A string of curses issued from Young Buck Shively as Jay entered the barn, followed by a request for yet another wrench. Jay handed it off with a shake of the head. He was starting to think dynamite might be the only option for the old relic they fondly called the Beast. He’d been warned about used tractors, but buying new meant less money for other things. At the time it seemed like a no-brainer.
That was five years ago. Now it was beginning to look as though both the tractor and his luck were running out of steam. He didn’t relish telling Buck the news. The man had dropped everything and dragged his family halfway across the state to be a part of this. Sooner or later, though, someone was going to ask about the BMW in the driveway, so he supposed now was as good a time as any.
He was still trying to decide how to broach the subject when Angie Shively appeared with a tray of sandwiches and apples. With a stab of relief he gave Young Buck’s boot a kick. “Come on out. The little woman’s here and she’s got food.”
Nothing made Young Buck move faster than food. Like a turtle on its back, he wriggled from beneath the tractor and stood, six feet six and as thin as a rake, with hair like a new penny and freckles so thick they could almost pass for a tan. He grinned at his wife, a moony, lopsided grin that made Jay look away. There were times when it was damned uncomfortable being around the two of them.
“So,” Angie asked, eyeing the Beast as she filled two plastic cups with sweet tea, “she gonna make it ’til harvest, do you think?”
Young Buck cocked one eye and gave his chin a scratch. “At this point I’m not sure she’s gonna make it ’til sundown.”
Angie handed out ham and cheese sandwiches in little plastic bags, then turned her eyes to the tractor. It was the kind of look she might have given a lame horse. “Maybe it’s time to do the humane thing.”
Young Buck’s mouth was already full. “And use what to buy a new one?”
“You know Virgil will give you whatever you need on credit,” she said, swapping his empty sandwich bag for a full one. “Look, I know keeping this thing going has turned into some macho badge of honor, but harvest is six weeks out. We’ll be in a fine mess if the old girl decides to give up the ghost right as the picking crew shows up.”
Jay didn’t say a word. She was right, of course. What she didn’t know was that twenty-four hours ago, their plans had changed.
“Stop looking at me like that, Jay. I’m not asking you to flush the family goldfish. It’s a tractor, for crying out loud. I know you said you didn’t want to go into hock, but it wouldn’t be that much. The two of you need to be out in the rows, not in here performing CPR.”
Buck looked to Jay. “What do you think, boss?”
Jay kept his eyes on his sandwich as he worked it from its bag. “I think no matter what, we need to keep her breathing until we get the fruit in.”
Buck nodded gravely. “I’ll do what I can, but I think we may need to bring in a priest.”
“Last rites?”
“Exorcism.”
Jay forced himself to smile. He’d seen the flicker of concern in Angie’s eyes when he said no matter what. The woman didn’t miss a trick. “Well, if you think an exorcism will help, I’m in. Hell, at this point we’ve tried everything but duct tape and religion.”
Buck’s face fell. “Sorry, boss. Tried the duct tape this morning.”
Jay grinned in earnest now. Thank God for Buck. The man was always good for a laugh, even when laughing was the last damn thing that made sense.
When the sandwiches were gone, Angie handed out the apples and collected the scraps. “I’ll leave you two engineers to it, then. Try not to burn down the barn or cut off any important body parts. I’m off to ShopWay for popcorn. Sammi Lee talked me into a sleepover. Five eight-year-olds in one house—God help us all.”
Jay watched Buck’s eyes trail appreciatively after his wife’s backside and wondered why some men hit the jackpot, while others hit the wall. “How’d you get a smart girl like that to marry you, Shively? She lose a bet or something?”
Buck pushed back a fringe of red hair and grinned. “I ask myself that almost every day. So does her daddy—every time he sees me.” He paused to bite into his apple before changing the subject. “Speaking of sleepovers, I saw you had a guest yourself. Saw her pull away in her Beemer just a little bit ago—looked real nice. Maybe the lone wolf’s changing his spots?”
Jay smiled tightly. Here it was, then, the moment of truth. “No, Bucko. I promise my spots are still intact. The Beemer you saw belongs to the mistress of the manor.”
Buck’s apple stalled midway to his mouth. “Do what?”
“Miss Scarlett has come home to Tara.”
Buck’s eyes widened. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
Buck blinked at him. “What the hell’s she been waiting for?”
Jay rifled his own half-eaten apple out the barn door and watched it wobble to a stop in the dirt. “Doesn’t matter. She’s headed to town right now to meet with the attorney. I think she’s going to sell.”
Buck went quiet. Jay knew he was calculating what the news might mean to his small family, to the arrangement that let them live rent-free in exchange for Buck’s expertise as a vineyard man.
“Does she know someone?” he asked finally.
“Know someone?”
“Who wants to buy it?”
Jay shook his head. “I don’t think so. We’ll have some time, at least.”
Buck kicked a greasy rag across the barn floor. “This is sure going to make a mess of things.”
Jay gazed out at the trellised fields beyond the barn. “Yes,” he said softly. “I’m afraid it is.”
Chapter 3
Leslie
The office of Goddard and Goddard wasn’t an office at all, but a converted three-story Queen Anne that conjured thoughts of Edgar Allan Poe and Mrs. Caswell’s ninth-grade English class. The reception area, a made-over parlor, was dimly lit and reeked of stale tobacco. A woman in lumpy gray tweed looked up over enormous glasses, inquired if Leslie had an appointment, then directed her to an office at the end of a narrow hall.
The man behind the large mahogany desk was young and slender, with wheat-colored hair and pale blue eyes, too young to be an attorney, surely. He folded his hands on the blotter and smiled blandly. “Good afternoon…Ms. Nichols, is it?”
“Yes. I have an appointment with William Goddard.”
“Actually, your appointment is with me. William was my grandfather. He passed away a few months back, which means you’re stuck with me.” He reached a hand across the desk. “Brendan Goddard.”
Leslie shook his hand, then took the chair he offered. “I’m here about my grandmother’s estate.”
“Yes, Peak Plantation.” Withdrawing a green Pendaflex file from one of the drawers, he emptied its contents onto the desk. “I’ll need a few moments,” he told her, pointing to a stack of storage boxes near the door. “Your file was already boxed for the move, so I haven’t had a chance to review it. I must say I was surprised when you turned up out of the blue. I’m sure Mr. Davenport was as well.”
Leslie wasn’t in the mood to talk about Mr. Davenport. “Do you think we could proceed, Mr. Goddard?”
“Please, call me Brendan, and yes, I believe everything’s in order. Generally, the reading of a will is attended by all interested parties. However, in this case, after so much time, all other parties have been apprised of your grandmother’s final wishes, and all related articles of property have been disposed of.” He skimmed several pages off the stack, flipping them over on the desk. “I’ll be happy to cover it all, but unless you object, we can move straight to what was left to you.”
Leslie nodded.
“As you probably know, Ms. Nichols, your grandmother was a woman of considerable property, real property, that is, eighty-five acres in all. There are also several houses with which you are undoubtedly familiar, various barns and outbuildings. Then there are the contents of the primar
y home, and a small amount of cash.”
He slid a bank statement across the desk, lined up beside various deeds, surveys, and property tax assessments. It quickly blurred together with the others.
“As you can see, Ms. Nichols, the bulk of your grandmother’s net worth was in the property, and her venture with Mr. Davenport.”
Leslie’s eyes snapped back to Goddard. “I’m sorry, did you say Mr. Davenport?”
“I assumed you knew they were partners.”
“Partners?” The word caught Leslie off guard. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath. “Was she…Did she handle all this herself?”
Brendan Goddard smiled knowingly. “You’re asking if your grandmother was of sound mind, as they say.” He shrugged. “I never met the woman, but my grandfather never gave any indication that she wasn’t. I understand why you’d wonder, though, the way she carved things up. But, Ms. Nichols, let me caution you. Contesting a will can be a nasty business.”
He was leaning forward in his chair now, brows knitted. “I can see that you’re upset. That’s understandable. But after so long an estrangement, it might be wise to accept things as they are. In cases like these—”
Leslie was only half listening, making a mental list of questions, contemplating her next step, but finally Goddard’s words penetrated.
“I’m sorry, did you just say carved?”
Goddard squirmed a bit in his chair. “You have spoken with Mr. Davenport, haven’t you?”
“I met him last night. Why do you ask?”
“I assumed you wouldn’t be very happy about…things.”
Leslie felt the room wobble. “What…things? What are you saying?”
Goddard spread his hands on the desk and eyed her squarely. “I’m saying your grandmother divided her property between two beneficiaries, and one of those beneficiaries is you.”
“And the other?”
“Is Mr. Davenport.”
“Mr. Davenport…my grandmother’s handyman?”
“I’m told he and your grandmother were quite close.”
“And I suppose Mr. Davenport told you that?”
“Ms. Nichols, given the length of your estrangement, you can’t expect—”
Leslie cut him off. “Your secretary mentioned some sort of time limit. I had a year to claim my inheritance or it would default to someone else. Might I ask who that someone is?”
“That would be Mr. Davenport, of course.”
He turned the remaining paperwork around and slid it across the desk. Leslie’s face went hot as she scanned the pages, scarcely able to believe what she was reading. The Big House, as well as the smaller house where she had lived with her parents, belonged to her. Jay got the cottage and deed rights to the lake. The vineyard acreage was to be divided between them. It was impossible. And yet it was all there in black and white, properly sealed and notarized. Either Maggie had been completely out of her mind, or she had a nasty sense of humor.
She pushed the papers back. “Is there something I’m supposed to sign?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“To take possession of what’s mine. There are signatures required to complete these things, aren’t there?”
“Well, yes, of course, but—”
“May I have a pen?”
“Ms. Nichols, we’re not even close to being through. There are other documents we need to go over, so that you’re clear on the details.”
“I’m as clear as I need to be, Mr. Goddard. A pen, please.”
He opened his mouth to protest again, then gave up with a shrug. Separating out several sheets from the stack, he scooped them into a large white envelope. “Your copy of the deed is in here, as well as the property survey. We’ll need to record the transfer of deed with the county court. No liens of any kind, of course, and this year’s taxes have been paid. As executor, Mr. Davenport agreed to look after your share of the property until you could be reached. I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.”
Executor too. Well, he had certainly maneuvered it all very neatly. Another two weeks and all of Peak would have belonged to him. No wonder he’d been so happy to see her.
Goddard was raking together the last of the papers, preparing to slide them back into their cardboard pouch, when he stopped and upended the folder, shaking a ring of keys out onto the desk. He picked them up and handed them to her.
“I have no idea what any of these go to, but they’re yours—oh, and this.”
Leslie stared at the old sepia photo he put into her hand and felt goose bumps rise on her arms. It was a queer shot—a solitary grave enclosed by a low iron fence, the weathered stone listing to one side as if to hear a secret. It was an amazing shot as photos went, framed by a lightning-struck oak. She flipped it over. No date, no location, nothing.
“What is this?”
“I haven’t a clue, but it was in the file with your grandmother’s paperwork, so I can only assume it was meant for you. You don’t recognize it?”
Leslie shook her head. “Your grandfather never mentioned it?”
“Not that I recall. I suppose there could have been a mix-up while we were packing for the move. Last week I found a prenup misfiled with an adoption file. Take it. If I find out it was a mistake, I’ll get in touch.”
Leslie thanked him for his time, and stood.
Goddard stood, too, and walked her to the door. “Will you be staying on in Gavin, do you think?”
“Not permanently, no. I’ll be here as long as it takes me to dispose of…things.”
“I understand. My grandfather left me this place, and don’t get me wrong, it was very thoughtful, but it’s not exactly my style.” He pointed to the grandfather clock near the door. “Take that, for instance. What am I supposed to do with something like that?”
Leslie eyed the clock, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, and likely worth a fortune. Its cabinet was the deep rich hue of molasses, its hands and face gleaming like a Sunday choir. The time was wrong, though, as if no one had bothered to wind it since William Goddard died. Staring at the dead face and hands, she searched for something to say.
Goddard saved her by sticking out a hand. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, Ms. Nichols. I wish you luck—selling, I mean. Messy business, but the best thing for people like us.”
“People like us?”
He chuckled, a cold, uncomfortable sound. “The inheritors of white elephants, I guess you’d call us; the recipients of unwanted legacies. Our grandparents left us their whole life’s work, and we can’t run away from it fast enough.”
Leslie’s heels left a trail of wounds as she crossed the smooth green lawn. She had a few questions for Mr. Davenport, and according to the paperwork, the cottage was where she was likely to find him.
She could just make it out now, tucked between the trees along the lake’s eastern shore, bordered on three sides by a wall of mossy stone. In her day it was a musty shack crammed with old furniture and other assorted castoffs. Now, as she stepped from the trees, she saw that time had transformed it. Gone was the run-down shack of her memory, replaced by a quaint clapboard cottage with shiny black shutters, a white picket gate, and window boxes full of geraniums.
The front door stood open. Leslie stepped through without knocking. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but eventually she could make out her surroundings: a small parlor with a scrubbed pine floor, walls washed a soft seawater green, a smattering of simple pine furniture.
Something like surprise registered on Jay’s face when he glanced up and saw her in the doorway. He was seated behind a battered pine desk, bare chested but for the towel draped around his neck, his hair slightly damp. He took his time closing several desk drawers, then finally met her gaze, his expression infuriatingly bland.
“Good afternoon.”
Leslie wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. She crossed the room and thrust Goddard’s papers at him. “You knew I’d find out about this. Why the farce?”
“There w
as no farce. I just thought it would sound better coming from Goddard. I assume he filled you in on all the gory details?”
Leslie mentally counted to ten before firing back. “He shouldn’t have had to. As my grandmother’s executor, you had an obligation to tell me the truth.”
Jay looked genuinely stunned. “Obligation…to you? Do you really want to stand there and talk about obligations when you’ve just breezed into town with your hand out?”
“That’s right, get all high-and-mighty. You’ve been hostile from the moment I showed up, but I didn’t get why until I was sitting in Goddard’s office. My turning up yesterday was pretty inconvenient, wasn’t it?”
“Stunning is more like it.”
Leslie ignored the dig. “If I had waited just two more weeks, it all would have gone to you. You can’t tell me that doesn’t piss you off.”
Jay stood, arms rigid at his sides. “I already got more than I should have.”
The response caught Leslie off guard. “Finally, something we can agree on.”
“You think I swindled your grandmother out of her fortune. Is that it?”
“I think I’ve got a right to know how all this happened.”
“You’re asking if I locked her in the attic until she agreed to leave me everything.”
“Goddard said you and Maggie were close. Is that true?”
Jay pulled the towel from his neck and dropped it on the chair before stepping from behind the desk. “The truth—at least the part that’s any of your business—is that your grandmother and I met and hit it off. Eventually we went into business together. There was nothing sneaky about it, but I can’t prove that. I had no idea about the will. She and Goddard Senior cooked that up. I was as surprised as anyone.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I don’t expect you to believe me.”
“Can you see my side? I show up, and here you are, like a stray cat.”
He smiled at that. “I guess I was something of a stray when I showed up.”
The Secrets She Carried Page 3