The Bequest

"It's not hot!" Gabe's spinning round and round, his arms spread out, his face turned upward, his backpack swinging out behind him. "Why isn't it hot?" Whitney asks. "Isn't it summer here?"

I chuckle. "Summer isn't quite the same in the northern part of the country." It's been hot in Texas since late March. "Tomorrow's June, and I think around here, that's the start of summer, but this probably already feels summery to them." "They are spoiled," Izzy says. "I am so excited for this summer, but do you think Cody will remember me when I get back home?"

Her lesson horse Cody 'remembers' anyone who has a treat in their hand. "I'm sure he'll welcome you back with an eager mouth," I say.

Izzy scowls. "What if I forget everything?"

"I'm sure you'll improve a lot, with all the riding we'll be doing on a ranch," I say. "Don't worry." I press the button on the key fob the rental car company gave me. For what I'm paying to rent it for the summer, this car better make us dinner and wash the dishes, too.

The navy blue Toyota Sienna chimes and the headlights flash.

"A minivan?" Ethan groans like I asked him to buy me tampons at the store. "For the whole summer?"

I can't quite help my smile. "It was the cheapest option."

"Liar. You got it to torture me."

"Gabe needs a DVD player," I reason. "It makes sense."

"Well, it won't change anything. I'm still going to love everything about the next three months. You'll see."

I hope he does, as long as he also comes around on the college thing. My kids haven't had much fun in the past year, and they seem to desperately need this change of pace. I check my watch. "If we leave right now, we should arrive just in time for dinner."

"Whoa," Ethan says. "The drive from here takes that long?"

"My cell phone map says it's about three hours away," I say. "We'll be driving through Wyoming for a big chunk of the way."

"At least it should be a gorgeous drive," Izzy says. "Did you know that Flaming Gorge is right by the ranch? People travel from all over to see it."

"I can't wait to take a quad out there," Ethan says.

"We don't even have one, and that's not why we're here." Does he think running a ranch will leave him lots of time for playing around on ATVs? "Stop being ridiculous."

"Uncle Jed may have had one," Ethan says. "And if he did, then now we do, too!"

He's entirely too excited. "Alright, in the car, everybody." We're supposed to be here for three months, but you'd think we were moving for years by the way everyone packed. Thank goodness it's summer, or we'd need a U-Haul just for the winter clothing my little Texas honeys would need.

Even I have to admit the drive out is picturesque. It's not like I've never traveled around the United States before, but this is my first time in Utah, and now that I'm here, surrounded by mountains and crisp, clean air, I feel like it might have been an oversight.

"What's a Scone Cutter?" Whitney asks, staring at a sign for a restaurant.

No idea. "Do you guys want to find out?"

After a chorus of affirmations, I pull into the drive-thru line. As it turns out, it's basically a long rectangular dinner roll they slice and stuff with honey butter, or cinnamon butter, or a dozen other options. Except I think the dinner roll may be fried.

"I love these," Ethan says.

I know that my usually contrary boy is not intentionally loving everything just to irritate me, so I shove my irritation down and try to enjoy his happiness. Still, I can't keep from pointing out the obvious. "My old sneaker would taste good if I put that much butter on it."

Ethan shrugs. "You'd better not leave those things lying around." He winks. "You might be looking for new shoes."

The other kids are just as energized. I wish my job was even a quarter as enthusiastic about this plan as the kids. Robert was shocked, but he understood my reasons and went to bat for me immediately. Unfortunately, Lance was looking for an excuse to show everyone that I'm not committed, and he didn't have to look hard with me bailing for the summer.

"He couldn't call off the vote," Robert said, "but I wish we could delay it. He's already grumbling."

"I will do every single thing I would have done if I'd been in the office," I promised.

"I know you will," Robert said.

But we both know working remotely won't be the same, and there are sure to be communication issues and time change issues and a whole host of other problems. Not to mention, I can hardly schmooze the partners who are on the fence about bringing me in.. .from Utah.

I shove my concerns out of my mind, because there's absolutely nothing I can do about any of it. I put together two motions and a list of deposition questions on the plane and emailed them to Robert the second we landed. Take that, naysayers. I'm working on a Sunday, while traveling. So much for saying I won't get anything done.

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Of course, we haven't even reached the ranch yet, and I have no idea how much time we're really talking about spending on running it.

As if he can sense my reservations, Ethan says, "It's going to be fun, Mom, I swear."

I'm not worried that the kids won't have a good time, but I don't tell him that. It will hardly be helpful. The other three are watching 'The Jetsons' on the DVD player. Score one point for the minivan. "I'm so lucky to have an expert at working mountainous cattle ranches in the car."

"I know you think I won't be able to do anything," he says, "but I'm actually really good at mechanical stuff."

"You are." He always has been. He started by fixing the other kids' broken toys as a child, and graduated by junior high to working on project cars with his dad. In the past few years, he's only improved on a talent that was clearly intuitive from the start. "But sweetheart, your mechanical skill is an extension of your real genius-math."

His incredulous look is quite familiar.

"You don't think so?"

"What does math have to do with working on mechanical stuff?"

"It's the same part of your brain that does both things. Trust me, I know you're great with engines, but one day you may wish you'd done the legwork with a formal education that will let you apply that same strength to more lucrative things." "And by then, it will be too late. The apocalypse will have wiped out all institutions of higher education, rendering self improvement and mental development impossible, a thing of the past, a relic."

I roll my eyes.

"Then, when the zombies begin their march to decimate the world population, I'll be unable to stop them, because I won't understand the finer points of differential equations." He shakes his head. "Oh boy, will I be sorry then." "Very funny," I say. "Let me know if you still think it's funny when you're eating soup from a can-"

"Down by the river?" I've missed his crooked smile.

And I miss his dad, from whom he stole that smile. If Nate were here, he'd know how to get through to him. It feels like I'm banging my head against a brick wall. A dimpled, blue-eyed, fairly athletic brick wall, with beautiful, albeit too long, hair.

Once we hit the easy-to-navigate state highways, I trade places with him and get back to work.

"Do you really need to do that today?" Ethan asks. "It's a Sunday."

"It is," I say. "But I have no idea how much work we'll be doing the rest of the week, or when I'll have time. I promised I'd still bill fifty hours a week, even from the ranch. It's going to be really hard to do that while watching four children and doing whatever else is required."

I don't mention that our take-out options will be nonexistent, which means we'll be cooking a lot more. Or that I have no idea whether this place will have a dishwasher, or trash service, or even how consistent the internet will be. That's my biggest fear, right there. What if there's no broadband? Reviewing all the documents the file clerks scan in without decent internet will easily take me twice as long.

Just as I'm finishing up a memo for Jim, my phone rings. "I'm surprised I have service out here." I'm not sure I recognize the number, but with all the details I rushed to finalize, I can't really screen my calls. "Hello?"

"Abby?"

"Hey! Long time, Gus! How are you doing?" He's finally called me back, hallelujah. I walk him through our problem, including how Ethan flipped out and threw his applications away in his grief. I forge ahead, even when Ethan stiffens. He has no one to blame but himself. He did freak out, and I'm positive it's because of what happened to Nate.

"Wow, I can't believe he... I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"I swear that's the only reason I'm asking for a favor-extenuating circumstances. Obviously I know that he's way past the deadline for admission." "The thing is, I'm not sure I can really help," Gus says. "I mean, I could probably get him on the waitlist, if his test scores and GPA are good enough."

"He got a 1490 on the SAT," I say. "He had a perfect score on the math, and he has mostly As. He did end up with a few Bs, but they're all in honors classes at least. His one C was in sophomore English."

"That teacher hated me," Ethan grumbles.

"Losing his dad was rough, Gus. I'm not going to lie. I didn't support him as well as I should have, either. If there is anything you can do, I'd be eternally grateful."

"Like I said, I can't promise anything, but send me his stuff and I'll do my best."

Better than I hoped for, honestly. I'd practically resigned myself to the fact that he'd be starting his post-secondary education at a community college. "Thanks."

I'm not sure whether he hangs up, or whether our reception cuts out, but either way, it was the call I'd been hoping to receive. It's the reason we're on our way here to try and improve the future for my child, to get his motivation back. I'd do most anything, adjust most any plan, repair issues on the fly, and work into the wee hours of the night to do that.

But with the packing for a long trip last minute, and with the time it took to prepare to leave the office for months, I didn't sleep much last night. I suppose that's why I fall asleep. When Ethan nudges me awake, the sun is already low in the sky. I rub my eyes and look around.

A sign reads: "Manila Town Limit. Population: 365."

"Whoa," Gabe says. "That's a lot."

I suppress my laugh.