“I’ll send her whatever else she’s going to need if what you’ve set aside won’t cover it, Chris,” I’d promised Chris when the subject of the house came up again, a month into her treatment. “Please stop thinking about that house, honey. I’m sure Lance would have told you the same.”

In the end, the money she’d given Mrs. Morris had been enough, but Chris never got to see the updated house. And then, in the aftermath of settling her affairs, I’d found out that Chris had willed the house to me, along with everything else that she’d owned.

Almost a year and half later, Mrs. Morris had tracked me down through the lawyer she and Chris had agreed to use in preparation for any sale. At first, she’d emailed me through the lawyer, but when I didn’t respond after a couple of weeks, she managed to find my number and had called me.

The call had come through when I’d been on my way to the Four Seasons in Hong Kong, having just landed there from Shanghai. At her mention of Lance’s house, for some reason the jarring reminder about the house, and Chris’ worries about it, reopened many of the old wounds that I thought had been finally closing.

“There’s a new offer on the house, but it’s not an outright sale. Could you stop by LA on your way back to New York to discuss the proposal?” Mrs. Morris had asked, her voice seemingly brooked no resistance. I’d mumbled a response, and then started sobbing openly. “We’ll talk again when you can, dear,” Mrs. Morris said kindly when I told her I couldn’t talk any more.

To her credit, Mrs. Morris didn’t call again, and ten days later, I called the lawyer to tell him I planned to arrive in LA in a couple of days.

Shivering slightly from the cool air being pushed in by the air conditioner, I tapped on Mrs. Morris’ number.

“Hello, Mrs. Morris?” I greeted her when she picked up the phone.

“I was just trying to call you, dear,” her motherly voice greeted me back.

We agreed to meet in her house in about 45 minutes.

Later, fifteen minutes before the agreed meeting time, I parked in front of the address Mrs. Morris gave me.   I hunted for a door ringer that I figured could be hiding in the ivy wrapped around the archway of her imposing heavy wooden door. Failing to do so, I rapped my knuckles on the door, futilely I thought, as I called out, “Mrs. Morris? Mrs. Morris? It’s Aerin!”