by Nicole Baart
Then there was nearly a page of provisions for the Personal Representative. Adri’s heart sunk as she realized just what was required of her. Duties ranged from “open or close bank accounts” to “maintain, settle, abandon, sue or defend, or otherwise deal with any lawsuits” against Victoria’s estate. Her alarm must have been palpable, because Clay stopped and looked up.
“It sounds worse than it is.”
Adri raised an eyebrow.
“Victoria settled many of her affairs before she passed. She didn’t qualify for a heart transplant, but she wouldn’t have gone on the list if she did. Anyway, Victoria knew she didn’t have long and she couldn’t stand the thought of leaving any loose ends.”
“That’s comforting,” Adri said, but there was a note of uncertainty in her voice.
“And you don’t have to worry about the Galloway’s IRAs or 401(k) plans. They’re not included in the will.”
“What a relief.”
For some reason her comment struck Clay funny, and he chuckled. “I’m not sure I’ve ever worked with such a sour executor. Grieving, yes. Greedy, certainly. But you are quite the sourpuss, my dear.”
“It’s a bit hard to take in, Clay.” Adri put her face in her hands and gave her forehead a quick rub. “Victoria’s gone and I’m left to pick up the pieces . . . I never even got to say goodbye.” Her voice snagged and tears sprung to her eyes. She had no idea how her emotions had crept so close to the surface, and she struggled to get hold of herself even as Clay passed her the box of tissues.
“Oh, honey. I know.” Clay looked as if he wanted to come around the desk and hug her again, but something stopped him. Adri couldn’t decide if she was grateful or disappointed. “But there aren’t many pieces to pick up. You’re kind of window-dressing.” He flipped a paper and said, “Why don’t we get to the good stuff? Maybe it’ll cheer you up.”
There was a lot of good stuff. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of dollars donated to some of Victoria’s favorite charities. Habitat for Humanity, The Carter Center, and World Vision were represented, as were Doctors Without Borders and the American Red Cross. There was yet another endowment scholarship to be set up at Anderson Thomas University in David’s name and even a nice contribution to the nonprofit that Adri had spent the last five years serving.
“This is wonderful,” Adri said. She felt calmer now, more in control, and she gave Clay a genuine smile. “Victoria was a very generous woman.”
“Indeed she was.”
“But what about family? Surely there are nieces and nephews, a sister somewhere who will inherit part of the estate?”
“As you know, Victoria was the youngest of two and her brother died young. She lost contact with her family when she married Liam and moved from Virginia to the Midwest.” Clay shrugged. “I’m sure you know the story better than I do. Bad blood from what I understand. She was supposed to marry someone else.”
Adri didn’t know the story. At least, not well. David had never really talked much about his parents, let alone his relatives. And Victoria, while impeccably polite and adept at small talk, wasn’t the type to divulge family secrets over the supper table. Adri realized that she actually knew very little about her ex-fiancé’s kin. “What about the Galloways?” she asked. “I’m sure Liam would’ve wanted to keep the inheritance in the family.”
“He did. The retirement funds will all stay in the family. And when Liam died, fifty percent of his biofuel empire reverted temporarily to his brother until David was of age to claim his rightful inheritance. Everything else he left outright to David.”
Adri was stunned. “David? But what about Victoria?”
Clay turned back to his papers. “I wouldn’t dare to speculate. I’m sure Liam intended David to care for his mother in the event of his passing. As for the biofuel company, it remained in the Galloway family—with Liam’s older brother—after David’s death. Victoria never contested it. There was no reason to.”
Liam must never have imagined his wife would outlive his son. Adri stifled a shiver and wished for another cup of tea, if only to absorb the warmth.
“David’s will was a template at his young age, but it left everything to his living heirs.” Clay was all business now. “And since you weren’t yet married, well . . .”
“Victoria was it.”
“And any way you cut it, Victoria Galloway died with a sizable legacy and no one to leave it to.”
“Except charities,” Adri finished.
“And you.”
Adri could not have been more shocked if Clay had struck her. “Pardon me?”
“Page three,” Clay said, tapping the papers with his index finger.
She fumbled through the stiff sheets, all thumbs, for she was numb from head to toe. Had he said page three? Her vision was blurry, distorted, and yet suddenly, there it was: I bequeath Piperhall of 1124 Dakota Drive, Blackhawk, Iowa, and all the property and assets therein, to Adrienne Claire Vogt of 480 Goldfinch Avenue, Blackhawk, Iowa, for her own use absolutely.
“And all the residue of her estate,” Clay quoted, reaching across the desk and pointing to the next numbered point.
“What does that mean?” Adri barely managed to whisper the question.
“It means you own a great big house and a nice bit of land. Plus any extras that Victoria forgot to provide for in her will.” There was a sparkle in Clay’s eyes, but it dimmed when he realized Adri wasn’t over the moon about this unanticipated inheritance. He seemed confused. “You won the lottery, girl.”
But Adri wasn’t listening. “No,” she said slowly. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t accept this. I won’t.”
“You don’t really have a choice.” Clay was sober, though the slight upturn of his mouth suggested that he still hoped Adri was kidding. “Victoria left it to you, Adrienne. It’s yours. Now, it’s a big responsibility and I understand that. She left everything in the house, as far as I know, and the outbuildings could be full of rubbish. But you can hold an estate sale and have a breeder come look at the horses. They’re far too much work for one person.”
“But . . .”
“And I suppose you could sell the property, though it might be hard to find a buyer around here.” Clay wouldn’t let Adri get a word in edgewise. “Fourteen acres is a lot of land when you can’t cultivate it, and I don’t know many people in Blackhawk who could afford the house anyway. What are there? Eight fireplaces? And they’re all marble, right?”
“Something like that,” Adri mumbled. She had fanned the four scant pages of the will in front of her and was scanning them for some indication that the whole thing was a hoax.
Clay cleared his throat, and when she shot him a hasty glance, there was a deep wrinkle between his eyes. “Victoria set up a small bank account to cover the yearly taxes, insurance, and maintenance fees for the estate. Tax and insurance are in escrow even though the house is paid for, so you don’t even have to worry about writing those bills. It’s all yours, free and clear.” There were a few tense beats of silence before he asked, “Aren’t you happy?”
Happy? It was a question no one ever asked Adri. Come to think of it, it was a question she never asked herself. She couldn’t help feeling like she had blown her one chance at happiness, and she didn’t dare to hope for another. And yet, against all odds, Adri was content. She had found a fragile peace, a place to land, and a deep purpose in life that had taken her completely by surprise.
And she wasn’t about to let Victoria take it away.
“I can’t stay here, Clay.”
“No one said you had to stay.”
Adri hadn’t expected him to say that. “What do you mean?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.
“There are lots of possibilities.” Clay spread his hands as if to encompass the many options available. “Just because you own the title to the land doesn’t mean you have to live o
n it. You could rent it out, let it sit empty while you decide what to do long-term, or lease it to a historical society or nonprofit organization. I’m sure it’s a landmark of some sort. There aren’t many reproduction Italian villas in Iowa.”
Adri’s mind tilted wildly as she tried to make sense of Clay’s calm advice, but she was beyond listening.
“I guess letting it sit empty would be at the bottom of my suggestion list simply because it’s cruel to leave the horses to fend for themselves,” Clay continued, apparently oblivious to Adri’s shock, “but really, there are many creative options.”
He sounded so reasonable, so logical, but Adri couldn’t form a coherent thought. Much less decide how she wanted to deal with Piperhall. “I can’t do this right now. I need some time,” she said suddenly, lurching to her feet.
“Of course.” Clay stood, too, and then quickly dropped back into his chair and groped once again in the drawer where he had stowed Victoria’s will. “Here,” he said, after he found what he was looking for. He handed Adri a small white envelope and a set of two new keys. “I almost forgot.”
“What are these for?” Adri reached automatically for the items, though a part of her was loath to entrench herself even deeper in such an impossible situation.
“The letter is from Victoria.” Clay waved his hands as if to absolve himself of any involvement in this one aspect of the bequeathal. “I haven’t read it. I have no idea what it says. She wrote it for you and told me to burn it if you didn’t come. And the keys are for the house.”
“My dad has the keys.”
“No, he has the old key ring. We had to change the locks when Victoria died and put padlocks on all the doors. This is Blackhawk, but people aren’t beyond temptation.” Clay noted Adri’s shocked look and added, “Don’t worry, Alex and the rest of the police force have been patrolling the house for weeks. Since long before she passed.”
Adri didn’t know what to say. “Thank you” seemed the safest bet.
“You’re welcome.” Clay’s smile was hesitant as he reached across the desk for her hand. He pumped her arm up and down, a handshake so warm and solid it seemed he hoped to infuse her with all the certainty she lacked. It didn’t help. “I’ll be in touch about some of the specifics. I guess Victoria’s news kind of trumped your duties as executor, but there are still things to be done.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed, patting his legs as if wiping his hands of the situation. “Well,” he sighed. “Let me walk you out.”
“I’m fine.” Adri forced a smile. “I know the way.”
Adri quickly made her way to her car and sunk into the driver’s seat. She tore open the letter.
Dear Adrienne,
You were never my daughter so I won’t pretend false affection. And yet, I leave this world exactly the way I always feared: alone. I am fond of few things, and even fewer people, but I always liked your face, and I believe that you loved my son. If fate had not intervened we would have been a family, and I like to hope that we could have grown in affection for one another. Is it sentimental to say that I always wanted a daughter? You could have made a lovely Galloway.
Yet here we are. We each hide in our own way I suppose, and though you run to the far corners of the earth I am no less a coward than you. I know more than you think I do and less than the truth. And though I sound exactly like a dramatic old woman, my own death feels like a chance to open every window and see if there is some way to make darkness light. I have no idea how I expect you to do this, or why I feel compelled to leave you a gift that, let’s be frank, you haven’t earned by name or connection. But I suppose there is some value in being an eccentric old woman, and I can do whatever I please. It’s yours, Adrienne. David would have wanted you to have it.
I shall die pretending things were different and you were the daughter of my heart. May God be with you.
I have secrets, too.
Victoria Galloway
8
Adri always felt a bit like cinderella when she pulled into the circular driveway in front of piperhall. There was no fountain, though she could close her eyes and picture the arching cherubim, feel the mist of water as it splashed into the shallow pool below. Instead of a sculpture, a trio of elegant cherry trees stood sentry, their canopies entwined and their tiny blossoms a wildfire blaze of fuchsia in the spring. But it really didn’t matter what stood before the house, for once the full view of the villa was free and unobscured, it was impossible to look at anything other than the wide, stone staircase and the sharp angle of the three brickwork stories that soared overhead and blazed white in the sun. The four pillars of the loggia framed the double front doors—ten-foot mahogany planks inlaid with wrought iron grills in elegant scrollwork—and tall windows winked on every story of the imposing facade. Over it all, a stately tower kept watch, the ornate iron cresting giving the mansion a decidedly romantic appeal.
The home was, quite literally, a dream come true, and after it had been completely restored in the late 1990s, Liam had framed the original floor plans and hung them in the entrance hall. According to family legend, the cracked linen pages of the design had been hand drawn by an English architect in 1836 for Liam’s great-great-great-uncle’s country home. They were then carried to the United States, where Liam’s lumber baron ancestor reproduced the gorgeous Italian villa in his own little corner of Iowa as a wedding gift for his legendarily beautiful wife.
Adri didn’t know if David’s skillfully spun anecdote was true, or if it was just another extraordinary gem of Galloway mythology—the family seemed rife with stories that were both dramatic and mildly unbelievable. But she had always loved the faded, subtle lines of the drawings in the grand hall, and admired the quaint calligraphy that marked bedchambers, dressing rooms, and even the servants’ quarters. Of course, there was no servants’ hall anymore; instead Liam had installed a billiards room in the garden-level basement that boasted a long wet bar with four pull taps and revolving barrels of his favorite microbrews. And what was supposed to be a thirty-six-foot by forty-foot billiards room and picture gallery on the principal story was instead the main living space, with sixteen-foot ceilings and open archways onto the vast, marble-floored kitchen to the west and the formal dining room on the east. When the sun rose, it washed the entire mansion in a pale, yellow glow, and the dark wood floors burned golden as it set.
Everything in the house was light, designed to collect drops of sunshine and splash them back on smooth wood and soft-colored walls and mirrors hung in strategic places. But after Adri had opened the padlock and pulled the chain through the handles of the double door, she stepped into the long shadows of the entrance hall and stifled a shiver.
Piperhall was cold. Never mind the fireplaces or the warm embrace of the sun. The ceilings were high and the walls echoed with the sound of her tentative footsteps.
The library was to Adri’s right, the narrow entry cut from beneath the stairs so that it felt appealingly hidden, a not-so-secret room that contained an impressive collection of old encyclopedias. The Galloways hadn’t been much for reading, and Adri often wondered why they bothered with a library at all. But it was her favorite room, even if it lacked the books it should have contained.
“You don’t have time to read,” David chided her, back when they were in love. Before everything changed. “I’ve never seen you read a book for pleasure.”
“I used to do it all the time,” she huffed. “And someday I will again. When I’m not killing myself every spare minute of the day trying to complete my degree.”
“Well, then. I’ll fill it for you,” he said. “With whatever you want. Erotica?”
“You wish,” Adri’s voice was low, coy, and he caught her from behind and eased her to the leather couch. He took her hand and kissed each fingertip in turn, then slowly worked his way across her wrist and up her bare forearm while she tried to maintain her
composure. “Books,” Adri whispered. “We were talking about books. I like the classics. Hemingway, Austen, Brontë could . . . Piperhall should have the entire collection of Dickens.”
“Mm-hmm,” David mumbled, and she assumed he hadn’t heard. But the next time they came to Piperhall, there was a paper-wrapped package waiting on a low table in the library.
“Open it,” he said.
There were five old books inside, their colors faded and bindings worn to string in a few places. Adri slid them through her hands, admiring the delicate artwork and tracing the titles. The prettiest was called Lucile and written by someone named Owen Meredith. It was dated 1884, an impressive hardcover in green and gold. But Adri had never heard of Lucile. Or of How They Kept the Faith: A Tale of the Huguenots or Anne’s Terrible Good Nature, a children’s book. “They’re beautiful,” Adri said, because she didn’t know what else to say.
“This one,” David slid out Longfellow’s The Song of Hiawatha from the stack, “was ninety dollars. For a book.” He made it sound like a crime.
Adri took the slim novel from him, and stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his cheek. “Thank you.”
“The beginning of our library,” David said, and gave her a self-satisfied little smile. “You can read them all. Someday.”
His gift should have made her heart soar, but Adri battled a twinge of disappointment. The books were certainly antiques, lovely to look at and possibly even valuable collectibles. But David hadn’t heard her. She didn’t care about the age of the books or how expensive they were. Content was what mattered in her library. Adri should have told him so, right away, but she didn’t. And the library still bore witness to David’s misguided tokens of affection. Stacks of old books littered end tables and curio cabinets; some were even artfully arranged on the wide windowsills. They were mostly obscure titles with handsome covers. Books that Adri had no desire to actually read. She ran her fingertips along a copy of a book called Rascal, and forced herself to leave the library behind.