I felt like myself.
The attorney’s name was Patricia Holloway. Pat, she insisted. A sharp-eyed woman in her early 60s who ran a boutique estate practice out of an office in Scottsdale. She came recommended through a financial planning directory, and when I called, her assistant had been business-like and discreet.
That discretion was what I was paying for.
I told Daniel I had a doctor’s appointment. It was the first lie I had told my son in perhaps 20 years. I sat with that for a moment in the car, then decided I could live with it.
Pat Holloway’s office was nothing like I expected. It was quiet and comfortable, with good art on the walls and no flatscreen television blaring in the waiting room.
When I was shown in, she stood to greet me, looked at me steadily, and said, “Mrs. Briggs, you said on the phone this was sensitive. That means it stays in this room. Tell me what’s happened.”
I told her everything. The lottery ticket. The amount. My living situation. The dinner. My son’s question.
I laid it out in order, without embellishment. The way I had always done things. Harold had once said I gave information the way a good nurse takes a pulse, steady and accurate.
Pat listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
“First thing,” she said, “have you signed anything? Told anyone at the lottery commission your name?”
“No. I’ve told no one.”
“Good.”
She pulled a legal pad toward her.
“Many states allow lottery winners to claim through a trust or an LLC, which keeps your name out of public record. Arizona is one of them. We’ll establish a revocable living trust before you claim. Your name does not appear on any public filing. We also need to talk about a financial adviser. I have 2 I trust implicitly. And we need to discuss your current living arrangement and how you’d like to proceed.”
She said all of this calmly, as though helping 71-year-old women secretly manage lottery fortunes was a routine Tuesday.
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