Winter Cottage

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  “Your grandfather came from a family of five children. So you have quite a few second cousins.”

  “Where are they?”

  “A few are in town, but most have moved away.”

  In third grade, Lucy’s teacher had told her students to draw a family tree with their parents. Beth insisted it was just the two of them, so Lucy had drawn a single trunk with one branch. She’d been content until she’d realized her classmates’ drawings were filled with endless branches. “I understand there is an inheritance called Winter Cottage.”

  “The inheritance is from Mrs. Catherine Hedrick Buchanan.” Sharp green eyes locked onto her, waiting for her to acknowledge a name that he assumed was familiar.

  “If you’re waiting to see if the name means something, sorry. I got nothing. You’ll have to start with the basics.”

  “Mrs. Buchanan owned Winter Cottage, and she wanted your grandfather, your mother, and now you to have it.”

  “What was Mrs. Buchanan’s relationship to my grandfather?”

  “I don’t really know. Your grandfather was a merchant marine, and he didn’t retire until he was eighty. That was 1996. According to family lore, Mrs. Buchanan offered to send your grandfather to college, but he refused. She made a similar offer to your mother, but she also refused.”

  “So why was this woman guardian angel to the Jessups?”

  How many times had her mother told her college, especially art college, was a waste of money? She’d always figured the attitude had more to do with financial feasibility. Apparently not.

  Lucy’s teachers had always said she had potential, but in the end her grades had been too average for a scholarship. The first few years out of high school, she’d tried to save up for college, but whenever her bank account grew, something went wrong. The transmission in her car failed. Uninsured appendicitis. Beth was short on rent money again. It all chipped away at savings. By her early twenties, she’d earned a solid reputation on the Nashville strip as a bartender. Life rolled on, she sketched when she could, and college got left behind.

  “When did Mrs. Buchanan die?” she asked.

  “March 1990 at the age of one hundred and one.”

  “About a year after I was born.”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you first reach out to my mother?” she asked.

  “Last year, right after your grandfather died. After she ignored all my letters, I finally got her on the phone four months ago. She said maybe you’d want whatever Mrs. Buchanan was offering and asked me to resend the documents.”

  “I had no idea.” More hurt than surprised, she rubbed Dolly’s head. “This is a lot to take in, Mr. Garrison.”

  “I know.”

  She thought about all the glances in the diner. “Beth must have made an impression. I got a lot of stares at breakfast.”

  “Your mother was hard to forget. My parents went to high school with her, and they remember her well.”

  “Have you asked them about her?”

  “My dad said everyone has a Beth story.”

  She felt like she’d stumbled into a movie fifteen minutes late and was scrambling to identify the cast of characters. “What was his story?”

  “She convinced a handful of students to skip school their sophomore year. They drove down to Norfolk and spent an entire afternoon eating ice cream and hanging out on the beach. The town sheriff, wanting to make a point, was waiting at the bridge when they drove home. With lights and sirens, he pulled them over, and everyone was scared but Beth. She laughed when the sheriff started lecturing them, and it got her a ride in the back of his squad car to jail, where she sat for a while. She emerged from jail a few hours later, and all the kids thought she was cool.”

  “That sums up my childhood. She was never one for the rules. Arlene said she left the day before graduation. Even I can do that math. She was pregnant with me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who my father is?” Now it was her turn to bore a hole in him and wait for an answer.

  He didn’t blink. “I don’t know.”

  Her gaze steady, she tried to peer into his brain. “Can you tell me more about Winter Cottage?”

  “It was built in 1901 and served as a hunting lodge. Mr. George Buchanan, Mrs. B’s father-in-law, built the home for Elizabeth Lawrence because they both loved to duck hunt. She was his mistress for years, but they married in 1916.”

  “A hunting lodge. I’m imagining bear rugs, antlers, and lots of dark wood.”

  “Not exactly. You’ll have to see it to believe it. The house also comes with three hundred acres of bayfront land that has several water access points. My family has leased one hundred acres from the estate for forty years. We run Beacon Vineyard.”

  “Land and a house. Beats a Jeep and the last hundred bucks I have in my pocket.”

  Mr. Garrison flexed his fingers as if he were about to handle something unpleasant. “There are conditions to the inheritance.”

  “Of course there are. What conditions?”

  “All monies in the inheritance must be used to renovate and keep up the house. You can begin accessing those funds after you’ve lived on the property thirty days.”

  “Did my grandfather stay in the house?”

  “He lived there thirty days and then moved to the guest cottage on the property. He was good about upkeep, but he never tackled any renovations beyond putting a new roof on the house.”

  “What’s wrong with Winter Cottage? Why didn’t my mother and grandfather want it?”

  “It’s old. Drafty. And taking care of a house like that is a commitment.”

  “And if I decide I don’t want the house, then I get nothing.”

  “Correct. The property’s renovation monies would then go to the heir descended from George Buchanan’s daughter, Victoria. That’s also odd, because back in the day, inheritance usually followed the sons, not the daughters.”

  “What about Mrs. Buchanan? She didn’t have children of her own?”

  “She had a son, who passed away in 1974. Her heirs were not listed in the will.”

  “Why not?”

  “No idea.”

  Beth used to say possessions only weighed you down, and Lucy was starting to see some of the logic. “None of this makes sense.”

  “No, it does not.”

  “Who’s the relative who gets this Winter Cottage if I say no?”

  “Me.”

  “You?”

  “Victoria was my great-grandmother.”

  She huffed out a frustrated breath. “So if I stay for thirty days in a hundred-year-old house, I then have the privilege of renovating it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I sell it?”

  “No.”

  “How much money is there for renovation?”

  “There’s fifteen million, but remember, the money will always stay with the house.”

  She blinked and sat back in her chair. “One five?”

  “Correct.”

  “Damn.” Lucy didn’t know whether to faint or throw up.

  He leaned forward, tapping the tip of a pen on the paper blotter. “I’m prepared to make you a cash offer if you’ll surrender the inheritance.”

  “You want this cottage?”

  “And the land around it.”

  “But you’d have to use the money for the house.”

  “Yes. The fifteen million will always be attached to the house.”

  “How much are you willing to offer?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  She’d never seen that much money all at once. But as tempted as she was to take the money and run, she’d overheard enough wheeling and dealing in Music City to know the first offer was rarely the best. “Can I see this Winter Cottage?”

  “I can take you out there now. We’ll drive over in my car.”

  “I’ll follow you in mine. Dolly tends to shed.”

  “Okay. I’m parked out front.”

  “I’m in
a yellow Jeep.”

  “I know. Arlene already told me,” he said.

  She’d been here only a few hours and had more real clues to her past than Beth had supplied in a lifetime. The idea of unearthing this buried treasure of information made her suddenly restless and anxious to breathe fresh air.

  She and Dolly waited as he shut off his office lights and grabbed his keys and coat. The cold, brisk wind felt good against her flushed cheeks as she and Dolly hurried to the Jeep. Dolly could tell something exciting was happening. She didn’t miss much.

  Garrison locked the office door behind him and slid behind the wheel of an old pickup parked in front. He made a forward motion with his hand and pulled onto Main Street. She put the Jeep in gear and turned the key. The engine groaned and spit.

  “Don’t do this to me now!” She leaned over the steering wheel, again hoping metal and rubber parts could be persuaded by pleading and wishing. “Please, be nice. I just need a few more miles.”

  The engine did not start.

  Dolly barked, and she lifted her gaze to see Mr. Garrison striding toward the car. She rolled down the window. “It’s a miracle it made it this far,” she said. “The old girl just gave up.”

  “You two can ride in my car,” he said. “It’s fine if Dolly sheds.”

  “Thanks.” She grabbed the keys, her mother’s urn, and Dolly’s leash, and the two slid into the front seat of the truck. “You don’t mind if I bring Beth along, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  His truck was neat, which was fitting. He was a buttoned-up-tight kind of guy. “How long have you been back in town?”

  “Six months.”

  “Just the facts, Joe Friday?” She settled the urn between her feet on the floor.

  A smile tugged the edges of his lips. “Yes.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He drove through town and back toward the main road. He took a left and headed north. She made another stab at conversation, but he wasn’t interested.

  As they passed the flat landscape covered in farmland, she wondered what the hell was so terrible about this place. Beth had easily handled her share of shady characters while she’d tried to navigate the music industry. So why had a place like this chased her away?

  As the scenery grew even more barren, she realized that she really didn’t know this guy. No stickers on the back bumper of his truck, and no papers lying around his office that told her anything about him. It would be a real bummer to drive all this way and then get murdered by a serial killer. He certainly would have motive.

  Okay, so worst-case scenarios were her thing. She’d spent most of her childhood devising and solving them. It paid to be prepared with the very spontaneous Beth Kincaid, a.k.a. Beth Jessup, as your mother.

  She rubbed Dolly’s head. The dog looked at her and thumped her tail. At least the dog wasn’t giving off any bad vibes about Garrison.

  The truck slowed in what seemed like the middle of nowhere and turned west onto a partially paved, graveled road. There was old Mace somewhere in the bottom of her purse, but she’d be dead before she found it. So if he tried to kill her, she’d scream and order Dolly to run.

  Dolly yawned.

  Garrison downshifted and slowed over the uneven road. “There was a hurricane that hit the peninsula about fifty years ago,” he said. “It tore up the road, and it took nearly a year to fix it. Winter Cottage also became known as the House on Broken Road.”

  His sentences were getting longer. Damn near chatty now. He downshifted again as he approached what looked like a dirt driveway that cut through tall trees. He turned deeper into the woods. Here went nothing.

  The line of trees gave way to a wide-open patch of land that stretched nearly a mile to the bay. It was covered in rows of neatly trimmed gray-brown vines twisting around trellises.

  “I wouldn’t think you could grow grapes out here.”

  “Vines like tough conditions.”

  Dust kicked up around the vehicle as he drove toward the white two-story house surrounded by windswept trees. The grass around the house was trimmed, but there was nothing that could have passed for landscaping.

  The house had a wide front porch along with floor-to-ceiling windows streaked with salt. The red tin roof was tired and weathered. A lone rocker, grayed by weather and time, swayed gently in the breeze.

  Garrison kept driving.

  “Isn’t that the house?”

  “No, that’s the old custodian’s house where Mr. Jessup lived. There was a fire in the house last year, so it’s not really livable. Winter Cottage is a little farther down the road.”

  “Mr. Garrison, this is starting to creep me out.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Middle of nowhere. With a stranger. Serial killers. I have about seven or eight more reasons if you have time.”

  “I’m not a serial killer.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Her worry and stress seemed to surprise him. He parked in the middle of the driveway, shut off the engine, and faced her. “Winter Cottage is one hundred yards ahead, around the bend. It sits right on the bay.”

  “We can’t drive up to it? Oh yeah, Broken Road.”

  Ignoring the quip, he said, “A winter storm soaked the driveway last month. We’ve been waiting for it to dry out so it can be repaired in the next few days. For now, we have to walk in.”

  “Of course.” Not sure how the dog would react in a new setting, she grabbed Dolly’s leash and her mother’s urn and got out. The wind again slashed through her, chasing away all the warmth from the truck’s heater.

  “The house is a responsibility,” Garrison said.

  “And I don’t look like I can handle it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You were thinking it.”

  He removed a set of thick keys from his pocket. He set off down the road, taking her past deep ruts carved by heavy rains.

  “How did the vineyard fare in the storm?” she asked.

  “It did okay. In fact, we hope to plant more, but we haven’t been able to negotiate a new long-term lease on the land.”

  “What have you been waiting on?”

  “You.”

  The gusts seemed to be pushing her toward the waters. In the bending grass she imagined whispers and thought of Beth. She listened and hugged the urn a little closer, hoping for answers. But there was nothing. Typical Beth. Her mother was going to make her work for this one.

  Dolly stopped several times to sniff all the new scents. She then snorted as if something in the breeze awakened her senses.

  The road finally evened out. The tree branches, bent by years of bay winds, reached over the road as if they were lovers trying to clasp hands. Ahead she heard the lap of water against the shore.

  When they rounded the final curve, she stood face-to-face with a huge French provincial–style house. Painted a faint yellow, it was elegant and simple all at once. Three stories tall, it was made of brick and sported twenty tall windows along the front. In the center was a massive wooden front door. NO TRESPASSING signs were posted.

  “Where’s the cottage?”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  “It has to be at least ten thousand square feet,” she said.

  “Fifteen.”

  She dug deeper into her jacket. “Who decided to call this a cottage?”

  “To the Buchanans, it was a cottage. Their other homes in New York City and Newport, Rhode Island, were twice the size.”

  She tried to picture Beth here but couldn’t. The mother she remembered had stood on the stage of a smoke-filled honky-tonk, singing an old Dolly Parton song, or had sat at her card table on Lower Broadway, reading tarot cards for tourists. When she thought of Beth, she saw neon lights far from this cold, barren place that looked so permanent.

  He walked up to the wide front door and shoved one of the large keys into the old lock. He wiggled it back and forth as if coaxing it until a bolt
clicked open.

  He pushed open the heavy door, stepped inside, and flipped on a bulb that spit out a faint ring of light by the door.

  The front entry hallway cut through the house to a large bank of windows looking out over the bay. Thick rain clouds, remnants of last night’s storm, lumbered toward the northwest, dragging with them choppy, white-capped waters. Still, the view was stunning. Lucy imagined that on a clear day, it could easily take her breath away.

  Her footsteps echoed as she moved through the dark house toward the bank of windows. She set Beth’s urn on a small table as goose bumps crept along her shoulders and Dolly’s ears flattened.

  She ran her fingers over Beth’s red-and-blue prayer beads, which were wrapped around her wrist. If her mother had been reading her cards now, she’d have pulled the Tower. Destruction. Turmoil. Upheaval. Yep, that ticked all the boxes for today.

  The air in the house was musty, and the light caught the dust dancing in its beams. On her right was a massive staircase, and on her left, a formal dining room. The furniture in the dining room was covered in white sheets, and only faint outlines remained of whatever paintings had hung on the walls.

  This place was from a different time. There were no trendy restaurants nearby. You couldn’t walk to get coffee or drift into a honky-tonk and listen to the newest country-music talent hone their craft. Time had flat-out stopped. It was surreal.

  “Ready to talk about my offer?” Garrison asked.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Beth

  May 6, 1988

  Beth sits quietly as Mrs. B sips her tea. She’s quit her restaurant job and is ignoring Arlene’s warnings about giving up a good job. Arlene is covering Beth’s last shift in case she changes her mind, but she knows she won’t.

  Beth fixes her own tea with plenty of milk and sugar but finds the bone-china teacup covered with hummingbirds too delicate. The cup barely holds more than a couple of mouthfuls, which tastes like watered-down coffee. But the old lady is the boss now, so she drinks tea from the blue cup.

  Again Mrs. B is dressed to the nines. Today it’s a red Chanel suit with a white ruffled silk shirt. Her jewelry is the same simple-but-pretty scrimshaw ivory broach. It’s old, but the kind of bauble tourists snap up at the shore because it’s made by locals and isn’t expensive.