by Lea Wait
“I think we should give whoever is still up at The Point the will you found. We don’t have to say anything about Silas. It’s just a strange coincidence that Sarah and I heard about him. They’ll probably tell us.”
I was interrupted by my cell. It was Sarah. “Angie, I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“I don’t think anyone could.”
“I kept thinking about Abbie. Her father died, and then her husband. She tried to be friendly this past weekend. She really did. More than either of her brothers. I’ve decided to go and see how she’s doing.”
Even when she threw you out yesterday?
“Patrick and I’ve just decided to go up to The Point, too,” I told her. “Patrick found a copy of Ted’s will.”
Sarah ignored what I’d said about the will. But after all, it wouldn’t have anything to do with her. “Do you think it would be strange if we all showed up?”
“Maybe. But they could throw us out again if they think so.”
“When I couldn’t sleep, I got up and made lasagna. And a maple cheesecake. I’m going to take both of them to The Point. Ted ate out a lot. There isn’t much there to eat.”
I couldn’t help smiling. Taking foods to a grief-stricken family. Sarah was becoming a real Mainer. And her maple cheesecake was to die for. Although today wasn’t the day to use that phrase.
“Why don’t we all go together? Patrick and I are at the gallery. We’ll meet you at the shop.”
“See you then,” agreed Sarah.
“All of us?” Patrick asked. “Together?” He looked doubtful.
“Safety in numbers,” I said. “Sarah wants to talk with Abbie; they bonded a bit this past weekend. And she made lasagna and cheesecake for the family. You’ll take the will; tell them you came to the gallery today to clean up some paperwork, and found the will under the blotter. Just as you told me. Ted probably didn’t leave it here for long. Like you said, he was going to revise it and wanted to see what the wording on the earlier version was.”
Patrick nodded. “This whole situation is awkward. But I heard what you said to Sarah. If they don’t want us there, they’ll throw us out.” He hesitated. “Do you have your gun?”
“I do not. And I don’t think I’ll need it. We’re just going to pay a friendly condolence call.”
“Right,” said Patrick. “And deliver the news about the will.”
“Have you read it?”
“Enough. I don’t think anyone’s going to set off fireworks in celebration.”
Chapter Thirty-four
“Short is our longest day of life,
And soon its prospects end,
Yet on that day’s uncertain date
Eternity depends.
But equal to our beings aim
The space to virtue giv’n,
And ev’ry minute well improv’d
Secures an age in Heav’n.”
—Sampler worked in 1834 by Eliza Jane Herbert, Portsmouth, Virginia, in the “Washington Navy Yard” style: a large central brick building with sheep grazing on its lawn, a flowered border, and vases of flowers. Samplers using this pattern were stitched at schools for girls who lived near the Washington or Portsmouth Navy Yards, perhaps taught by women whose husbands worked at the Yards.
Jeremy’s car was in the driveway at The Point. So were the Reeds’ pickup and Ted’s sedan. The gang was all here.
We got out of Sarah’s van and looked at each other. We were here. None of us wanted to be.
Sarah knocked on the door. Michael opened it. Even a couple of feet away, I could smell the scotch on his breath. He was holding a half-full glass.
“What d’you all want? We’re in mourning. Again.”
“We know. I brought you dinner. Homemade lasagna,” said Sarah, pushing her way past Michael and clearing a space for a large pan and a smaller one on the kitchen table. “And a maple cheesecake.” While he watched, she gathered the empty cans and bottles on the table and tossed them into the large plastic container in the corner labeled “Redemption.”
In Maine you pay a deposit (incorporated in the price) when you buy alcohol or soft drinks. After the bottles are emptied you take them to a local redemption center and get your deposit of five or ten or fifteen cents back. The system keeps bottles and cans from being tossed from cars or left on beaches. People from away sometimes wondered whether all the “redemption centers” were a strange sort of Maine religious sect. But the Lawrences had grown up in Maine. They’d understand. Even if this weekend they hadn’t always sorted their bottles and cans from the rest of their trash or recyclables.
Michael watched her, with a sort of awe. “Thank you. The food looks terrific. You heard about Silas?”
“We heard,” said Sarah. “Where’s Abbie?”
He pointed toward the living room. We followed Sarah there.
Abbie was sitting in the corner of the couch, staring blankly out the window. Sarah sat next to her. “I’m so sorry, Abbie. We heard the news.”
“The police were here. It was like Mom dying, all over again.” Abbie let Sarah put her arm around her. They sat together, not saying anything.
“I saw Jeremy’s car out there,” I said to Michael.
“Where are he and Luke?”
“Who knows? Those two. Always whispering and talking secrets,” said Michael. “I think they’re in Dad’s office.”
Patrick headed down the hallway in that direction. “What happened last night?” I asked, trying to move Michael away from Abbie and Sarah. They looked as though they could use some privacy.
“Swimming. I went swimming, like I always do when I’m here. I asked if anyone wanted to go with me.”
Friday night he’d done that. So nothing unusual.
“Silas said, sure, he’d go swimming. So we went down to the beach. I swam a little, but I was too tired to do much. I got out of the water, sat on the beach, and waited for Silas to get out.” Michael took another gulp of liquor. “He never did. So I came back here. Abbie got hysterical, and said to call the Coast Guard or the police or something. Luke called nine-one-one. The cops came, with all their torches and stuff. They found him pretty quick. He was floating. They brought him in and tried to revive him, but he was gone. The ambulance took him to the hospital. Same crew as took Dad Saturday night.” Michael added an empty scotch bottle to the redemption container. “That was weird.”
“Had you and Silas been drinking?” I asked.
“You sound like those cops. Sure, we’d been drinking. But you don’t drown from drinking.”
Maybe not, but being drunk could mean you’d lose your sense of direction and swim out to sea instead of toward the beach. Or you’d pass out and drown. Or you wouldn’t be able to swim well, since you couldn’t control your limbs. Drinking and swimming didn’t mix.
As this family knew too well.
Lily had been drinking when she drowned. But her case hadn’t been simple. Maybe Silas’s death was.
“So the police questioned you?”
He nodded. “Last night at the hospital, and again this morning. They said Silas was drunk. Sure he was. I was too, but I didn’t drown. They sent Silas up to Augusta, to where Dad is.”
Augusta. That would be the medical examiner’s office.
“How’s Abbie doing?”
He shrugged. “She’s not talking much.”
Well, no.
“Thanks for bringing the food. No place in Haven Harbor delivers pizza or anything. I’d forgotten that.”
“Sarah made the food,” I reminded him. “When was the last time you visited home, Michael?”
“Here?” He looked around as if looking for an answer. “I don’t know. Maybe ten years? I saw Dad a couple of times in the city, though. I’m in school. I can’t get away a lot.”
“And you’re a poet.”
“I write poetry.” Michael screwed the top off another bottle of scotch and filled his glass again. “And other things. People will see. Everything that’s happened
this weekend will be good for publicity.”
Good for publicity? I didn’t question him further. I hoped Sarah was helping Abbie a little. Neither of them was talking, but at least someone was paying attention to the new widow.
Should I look for Patrick and the other men?
“Where in the city do you live?” I asked Michael. I hoped he could stay upright until Patrick had explained about the will.
“The Village. Greenwich Village.”
“I’ve heard New York’s pretty expensive these days,” I said. I’d heard enough over the years to know living in Manhattan cost a bundle. And Michael had been complaining about that all weekend.
“Yup.” Michael bent down toward me. It was all I could do not to move away. He stunk.
“So do you get paid for your poetry?”
“Not much. But my other project is a moneymaker. And I’ve got a rich dad.” Then he corrected himself. “I had a rich dad. When my apartment building went co-op, he bought my apartment.”
“And gave it to you?”
“Nah. Stingy bastard. He kept it. Paid the maintenance and all, too. Said when I got my life together I could buy it from him at a fair price. I figure . . . why pay anything if I could live for free?”
“But now he’s gone.”
“Yup. Gone.”
What did that will Patrick had in his pocket say about a co-op apartment in New York City? Ted hadn’t supported either of his other children. Why Michael? And did the others know their dad had been helping him out that much?
“I’m an artist, see. Like dear old Dad. And Grampa. Only difference is I write with words instead of brushes. Dad said I could come back here. Help with the business. Write here. Lots of writers and artists live in Maine, you know.”
I nodded.
“But I didn’t want to come back where everyone knows everyone. I like my privacy.” He held his glass close to me, at an angle. Scotch dripped onto my sneaker. “You like your privacy?”
“Sure. But it’s nice to have neighbors who care, too.”
“Maybe for you. Not for me.”
Finally! Patrick, Luke, and Jeremy were heading in our direction.
None of them looked happy.
Chapter Thirty-five
“Eliza Thompson is my name
And with my needle I work the same
That all of you may plainly see
The care my parents took of me.”
—Fourteen-year-old Eliza worked this sampler in silk on linen. It included a brick house, pine trees, birds, flowers, and the inscription “Washington City, D.C., September 22, 1823.”
The three of them brushed by Michael and me and settled in the living room.
“Abbie, pay attention. Michael, sit down,” Luke ordered. “This is important. Patrick found a copy of Dad’s will in the gallery downtown.”
Abbie sat up. Her blank expression disappeared. “What does it say?”
“How come he found it?” Michael muttered from the chair he’d sunk into.
“He was working, and found it under Dad’s blotter.”
“Working there on a Monday?” Jeremy sent a spiteful look in Patrick’s direction.
“I found it by chance. I explained that already,” said Patrick.
“So? Is it legal? What does it say?” Abbie’s mood had totally changed.
“It’s a copy. Probably the original is with Ted’s lawyer, or in his safe deposit box. It’s dated about nine months ago, so I’d guess it’s the most recent one,” Patrick answered.
“That was before he knew about Sarah, right?” said Abbie, ignoring that Sarah was sitting next to her. Was the one who’d been comforting her.
“He didn’t know I was related to him until this past July. Two months ago,” Sarah said quietly.
“Good,” said Abbie.
Sarah flinched.
“What does it say?” asked Jeremy.
Patrick held the papers up. “There’s a lot of legalese, of course. But this is what it ends up meaning. Abigail, Michael, and Luke can each select one of their grandfather’s paintings to keep. The rest of Robert Lawrence’s work, including his sketchbooks and early work and notes, goes to the Portland Museum of Art.”
“Shit!” said Abbie, sitting back on the couch.
“What?” asked Michael. “He left everything to a museum? Not to his family? Unbelievable!”
“I’m not finished. The rest of his estate—this house and its contents other than the paintings, and some other real estate holdings and investments—are to be divided between the three of you, with a couple of exceptions. Abbie gets the portrait of her mother that’s hanging over the fireplace.” Everyone’s eyes went to the portrait of Lily and Abbie. “Michael gets the apartment he’s been living in on Jane Street in New York City. And Luke gets all of his father’s vehicles.”
Silence.
Then Luke started laughing. “Dad always said I should have a decent car. I told him I didn’t want one in New York City. He thought I had more money than you others, so he left me his tractor and snowplow and ancient sedan. The old guy had a sense of humor after all! I can’t believe this. So that’s it?”
“Not quite everything.” Patrick turned to Jeremy.
“To his son Jeremy he left all his own paintings, and his gallery in Haven Harbor, building and contents.”
Everyone turned to Jeremy, who looked stunned. “And his love,” Patrick continued, “for his one son who’d inherited the Lawrence art gene. He apologizes for not telling you earlier, Jeremy, and says your mother was sworn to secrecy, but that she’d confirm you are his biological son.”
“His son? I’m Ted’s son?” Jeremy repeated.
“So his will says.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?” Jeremy looked around the room. ”Did any of you know I was your brother? And Sarah, that means you have another cousin.” Jeremy’s voice lowered, as though he was talking to himself. “He left me his own paintings, and his gallery. He loved me.”
“That’s all?” Abbie asked Patrick, curiously ignoring Jeremy.
“That’s it. Pretty simple, actually,” said Patrick. “Except that you have a new brother.”
“How much money will it come to? Dividing everything?” she asked.
“Impossible to say. I don’t know what investments he had, or how much this house is worth, or what things in it the three of you would like, or whether you want to sell them. Maybe one of you will want to buy the others out. You’ll need a good lawyer,” Patrick looked around the room. “Maybe three good lawyers. I suspect the Portland Museum knew it was in the will, so as soon as word gets out that Ted died, they’ll be in touch.”
“Did he name an executor?” asked Luke.
“In Maine they’re called personal representatives. But no. He didn’t. I’m pretty sure if no personal representative is named, the court has to do that. Again—you’d better talk to a lawyer.”
“How soon will we have our money?” asked Michael.
“In this state nothing’s transferred for at least six months after a death. I remember that from when Mama was officially declared dead, last May,” I said.
“So what do we live on in the meantime?” Michael leaned forward.
“You could get a job, like the rest of us,” Luke said. “Abbie, I assume you’ll have Silas’s life insurance, so you’ll be all right. Insurance usually pays pretty fast.”
Abbie shook her head. “Silas didn’t have insurance. All he had was his half of the farm and our tractor and pickup. And a rich father-in-law he figured would provide for our futures. Dumb. But unlike Michael, I do have a job.” Her voice fell almost to a whisper. “Such as it is.”
“Spending your day with little people who wet their pants and bite each other,” said Michael.
“They’re in kindergarten, not preschool,” said Abbie. “What I want to know is why I get a picture and you get an apartment in New York City.”
“That picture’s probably worth a lot,” Luke pointed out
.
“But what if I want to move to New York? Or Boston? Or London?”
“You’d want to leave scenic Caribou?” asked Michael.
“Tomorrow, if I could,” said Abbie.
“Well, you can’t leave that soon, even if you had the money,” said Luke. “We have to wait for the medical examiner’s reports. Both of them.”
No one looked at Jeremy, or commented on the biggest revelation in Ted’s will.
Chapter Thirty-six
“What tho’ in solemn silence all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball.
What tho’ not real voice nor sound
And their radiant orbs be found.
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice
And utter forth a glorious voice.
For every singing as they shine
The hand that made us is Divine.”
—Ten-year-old Julia Ann Crowley stitched this sampler, dating it “February 10th, 1810: Washington Navy Yard.” She used chenille and silk threads in cross-, satin, outline, hem, buttonhole, and Rumanian stitches.
The Lawrence family had a lot to think about.
With only a glance at the kitchen door, Sarah, Patrick, and I silently agreed to head for her van. Jeremy followed us.
“Congratulations, Jeremy. Truly. Ted chose wisely for the gallery. And I’m happy to have you for a cousin,” said Sarah, giving Jeremy a hug.
“Thank you, thank you. I can’t believe it all. My mind is spiraling in all directions. Ted—I mean Father—is dead, and he really cared about me.” Jeremy looked at Sarah. “I wish he’d told me before he died, though. And that he could have written that new will, Sarah. He cared about you, too.”
She nodded. “I know he did.”
There wasn’t anything more to say. “Once we know what they decide about funerals we’ll probably see each other again,” said Jeremy. “Sarah, I’m sorry. I know how hard you worked to make this weekend memorable.”
“Well, we won’t forget it soon,” she answered. Patrick put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, lady, you did what Ted wanted. You set the scene. He introduced you to his family, and he told everyone about his cancer. It wasn’t your fault, or his, that his children reacted so badly.” He looked at Jeremy. “Except for Jeremy.”