glittering desert town sucks people into its dreams.

Leanne’s brown eyes grow larger. “When are you going to see your house?”