The Caretakers

by Maxwell, Eliza

The strands of Kitty’s dream loosen, releasing her to drift free for a time, then settle into a more peaceful sleep.

  The peace won’t last, but then, nothing does.

  13

  TESSA

  How long can it last, this tentative truce the sisters have settled into?

  Tessa is afraid to wonder, as if a mere question, not even spoken aloud, is enough to blow down the fragile web of connection.

  And perhaps it is. As the two of them walk up the cobbled downtown sidewalk toward the lawyer’s office, a brittle silence descends between them.

  A smartly dressed receptionist asks their names and instructs them to have a seat, but Jackson Smith steps out of his office before they’ve lowered themselves into chairs.

  “Right this way, ladies.” He holds the door, and the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly as he gives them a subdued smile.

  Tessa reminds herself her bags are packed and waiting. All she needs to do is get through this. Whatever this is.

  “First off, I’d like to offer my condolences once again on the loss of your mother. A fine woman,” he says as he settles himself behind the large mahogany desk.

  Tessa swallows back a sigh. Not that the words aren’t sincere. But there’s only so much sympathy a person can absorb before it starts to feel as if you’re drowning.

  “Thank you,” Margot murmurs.

  Jackson must sense their desire to move things along, but still he hesitates. “Before we begin, I should warn you, some of this information may come as a shock.”

  Margot’s brows shoot up, and she meets Tessa’s confused glance with one of her own.

  “Jackson, you’re starting to worry me,” Margot says. “Mom wasn’t the type to keep secrets.”

  The lawyer leans back in his chair, and his face becomes cloudy, hard to read.

  “I wish Jane had spoken with you two about this. I advised her to, many times. She just . . . she thought she had time.”

  The words are delivered with a melancholy air that reminds Tessa this man has suffered a loss as well. How deep a loss is difficult to know.

  But that fact alone is enough to remind Tessa that Jane had a life of her own, one that Tessa, at least, wasn’t always privy to.

  “Maybe it would be best if you cut right to it, Jackson,” Margot says.

  Still, he stalls. “There’s no easy way to say this.”

  “Then say it the hard way.” Margot adds a smile to punctuate the statement, but it’s an afterthought and does little to hide her growing impatience.

  Jackson takes a deep breath and places both hands flat on the desk in front of him.

  “You mother wasn’t who you thought she was.”

  Tessa meets Margot’s eyes and, immediately, they’re on the same team again. Because Jackson Smith is clearly deluded.

  “Mr. Smith—” Margot begins. Tessa doesn’t miss the way she takes two steps back from his first name.

  “I know how it sounds, so bear with me while I explain,” he says, cutting her off.

  “I think you should get on with it, then.”

  “You’ve only ever known your mother as Jane Shepherd. Jane Ashwood, before that, daughter of William and Beth Ashwood. And for most her life, that’s all she knew as well. But as it happens, Jane was adopted.”

  There’s a pause as the words sink in, but they don’t come with any clarity.

  “Adopted?” Tessa asks flatly.

  “Yes.”

  Margot sits up straighter and scoots forward in her chair. “I’m sorry, Jackson,” she says, though she doesn’t sound sorry. Not at all. “But that’s completely ridiculous. There’s absolutely no way Mom was adopted and never told us.” She looks to Tessa. “Am I wrong?”

  Tessa shakes her head. “I agree.”

  But Jackson doesn’t back down from the statement. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Believe me, Jane was just as shaken to learn the truth.”

  “And when was that?” Margot pushes.

  “Just before I met her,” Jackson says. “That’s what brought her to me, as a matter of fact. It was right after her father passed away.”

  “What?” Tessa exclaims. “But that was . . .” She studies her sister questioningly.

  “Nearly twenty years ago?” Margot fills in. “Our mother never would have kept something like that a secret for this long. It’s not possible.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m afraid it’s true.”

  There’s silence as the two of them try to come to terms with all the implications of what he’s saying.

  “But why?” Tessa asks finally. “It’s a surprise, sure, but there’s no shame in being adopted. Why would she hide it all this time?”

  And here they come to the heart of the matter.

  “It . . . it’s complicated.”

  At that, Margot leans back in her seat and crosses her arms, even as Tessa leans forward to take the reins.

  “Mr. Smith, maybe it would be best if you stop yanking our chains. Clearly it’s complicated or we wouldn’t be here. Now say what you have to say or we’re leaving. It’s as simple as that.”

  He has the grace to look embarrassed. There’s a small amount of satisfaction in that. Tessa almost feels sorry for him.

  “I’m making a mess of this,” he says with a frown. When he gets no argument, he continues. “After your grandfather passed away, Jane came to me for help sorting through the tangle of arrangements he’d left behind. As you know, William Ashwood was a wealthy man. His wife had died several years before, and Jane was his only heir. She was overwhelmed by the scope of the estate.”

  As he speaks, the past glimmers into focus. Overwhelmed is an apt description of their mom during those years. A more subdued version of the woman she’d been before she lost both her husband and her parents in such a short time.

  For a while, Jane’s edges had blurred, her colors faded. In time, they’d sharpened again. The heart is a formidable thing, and time a slow but powerful healer. It’s easy to forget those days when Jane carried a quiet hurt she tried hard to hide.

  “I helped her sort through and sell off much of the property he owned, though she retained a good deal of stocks and bonds. She invested most of the proceeds, and everything on that front is well in hand. It comes to the two of you, split evenly down the middle, along with the cabin on Lake Cormere and the farmhouse. The information for your mother’s broker is in the packet of paperwork I’m sending with you. You should contact him as soon as you can.”

  Jackson passes two manila envelopes across the desk, but neither woman moves to take them.

  “None of this is a surprise,” Margot says. “How does an adoption have anything to do with . . . with anything? Why even tell us?”

  “Because the inheritance from your grandfather is only part of the story. The rest is less straightforward.”

  “The rest?” Tessa prompts.

  “When your grandfather died, his attorney was in possession of both his last will and testament and a letter he’d written to Jane, to be opened upon his death. The original letter is in a safe deposit box along with stock certificates, deeds, and other financial documents, but I’ve included copies here for you.

  “In the letter he explains how he and his wife came to adopt Jane, and why. He also outlines an agreement he entered regarding a second inheritance. One from Jane’s birth family. An estate called Fallbrook. Jane chose to honor her father’s agreement during her lifetime, but whether you choose to do so is entirely up to the two of you.”

  Tessa stares at the envelopes still sitting on Jackson’s desk. Does she really want to see the contents?

  “Yes,” screams some inner voice. “Yes, of course you do! Are you kidding me right now?”

  This is a voice she recognizes all too well. It goads her, guides her, leads her to try new and often reckless things. It’s a voice from her childhood, one she never bothered to temper because Margot was always there. Margot’s steady counterpoint was Tessa’s voice of re
ason.

  When Margot was gone from her life, anxiety had grown in the gap, like weeds through a crack in the sidewalk.

  Only after a nervous breakdown and a string of different therapists did Tessa recognize this. When her most perceptive therapist asked, “Tessa, do you not feel like a whole person?” in a quiet, curious voice, Tessa had finally understood.

  She forced herself to learn how to temper her impulses. To sit quietly and allow the first rush of intrigue to break over her like a wave, making no sudden movements until the surf receded.

  She does so now, but the curiosity doesn’t go away.

  Does she really want to see the contents of that envelope?

  “Yes,” a more rational voice responds. “It pertains to Mom, and to some sort of inheritance. Decisions will have to be made. It’s not lurid or unreasonable to be interested.”

  Margot leans forward and slides her own envelope across the desk and into her hand. Tessa watches the way her sister’s eyes linger on it.

  She nearly sighs in relief.

  Margot is still her voice of reason.

  “Why don’t you take the paperwork and read through it in private,” Jackson says. “It will answer many of your questions, and you can contact me once you’ve had time to absorb everything.”

  Tessa nods as Margot rises. “Thank you,” her sister murmurs in a distracted voice, with both hands gripping the fat envelope.

  Tessa slides the one marked with her name from the desk and sends Jackson Smith a half-hearted smile before hurrying to catch up to her sister, who can’t seem to get out of this man’s office fast enough.

  “Margot, wait,” Tessa calls.

  But Margot is already gone, the door swinging closed behind her.

  14

  It is a difficult thing, Janie, to leave you with this terrible legacy. Your mother, God rest her, would have preferred you never know. In her mind, as in mine, your life began when she carried you through our door, bundled in love and wiped clean of the past.

  I cared too much for her, for you, and for the family we made to go against her wishes. And despite enduring these final years without her by my side, my Beth was always with me in my heart, reminding me there was no need to burden you with such unpleasantness. No need to disturb your tidy view of where your story began. To what end?

  And yet, as I draw nearer the day my own story will end, I’m troubled by the difference between the values we’ve instilled in you, Jane, and the choices I’ve made. For I dare not place the blame for my decisions on your mother’s shoulders. She was guided by her heart, but I, I must admit, have been guided by fear.

  It’s not a pretty tale, as you’ve seen, but one drenched in heartache and blood. I feared this knowledge would weigh heavily on you. After you found happiness in your own marriage and the birth of your girls, I chose not to mar that happiness with such a stain. After Beth died, then you lost your husband so suddenly only a few months later, I chose not to place further darkness within your sphere.

  These were the excuses I used, but I’m old and wise enough now to understand that what I truly feared was the look in your eyes when you realized I was not your father in the way you’d always believed me to be.

  It is the most selfish thing I have ever done, to leave this information in such a way that it will come to you only after my death.

  All I can do is hope you’ll forgive an old man his cowardice, and know that from the first day I laid eyes on you to the last, you were never less than my own precious daughter in every way that mattered. Born to us in the wake of tragedy, you were our miracle. You made me a better man.

  That I still fall short is no one’s fault but my own.

  Your loving father,

  William Ashwood

  Tessa squeezes her eyes shut and remembers the scent of her grandfather’s aftershave. The way he’d ruffle her hair before pulling a stick of cinnamon gum from his pocket and tearing it in half for the two girls to share.

  Her mother’s voice comes back to her now, words she said when Tessa was navigating the loss of her own father. Jane had lain down next to Tessa after finding her crying in the night. “It’s natural to mourn what you’ve lost, Tess. But don’t forget to hold tight to the good. That you’ve had a love big enough to cry for is a blessing.”

  She didn’t understand that as a child, not completely, but she tried. The best memories she sought out and polished, putting them in a place of honor in her heart. Like a curated museum collection she visited whenever she missed him the most.

  Hold tight to the good, she thinks. Hold tight.

  Though Tessa can’t know for certain, she’d like to believe Jane forgave Tessa’s grandfather his secrets.

  She wipes away a stray tear and glances up to see Margot walking toward her. The sisters didn’t speak on the drive home and went their separate ways to read the contents of their envelopes in private.

  Margot takes a seat on the opposite bench at the picnic table beneath the oak. Tessa studies her face, but her sister’s expression is impossible to read.

  “Why didn’t she tell us?” Margot asks quietly.

  Tessa considers her answer before she speaks. “Maybe it was too difficult to talk about. Maybe she decided it didn’t matter. Or . . . maybe she intended to, but time passed, building up like a snowdrift, and before she knew what was happening it was too deep to dig out on her own.”

  And maybe Tessa is ascribing her own failings to their mother, but the last possibility rings truest, to her mind.

  Margot stares into the distance. No amount of shared DNA gives Tessa any hints what her sister is thinking.

  “We should sell it,” Margot says finally. “Leave it in the past, like Mom did.”

  Tessa’s eyes widen at the decisive note in her voice. “Just like that?”

  “Why not?” Margot says. “It’s not like it meant anything to her. She didn’t even know it existed until Granddad died.”

  “Still . . . it must have meant something. Otherwise, why didn’t she sell it herself? Granddad died in 2002. It’s been seventeen years.”

  “I don’t know, Tessa,” Margot says, her words sharpened to points. “Why did she do anything? Why didn’t she ever tell us about this?”

  The anger takes Tessa by surprise.

  “Why are you so upset, Margot?” she asks quietly.

  Her sister whips her head around, and Tessa unconsciously leans away from the pain in her expression.

  “Upset? I’m not upset. Why should I be? Our mother is dead, and we’re left with an ancient house none of us ever laid eyes on and a completely different family history than we always believed. Our grandparents weren’t actually our grandparents. Ben is—”

  She stops short and visibly struggles to get a handle on her emotions. “I’m not going to talk about Ben. It’s none of your business. Besides, you’re leaving. You’re probably plotting an escape right now.”

  Tessa draws in a sharp breath. “That’s not fair, and you know it. It’s not like I wanted—” She stops midsentence, struck by something Margot’s said. “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m wrong?” Margot replies, gearing up for a shouting match. “What gives you the right to come back here and—”

  “Not that,” Tessa says, cutting her off. “What you said before. A house no one ever laid eyes on. But you’re wrong. Mom did lay eyes on it. And we were with her.”

  Tessa rises from the picnic table, leaving Margot to follow. She ignores her sister’s grumbling and heads straight to the living room, to the photo albums they left on the coffee table the night before.

  It takes a few moments of thumbing through the plastic-covered pages to find the shot. Tessa still doesn’t recall much about the day or the unexpected detour Mom had taken on the way home from Granddad’s funeral, but she peers at the photograph, trying to fill in the gaps in her memory.

  “Here,” Tessa says, angling the album to show Margot. “This has to be the place.”

  The old house,
tilted in the background, looks more menacing than it did when they glanced at the photo the day before, and the sadness in their mother’s expression more poignant.

  Tessa hasn’t yet said the words aloud, hasn’t had time to fully comprehend what they mean, but if William Ashwood’s letter is true, then the house in the photograph is much more than a moldering pile of rusty nails and rotting boards. More than an unexpected inheritance to sell and collect the proceeds from.

  This was the home of his former business partner, Everett Cooke, and his wife and children. And one of those children was their mother.

  “This is the house where Mom was born,” Tessa says. “This is the house where her family was murdered.”

  15

  With low-level dread snapping at her insides, Tessa stares at the blank screen of her phone. She turned it off last night.

  What reason did she have to keep it on? Her mother is gone, and Margot is in the same house with her. She powered it down with a sense of relief. Of escape.

  But Margot stormed away after Tessa insisted the photograph was significant, and now she presses the power button and waits, her fingers itching to comb through the internet searching for information about her mother’s family. And her own, she amends.

  William’s letter to his daughter told of the ill-fated Cooke family—murdered in their home, many decades ago. The letter said little else of the crime. Surely such a horrifying event would show up in the most basic search, even if it had taken place when her mother was merely a baby. Born in 1949, Jane would have been seventy, had she survived to see her upcoming birthday.

  The loss of her mother hits Tessa all over again. It’s inconceivable that she can’t turn and simply ask Jane what they should do. Why she’d never told them. To hug her neck one last time. Just that.

  But it’s too late for wishes, and she and Margot are going to have to figure this out on their own. Margot made her opinion clear, and an old photograph won’t change her mind, but Tessa can’t bring herself to agree to sell a piece of their history without doing more research.

  The screen in her hand lights up, but within seconds her stomach plunges. She has barely a moment to register the number of unread emails before a flurry of text messages scrolls across the screen.