The Inheritance
A Novel
By Irina Shapiro
© 2011 by Irina Shapiro
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author.
All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
An excerpt from “Precious Bones” by Irina Shapiro
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Glossary of Scottish Words
auld — old
afore — before
aye — yes
bairns — children
canna — couldn’t
cannae — can’t
dinna — didn’t
dinnae — don’t
kent — knew
ken — know
kirk — church
nae — not
nay — no
wee — little or small
willna — won’t
yon — that or those
May 2010
Chapter 1
I sat on the couch staring at the stack of papers to be graded and trying to think of an excuse to put them off, but I had to hand them back tomorrow, so I picked up my red pen and went to work. I had been a teacher at the Wilton School for girls in Westchester, NY for the past three years, and at this moment, I couldn’t imagine doing it for another day.
I had dreamed of being a teacher since I was a little girl. The idea of inspiring young minds and introducing them to the magical world of classical literature was something that was always very appealing to me; young, eager faces looking up at me as I lectured them on the works of great writers like Shakespeare, Dickens and Jane Austen, shining with intelligence and insatiable curiosity. Instead, what I got was twenty-five teenage girls chewing gum, giving me baleful, resentful stares out of their heavily made-up eyes, and papers that were copied almost word-for-word from some online source or Cliff notes. To add insult to injury, I’d been given the nickname “Ophelia”, either because I was thought to be overly dramatic or simply mad.
There were usually two or three students in the class who genuinely enjoyed the material and got caught up in the romance and the drama, and those few girls were the only thing standing between me and my resignation — other than the need to pay rent, of course.
I was halfway through the third “masterpiece” when I was rescued by the ringing of the telephone. I answered gratefully, hoping it was my friend Sophia and we could have a nice chat before I had to return to the ghastly writing of my students. It was a man with a distinct Irish or Scottish accent.
“Is this Miss Katherine Price?” asked the pleasant voice.
“Yes,” I answered, wondering if he were about to offer me some amazing deal on a credit card or a vacuum cleaner that would leave me speechless with wonder.
“Oh, good. I’ve had a heck of a time locating you. My name is Daniel Ogilvy from Ogilvy and Ogilvy in Edinburgh, Scotland. I’m calling about your late grandfather’s Will.”
“Mr. Ogilvy, you must be mistaken. I didn’t have a grandfather in Scotland. I mean, I did, but he died during the war.” I guess his quest for Katherine Price wasn’t over. I obviously wasn’t the right one.
“Are you the daughter of Ellen McBride and Michael Price?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I have the right one, indeed. Your grandfather, Angus McBride, died two weeks ago at his home, Kilmaron Castle, and he has left you his entire estate, which is sizable if I might add. If you give me your fax number, I would be happy to send you the copy of the Will and the list of assets. You can peruse the documents at your leisure, and then give me a ring so we can discuss the arrangements.”
“The arrangements?” I asked bemused.
“There is a stipulation in the Will that you must come to Scotland to claim your inheritance before making a decision on how to dispose of it. Your grandfather was hoping you wouldn’t sell.”
“I see,” I said, although I really didn’t. I had always been told that my grandfather, James, had died a hero at the end of World War II. He had been with the Gordon Highlanders in Singapore and was taken prisoner. He’d died at Changi Prison of malnourishment and disease in 1944.
Who was this man Angus McBride, and what was his relationship to my family? I gave Mr. Ogilvy my fax number, thanked him for his call and hung up. My fax machine began to make fussing noises a few moments later as a lengthy document came over the wire.
Half an hour later, I was completely baffled by its contents and wondering how to approach my mother about this without giving her a coronary. It’s not every day someone tells you that the father you thought had been dead for over forty years, had actually just died two weeks ago and left your daughter a castle, among other things. I sent a text to my mom telling her I’d come over for lunch on Saturday; calling would have given her the chance to ask too many questions.
I sat back down and looked over the list of assets. Of course, my imagination had been captured by the thought of the castle, but there were also stocks and bonds, thousands of pounds in various accounts at the Royal Bank of Scotland, and a whiskey distillery that seemed to be holding its own against stout competitors like Glenfiddich and Johnny Walker. I’d been extremely close with my gran, and she told me stories of her childhood in the Scottish Highlands, but there was never any mention of anyone named Angus.
She’d come to New York in 1945 after the death of her husband, with my five-year-old mother in tow. Gran said that everything at home reminded her of her beloved James, and she just wanted a fresh start. There was an aunt in Brooklyn who took them in, and watched my mother while Gran completed her degree in early-childhood education at Brooklyn College, and got a position as a teacher at a local elementary school. She eventually married the assistant principal, who was also a widower, and continued to live in Brooklyn until her death of cancer two years ago. Her husband, Ned, died shortly after. I still thought of her every single day, and I would have given anything at this moment to be able to talk to her and ask her the questions
burning in my mind.
Chapter 2
I was still pondering this odd turn of events as I took the Q train to Brooklyn on Saturday to visit my parents. They lived in the little house on Bedford Avenue where I grew up, and I always felt as if I were coming home when I went there. I got off at the Ave U station, descended the stairs praying that one of the pigeons overhead didn’t have digestive issues, and walked in the direction of Bedford Avenue. The area seemed to change more and more with each visit. Most of the stores now had Chinese or Korean writing, and very few people that I passed on the street actually spoke English.
I looked at the mountains of fresh fruit, plastic bowls with oriental patterns and Chinese slippers on display as I walked on. It had been a different world when we moved here in the ‘80s.
My mom was waiting for me, and had lunch prepared. “Let’s eat outside; it’s such a beautiful day,” she suggested, heading into the kitchen to get the food.
“Okay. Where’s Dad?”
“Fishing with Walter. Sometimes I think he’s married to that man.” Walter was my father’s best friend who had lived down the street for the past twenty years. They regularly went fishing on the boats that left from Sheepshead Bay. They never seemed to catch much, but they came home happy and at peace with the world. My mom only pretended to be annoyed. She wanted to see my father happy, and enjoyed her time alone puttering in the garden or going to her book club meetings.
I took some utensils and napkins and stepped out onto the deck. My parents had a nice chunk of land behind the house, and my mother had turned it into a little paradise with her gardening skills. On this lovely May afternoon the backyard was a riot of color, and I took a deep breath inhaling the smell of lilac that was wafting from the bush by the fence. The round table on the deck was already set with plates, a bottle of wine and a vase full of fresh-cut flowers from the garden. My mother came out of the house carrying a bowl of salad and something that smelled amazing, but wasn’t instantly recognizable.
“Moroccan lamb stew with couscous,” she announced proudly. “Hope you like it.” My mom was an avid fan of the cooking shows, and managed to whip up some new and exotic dish every time I came home. Luckily, both my father and I were adventurous eaters and enjoyed most of her efforts, but some were a bit much even for us.
We settled down and I poured us some wine. I figured it would be best to wait until she was on her second glass to bring up her now twice-dead father. I thoroughly enjoyed my salad, although I would never have imagined putting some of those ingredients together, and then moved on to the stew. It was delicious. I could taste cumin and cinnamon in the sauce, and there were cranberries and almonds in the couscous.
“Mom, this is awesome. Please email me the recipe. I’ll dazzle my friends next time I have a dinner party.” Mom seemed pleased, and this was as good a time as any to bring up the Will. I told her about the phone call from the lawyer and pulled out the paperwork from my bag. She didn’t say anything until she looked everything over carefully, and then put the papers next to her empty plate and picked up her wine glass looking thoughtful.
“My father’s name was James, not Angus, but this Will definitely means you. It’s clear enough. This is very odd.”
“Maybe James was his middle name, and he used it instead of Angus. I know I would,” I added with a smile.
“No, his middle name was Malcolm. This is very puzzling. So, what are you going to do with your castle?” Mom asked with a mischievous grin. “It’s not every day a girl inherits a castle in the wilds of Scotland. Pretty exciting.”
“The Will states that I must come to Scotland and claim the inheritance in person. I’m not allowed to put up anything for sale for at least thirty days. I guess the old man was hoping that I would fall in love with the place and stay. Come with me, Mom. The school year is almost over and I’m off for the whole summer. It’s your history as well. This could be an adventure for us.”
“Oh, I would love to, honey, but your father has found some terrific deal on a cruise online and I’ve already put in for my vacation. We’re going at the end of June.”
Mom had been a pediatric nurse for the past thirty years, and although she had accumulated a month of vacation time she only took a week every three months, so as not to leave the doctor shorthanded. She had worked with Dr. Shulman for nearly eighteen years and they were more friends than colleagues.
“Guess I’ll have to go alone then,” I said with a deep pretend sigh. “I might meet some dashing Highlander and never come back, you know.”
“Can’t you find a nice local boy?” my mother asked me with an indulgent smile. I’ve always had a penchant for foreign men, especially ones with a sexy accent. My last boyfriend, Xavier, was from Madrid. He taught art history at City College and had left me for a student six months ago. I’d been heartbroken and hadn’t been on a single date since then. My self-esteem was in shreds. How could I compete with a nineteen-year-old Shakira look-alike?
“You like exotic food, I like exotic men,” I answered with a grin. “We all have our vices.”
“I’m too old for exotic men. Want some baklava? I made it myself, and you’ve got to have some before your father gets his hands on it. It will be gone in ten seconds.”
“Bring it on!!! Nothing cures the blues like baklava,” I said laughing as I started clearing the lunch dishes, and Mom disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee.
Chapter 3
I called Sophia as soon as I got home to my apartment on the Upper East Side. It was small but charming, and I was extremely proud of the way I’d decorated it. It was all mine, and it felt like a sanctuary.
“Hey, want to come to Scotland with me?”
“Ooooh, men in kilts!” she moaned in ecstasy.
“You are a sick woman!”
“And proud of it. I would love to go, but I can’t. I’m not up for vacation till October, but I’m so jealous. You should find some hottie in a skirt and forget that evil Zorro,” she said. Sophia had hated Xavier from the moment she met him. She said his Antonio Banderas good looks and accent did nothing for her. He was too smooth and all his moves seemed well-rehearsed. He probably played this game with gullible American females way too often.
I argued with her, telling her that he was different in his approach because he grew up in Spain. He was so suave and romantic and his accent made everything sound so seductive. Sophia instantly named him Pepe Le Pew and stuck to her opinion until I found out about his affair. She hadn’t mentioned him since then, or at least since I stopped crying and questioning what I’d done to drive him away.
Sophia had tried desperately to get me back out there. She told me about various sites for meeting single men, and dragged me to countless clubs in the meat packing district, which was appropriate since they were nothing more than meat markets and the meat wasn’t all that fresh. I was put off by the men trying to grab me on the dance floor, and disgusted by the nearly-naked women who seemed ready to throw themselves at anyone who gave them the time of day. I couldn’t imagine finding a life partner in one of those sordid places, and tried to escape my lonely state with Mr. Darcy and a glass of wine. In my opinion, Pride and Prejudice made for a more satisfying Saturday night than watching the desperate gyrations of single New Yorkers searching for their next hookup.
“I’m not going there to look for a man. I’m going to find out who this man was, why he thought I was his granddaughter, and why he decided to leave me a seventeenth century castle. I’ll put it up for sale, although I’m not sure what the demand these days is for castle ruins, and then come home to my highly rewarding job.”
“Sounds like a plan. Make sure not to have any hairy encounters with Highland coos. Isn’t that what they call them over there? I hear they’re pretty scary.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Sophia had been my best friend since our freshman year in high school. She sat next to me at the lunch table on the second day, and saved me from a life of loneliness and unpopularity. I didn’t have an
easy time making friends. I was interested in quality, not quantity, and with my overly romantic imagination and love of British literature, that was not so easy to find in Brooklyn.
Although people had always said I was the prettier one, Sophia was always the popular one. She was a force of nature, and could draw even the most unsocial person out of their shell. She was never afraid to say the things that most people wouldn’t be caught thinking, and her sense of humor and positive outlook attracted people to her like a magnet. We were polar opposites in looks. I was fair, with honey-blonde hair and brandy-colored eyes. My mouth was always a source of comment because of my full lower lip that apparently demanded to be kissed.
Sophia’s family had come from Greece and her looks bespoke her heritage. She had bouncy black curls with olive skin and dark eyes. Her nose was a trifle too long and her mouth a little too small, but the pearls of wisdom that came tumbling out of those lips were priceless.
At this moment, her Greek heritage was the root of all her problems since her parents refused to accept her relationship with Jesse, who was Jewish. They’d met at H&R Block last March when he did her taxes, got her a sizeable refund and stole her heart. Sophia loved his witty sense of humor and positive attitude toward life. He made her feel beautiful and exotic, and I had never seen her so happy with any of her other boyfriends. Her parents, however, had stonewalled him, and a future with him might mean one without her family.
“When are you going?” she asked.
“The day after the term is over. I’ll make a reservation tonight. No point in waiting.”
“I want to hear every detail, and I expect to see a picture of your moldering castle as soon as you clap eyes on it. I wonder if it looks gothic. Have you Googled it? Maybe there’s a picture online?” Her excitement was contagious, but I wasn’t biting.
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