The Heiress

Losing your boyfriend and your job in one week is tough. Do you know what's even tougher? When the subject of such a catastrophe happens to be an irresponsible quasi-adult with no savings and a mountain of debt.

Unfortunately, that was me, not even a week ago. Reluctant to call my parents and admit my complete and utter failure at life, I decided I would try my hand at obtaining a personal loan to cover expenses until I could find another job. The bank, as it turns out, was not impressed with my credit score nor my sob story and sent me on my not-so-merry way. That's how I ended up depressed and tired on the subway around one o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon.

As I trudged into a surprisingly empty subway car, I noticed a little black book left on one of the ugly orange seats. Taking another look around the car to make sure that I was alone, I sauntered over to the book, picked it up, and took a seat. As I opened the book, a thick white envelope fell into my lap. It was unmarked on the outside and unsealed. I took a peek inside and gasped audibly. It was filled with hundred-dollar bills. Could I really be so lucky? Maybe the universe was trying to make up for my recent bad luck.

I pulled the bills from the envelope and counted them twice. There was 1,200 dollars total. Enough to at least cover my portion of rent for next month. My immediate reaction was some semblance of relief before I remembered that this was someone else's money.

I struggled with my conscience. I was so desperate for cash that I couldn't see how anyone else could be as in need as I was at that moment and yet... I recognized the absurdity of that thought. Even if I got evicted and couldn't afford food, I had parents I could run to for help. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was at least a slight chance that the owner of the black book could be in an even worse predicament than I was. In the end, I decided that if I could figure out how to get in contact with the owner, that I would do the right thing and return the money.

I glanced down at the little black book and opened it to the first page. There, inscribed in cramped writing, was the name "Beatrice Langley". I silently cursed Beatrice's foresight and my own goodwill.

As this turned out to be a fairly uncommon name, it didn't take me long to locate Beatrice on social media. I assumed she must be an older woman since her profile photo was clearly taken with a film camera many decades past. I clicked the private message button and typed out an explanation of how I'd found the book. I told her that if she could tell me what the book contained, in order to prove ownership, that I would bring it to her.

Satisfied with my attempt to do the right thing and feeling like an actual angel on earth, I sat back in the uncomfortable seat and stared at the black window in front of me as the car swayed gently. Apparently, the action lulled me to sleep because quite suddenly I was jolted awake by a particularly sharp stop. I wiped a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth and shook my head to wake myself up. I looked up to locate the station name only to find that I had missed my stop while I was sleeping. I jumped to my feet and bounded out of the car.

Only now did I look down at my phone and see that Beatrice had written me back. Yes, it was her book. It contained $1200 (her rent money, she explained) and she would be very grateful to have it back. I groaned inwardly, but as I'd already committed to being a good person, I messaged her back asking for an address where I could drop the book. Her reply came almost instantly.

A quick internet search showed me that this address was barely a block from the stop I just happened to have gotten off at. The universe really was just playing games with me now.

Five minutes later I stood outside a beautiful brownstone. I looked down at the address she'd sent me and double-checked my location. I stared up at the building in awe. Hadn't she just told me the $1200 was for rent? If this place cost less than $10,000 a month, I'd eat my own hand. Deciding that I must not know the whole situation, I approached the door and knocked.

A moment later the door was opened by an elegant woman in a deep red velvet dress that looked like it would have been popular in the mid-1800s. I gasped as I studied her face. She looked exactly like the woman from the profile photo and not a day older. It must have been a photo of her great-great-grandmother or something, though that didn't explain the clothing.

Beatrice smiled graciously and beckoned me to come in. I felt a bit weird about entering a stranger's house (and a very strange stranger she seemed), but I did so just to be polite. She thanked me profusely and asked if I would care for some tea. I accepted her offer, mostly out of sheer curiosity. As I followed her into a drawing-room, I was astounded to find that the house decor matched the woman who resided here. Everything looked like it belonged in a Jane Austen novel. I took a seat on a flower-patterned fainting couch and studied the room as I waited for my hostess.

She reentered again shortly with a tray and proceeded to pour tea for both of us. She motioned to a tray of crumpets for me to help myself (crumpets?!). I held my cup and saucer in both hands and gingerly sipped at the tea. It all felt very surreal.

As we sat there sipping tea and eating crumpets, Beatrice asked me many questions about myself. Before I knew it, I was pouring out my soul to her. Mostly about the unfortunate recent events of my life and how stressed I was about finding another job and the serious potential of losing my apartment and having to move back in with my parents. She was a wonderful listener and she seemed genuinely concerned for me as I sat there spilling my guts to a complete stranger. I had no idea why I was doing it either, as I was usually a superbly private person. Maybe tea and crumpets were like truth serum to me. I'd certainly never had another occasion to find out.

As the windows began to darken, I realized I had been there quite a long time. I thanked Beatrice for her hospitality and told her that I really should be getting home. She once again expressed her gratitude for the return of the book and said she wanted to thank me for the good deed. She then told me that it wasn't really the money she had been so happy to get back, but the journal itself. It had belonged to her late husband and contained his personal accounts of their life and travels together. It was her most prized possession and she had been incredibly distraught when she found it missing. Tears glimmered at the corners of her eyes as she clutched it to her chest. She then told me that what she really wanted to do in return for my invaluable assistance was to write me a check for twenty thousand dollars.

I stared at her blankly, certain I'd misheard. Twenty thousand dollars would almost exactly cover all of my debt and my upcoming rent payment. How could she have known that number? Beatrice went on to explain that she was an heiress - the only child born into a fortune that had been passed down through her mother's side. She had no children and after losing the love of her life, she didn't think that she would ever marry again. The money would be a trifle for her and she would like to lift the burden weighing me down, as I had done the same for her with no expectations of reciprocation. Before I could reply, she ran to a writing desk and scribbled out something that turned out to be a check. She returned and held it out to me, imploring me to accept her show of gratitude.

Numbly, I accepted the check from her. I stammered my thanks to her and again pointed out it was far too generous of a reward. She waved away my protests and told me she wouldn't hear any more nonsense about not accepting her gift.

As we said our farewells at her door, I felt a sort of sadness in leaving the widow behind. She had been so genuinely kind to me in a time when most strangers were self-absorbed and angry. As if she could read my thoughts, she held out her arms to me and embraced me as a mother would.

Suddenly another jolt went through my body. Opening my eyes I found myself sitting once again on a plastic orange subway seat. I blinked rapidly and looked around the compartment, surprised. There was now a man seated across from me who had apparently noticed my rude awakening and he smirked before returning his attention to the book on his lap. I was almost in shock. It must have been a dream and yet it had felt so incredibly real that I couldn't imagine how that could be possible. I looked down at the little black book in my lap. Had I really dreamt everything?

Opening the book, I found no white envelope and no cramped writing. In fact, the entire journal was completely spotless. My heart dropped a bit. I had been buoyed by the thought that all of my problems had been temporarily solved, only to awake to stark reality. I had no twenty thousand dollar check and no mysterious new friend named Beatrice. A tear slid down my cheek as the weariness of the last week and the weight of my debt pressed down upon me once more.

As was my nervous habit, I pulled out my phone and opened one of my many credit card apps. I needed to figure out which payment was due first in order to figure out just how much trouble I was in. When my balance pulled up, I had to look twice at the screen to make sure I wasn't seeing things. It was zero. I didn't get my hopes up as I was certain this was a fluke - the bank's site must be down. I opened the next app just to ground myself again. The balance was once again zero. I checked all of the others now - zero, zero, zero, zero. I sat there stunned. How could this be? They all listed a recent payment of the exact amount of my previous balance. I opened my checking account app (which I usually avoided when I knew it was next to empty) to find that there was an additional $3,000 in my account. I stared at the phone blankly until the automated voice on the train announced that my stop was approaching.

I never found out how that kind of fortune landed in my lap. I've always suspected that Beatrice lives on somewhere in between dreams and reality. As for the journal - I used it to write this story. I now carry it with me everywhere, so that anytime I'm feeling thankful for something in my life - no matter how small - I can write it down and take it with me.