The Discovery

by Dan Walsh

  Even more money. It was crazy. Jenn was squeezing my hand so hard, I couldn’t feel my fingers.

  The last thing the attorney said, before sharing some superlative observations about my grandfather, was to ask us to see his secretary before leaving his office. She had some form for us to fill out, indicating whether we wanted any new funds to be mailed to us by check or by direct deposit into our bank accounts.

  I looked around the room. Everyone else’s attention was focused on Mr. Dunn. But not Marilyn’s. She stared at a silk fichus tree in the corner, lost in thought.

  What was wrong with her?

  3

  Michael, I have a confession to make.”

  “You do?”

  Jenn and I were strolling back to the hotel. I didn’t think she minded that she was in heels anymore. We even made a few stops along the way. Bought that big low-country painting to put over our fireplace, then grabbed some fettuccine alfredo at the Italian restaurant we’d passed earlier on Broad.

  “Yes,” Jenn said. “I only married you for your money.”

  “Okay, was it for the money I was making when you married me, or the money we just found out about an hour ago?”

  She laughed. “It’s too crazy,” she said. “Are we really millionaires? Did that really just happen?”

  We stopped at the intersection, nodded to an older couple walking by arm in arm. Us someday, I thought. “I didn’t know we’d get that much, but I suspected it would be pretty big.”

  “Pretty big,” she said. “Michael, we have twelve hundred dollars in our savings account.”

  “Which is why I just put that eighteen-hundred-dollar painting on our Visa. Wonder how long it will take to get the money in our bank account.”

  “I heard the secretary tell Vincent it would be there by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes . . . Michael . . .” She couldn’t finish her sentence. She giggled, smiled some more, and shook her head in disbelief.

  “Well, guess we can check out of the hotel in the morning,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “We can move into my grandfather’s house over on Legare Street. It’s ours now.”

  “Is that for real?” she asked. “I didn’t really understand that part.”

  “It is most definitely for real. That’s why I got less cash than the other grandchildren.”

  “I was wondering about that,” she said. “I’m not complaining, but I was surprised at how much less.”

  “Jenn, that house is worth close to two million dollars, even in today’s market. I asked Mr. Dunn about it when you were talking with my mom. Gramps had them get an appraisal then deduct that much from my portion, so we all got an equal amount.” It still hadn’t sunk in. I was talking way too matter-of-factly about this. “Getting that house means more to me than the money. It’s priceless. You remember it, don’t you?”

  “Of course I remember it. I fell in love with it the first time I saw it.”

  “Jenn, you realize what this means?”

  “You can write your book now,” she said.

  “And do it in the same place my grandfather wrote his books for the last thirty years.” Just then it dawned on me . . . that’s what he had in mind all along. He knew how much I loved that house, and this town. He had never once asked me if I wanted it for my inheritance. He just knew.

  “The whole family is supposed to meet over there in a few hours, right?” she said.

  I looked at my watch. “Yeah, at 6:00 for the dinner. Mr. Dunn said it was my grandfather’s idea. Give us all a chance to chat and reminisce awhile before we go our separate ways.”

  “So . . . that place, that incredible house . . . it’s really ours? Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Mr. Dunn said he’d give me the keys at dinner, and also the keys to a safe deposit box at my grandfather’s bank, where the deed and title are sitting safe and sound.”

  “There’s no mortgage?”

  “It’s free and clear.”

  “I have a house,” she said.

  “You have a house . . . actually, way more than a house. You have a historic landmark, fully furnished with nineteenth-century period antiques. Every single one handpicked by my grandmother.”

  “Incredible,” she said.

  We walked in contented silence for a while. I thought about how happy Gramps and Nan must be at this moment, together again. Their love for each other had spanned almost sixty years. It was, at times, an odd thing to behold. Usually when I’d see older couples together, they’d seem comfortable with each other; many times I’d observe them eating a meal at a restaurant, barely saying a word the whole time.

  But Gramps and Nan were a couple in love, right to the end. Their passion for each other at least matched my own for Jenn. But they’d had a depth of intimacy far beyond our reach. An intimacy forged over time, granted to a select few. Sometimes I’d catch them stealing glances at each other that seemed to convey entire conversations. I never saw them walk together when they weren’t holding hands. They still preferred to sit together, and without fail, Gramps’s arm would instantly wrap around Nan’s shoulder, like he was some teenage boy at a movie.

  Gramps had told me something very encouraging the first time Jenn and I visited him, a few months after our wedding. We were drinking iced tea in the courtyard by the fountain. “You chose well, Michael. I can tell. I’m a good judge of these things. She’s going to make you very happy. Like Nan made me. Nan would have loved Jenn right off if she were here. Take good care of that young lady, all your days.”

  That was my plan.

  I looked over at Jenn as we turned the corner at Church Street. Her eyes looked all around, taking in the sights of this beautiful city. Maybe trying to envision herself now as one of its citizens, living in the prestigious historic district itself.

  It seemed perfectly right that my grandfather should live here, the reward of a long, successful life. But how did I . . . we . . . rate this distinction? We walked past yet another large, majestic home on Church Street. I couldn’t process the fact that its owner was now my neighbor.

  It got me thinking about our new home on Legare Street. One of Charleston’s famous Single Houses. Gramps’s was built in 1868, just after the Civil War. The town lots in the old walled city were long and narrow, so the homes had to be also. Most were two floors, some three. A Single House, by definition, was just one room wide. The more money you had, the wider the room. Each house had a long, covered porch that ran front to back, called a piazza. The same porch repeated above on the second floor, held up by white pillars spaced evenly across the front. To add privacy, a solid front door was added on the first-floor porch, facing the street.

  Legare Street, like most in the historic section, was designed for carriage traffic. Barely two lanes wide. Many of the homes were on the small side, but here and there you’d find a huge mansion built on double- or triple-sized lots. My grandfather’s house—our house—was somewhere in between, built on a double lot. It was two stories, with a decent attic for a third, and had neat little dormers poking out the south side.

  The house and driveway occupied the entire left side of the property. A garden courtyard filled the right side, bordered by a brick wall, head high and covered in ivy. A tall hedge set just inside that wall extended a few feet above it, creating even more privacy. Really, except for the ornamental iron gate stretched across the driveway, the whole property was enclosed and obscured from prying eyes.

  Just the way my grandfather wanted it.

  His favorite thing was the massive live oak in the far corner, which spread its thick limbs in every direction, covering the property in shade. At the courtyard’s center was the angel fountain, old and weatherworn. Water trickled down from the angel’s bugle into a circular pool. You could see most of this through the windows in my grandfather’s study, the last room on the ground floor.

  I was seeing it all now in my mind.

  “What
are you thinking about?” Jenn asked. We had reached the door to our hotel.

  “I still can’t believe he left it to me.”

  I didn’t expect it, but tears welled up in my eyes.

  4

  Two hours later, the whole family was at the house on Legare Street. We’d just eaten a wonderful dinner, a full buffet of low-country cuisine, spread out on tables in the courtyard. Perfect temperature. Pleasant music playing softly in the background, old forties love songs in honor of Gramps and Nan. The sun had set, but there was still a dab of light left in the day.

  Everyone was in high spirits. How could we not be? Oddly enough, that included Marilyn. She seemed fine now, like nothing had ever happened. Jenn and I were sitting next to my cousin Vincent and his wife, Abby, sipping some high-end coffee from the island of St. Helena.

  “So, Michael, you going to write that book you’ve been talking about the last few years?” Abby asked.

  Jenn answered for me. “He is, from the same desk their grandfather wrote all his.” She was so happy saying it.

  “You going to use Gramps’s old typewriter?” Vincent said.

  I laughed. Gramps had never switched to a computer. “No, I think I’ll stick with my laptop. But I’ll keep it on a shelf nearby for inspiration. Worked pretty well for him.” Vincent’s eyes reflected concern. “What are you thinking?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  “C’mon, I know that look. It’s why I always beat you at poker.”

  “It’s just . . . how do you follow an act like that? Gramps was, you know . . . a megastar.”

  Abby made a face at Vincent. If I got it right, that face told him he was a total idiot for bringing that up.

  “Michael’s not going to try to be like his grandfather.” It was nice of Jenn to come to my rescue, but it didn’t help. “He’s going to write the way he writes, find his own voice. Right, Michael?”

  “That’s the idea,” I said.

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine, great even,” Abby said. “I heard your grandfather bragging about one of your short stories last Christmas. He really thought you have talent.”

  “Maybe you could write his biography,” Vincent said. “Might be a good place to start. You’d have instant name recognition. It’d probably be a bestseller, especially if it was written by his grandson. Everybody’s curious about the great and mysterious Gerard Warner.”

  “I don’t know, Vince.”

  “You know somebody’s going to write it,” Vince said. “Might as well be family, someone who’d do it right.”

  Apparently, Aunt Fran was listening in. “Say, Michael. That’s not a bad idea. And it would be a nonfiction book, so no one would be drawing comparisons.”

  That didn’t help, either. Jenn reached over and grabbed my hand. She was feeling my pain. Just then I noticed my mother get up and walk to the fountain. Marilyn joined her.

  “Hey, everyone,” she called out.

  About half the family stopped and turned.

  “Hey, y’all, can I get your attention just a minute.”

  Now the rest turned to listen.

  “I know this celebration’s probably going to start winding down soon,” she said. “Most of us will be heading home tomorrow.”

  “Except Michael and Jenn,” Vincent yelled out. “They’re home right now.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Well, let me get this out before they tire of our company and put us out by the road,” she said. “Marilyn and I had a nice long chat after things wrapped up at the attorneys’ today. She’s got something she wants to say . . . well, I’ll shut up and let her say it.” Mom stepped aside.

  “Okay, everybody,” Marilyn said, stepping into her spot. “You know what’s coming. I’m sorry I was such an idiot this afternoon. I want you to know how sorry I am if I spoiled the moment for anyone. I love Gramps so much, and I . . .” She was getting choked up. “Today was so special. Gramps was so good to all of us, his whole life. I don’t want any of you thinking I’m not grateful for all he’s done. Not just now, but . . . you know what I mean.”

  She took a deep breath. “I guess I’m just going to have to let go of this family tree thing I’ve been going after these past two years. But . . . doesn’t it bug any of you that we don’t know a single thing about how he and Nan met, or who his folks were, or . . . I’m sorry. Look at me, doing it again. Anyway, I am sorry.” She stepped off to the side.

  There were a few awkward seconds, then my father walked into the spot vacated by Marilyn. “Hey, everyone, let’s let Marilyn off the hook on this. Took some guts to do that.” He started to clap gently. We all joined in, till it almost reached the volume of something you’d hear after a nice birdie putt.

  “And before anyone takes off,” my dad continued, “let’s say a toast to my dad and mom.” He held up a champagne glass. “To two wonderful lives well-lived.” He looked like he had more to say, but he started choking up. We all held our glasses up, then the courtyard filled with the sound of glasses clinking together.

  I looked over at Marilyn. She wasn’t smiling.

  I just knew . . . she wasn’t about to give this up.

  5

  The next day Jenn and I were still at our hotel. A week ago, she had protested when I’d made the reservations. It was too expensive. I told her we’d certainly be getting enough from my grandfather’s will to afford a few days of comfort. Obviously, I was right.

  Now I was ready to check out and move into our new house, but she wasn’t. I looked over at the keys Mr. Dunn had given me, then over at Jenn sitting at the desk in our hotel room. She had just made a convincing case for staying in this expensive hotel one more day.

  As Gramps had pointed out before he died, I had married a good woman and it would be stupid not to listen to her.

  “Now, Michael, you’re going to help me when we get over there, right?”

  Jenn’s voice brought me back to the present. Apparently, I had started shaving. I looked at Jenn through the mirror; she was still sitting at the desk, writing a checklist of things we needed to do for the house. The adult thing to do. “Of course, I will,” I said. “You think I’m going to goof off and let you do all the work?”

  “Not goof off, but you do get distracted easily, and there’s a lot there to be—”

  “I’m going to help you, Jenn.”

  She looked up at me. Guess I said it with an edge.

  “Michael, since I’m heading home in a few days, we’ve got a lot to get done in a short amount of time. When’s the art gallery delivering our new painting?”

  “Eleven-thirty, but I could call and make it later.”

  “Maybe you should; then we won’t be so rushed. The first thing on my list: we need to buy some new sheets and pillowcases. I loved your grandfather, but . . . didn’t he die in that bed?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. Something else I hadn’t thought of was Jenn not being okay with us moving into the house so quickly and leaving our lives in Florida behind.

  Like our jobs. Well, her job anyway.

  My bank had just been taken over by a large Canadian outfit, and I didn’t care what they thought of me. I was probably on somebody’s hit list anyway. But Jenn liked her job, cared about the people she worked for. “I have to give them at least two weeks’ notice,” she’d said last night when we talked this over.

  So we agreed that after another day or so, she’d head home, work her last two weeks, and I’d stay here, get the house ready. Gramps had been in his late eighties, so there was probably a lot that needed tending to.

  After I finished shaving, Jenn walked up behind me and hugged me around the waist. “You doing okay?”

  I turned around and hugged her back. “Sure. I’m not happy about the idea of you leaving me for two weeks, but—”

  “No, I mean about the book thing. I felt bad about what Vincent said last night, about you getting lost in your grandfather’s shadow.”

  Vince hadn’t actually said that,
as I recalled. What Jenn just said sounded worse. “It’s okay, it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. No matter how good I am, I’ll never be as good as he was, and—”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Jenn, I’m just being realistic. You inherit things like a big nose and high blood pressure, not the ability to write like that.”

  She laughed. “I don’t know, famous singers often have kids who can sing.”

  “But they’re never as good.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Okay, name one megastar singer whose child or grandchild became just as good or just as famous.”

  She pulled back a little to give it some thought. Clearly, she was drawing a blank.

  “I’ve got two names for you,” I said. “How about Julian Lennon and Ben Taylor?”

  “Who are they?” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  Later that morning, our shopping all done, we drove the handful of blocks to our new home on Legare Street. Really, except for the weight of our shopping bags, we could have walked the distance. It was that close.

  My grandfather’s house—our house—was just past the Tradd Street intersection. Almost the entire street was shaded, either by the homes built right to the edge of the sidewalk or by the rows of palmetto palms and oak trees lining the homes set back from the road.

  As I drove slowly down the street, Jenn said, “This is ridiculously charming.”

  I pulled up to our narrow driveway. A couple in their early twenties stood by the sidewalk, peeking through the wrought-iron gate at our courtyard, engaged in a favorite Charleston tourist pastime: gawking. Jenn and I used to do the same thing when we’d visit my grandfather, just walk all around the neighborhoods, admiring the homes, the courtyards and private gardens. I remembered occasionally getting caught by residents pulling into these incredible homes.

  “See that, Jenn? Gawkers.” I pointed to the couple. They hadn’t seen us yet. “Watch this.”

  “Don’t, Michael.”

  I pushed the remote button. The iron gate rumbled to life, then creaked as it opened, startling the couple. They stepped back and gawked at us as we drove through.