by Nicole Bross
“Well.” There’s a lot of weight in the word, just like there was when she uttered it earlier. The creases in her forehead soften a fraction. “Maybe we can work something out then. Find a solution that makes everyone happy.”
“That’s all I want, honestly.” I heave my canvas duffel onto my shoulder and turn to go. “I’m going to go talk to the lawyer and get it all sorted out.”
“I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.” It’s a peace offering, and I acknowledge it with a nod. “You have the look of her, you know. Not so much in your features, but in the way you smile, and the way I can see you taking in everything around you, filing it away for later. Roz was always one for the unusual details most other people don’t notice. I think I can see why she liked you.” Cora rises from the desk to show me out, and while her back is still ramrod straight, the smile on her face is the first genuine one I’ve seen from her.
“Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot to me. I wish I’d had a chance to know her better, once I was older.” A blast of heat slaps me in the face as I open the door.
“Make sure you get some aloe on this burn, the sooner the better,” she says as she squeezes my arm just above the elbow. “It’s shaping up to be a nasty one.” The contact is over long before the vision is.
REGRESS
“Kolya, open the door, or we’ll break it down.”
He stood just on the other side of the thick beams, shivering. The meager heat of the hearth didn’t reach this far, and they had precious little to burn. Only when night fell did they light it at all, and just long enough to heat the stones they placed under the blankets of their straw-tick bed. The rest of the time they spent wearing all they could layer on, wrapped in blankets and stamping their feet for warmth.
“My friends, there is no need for that,” he said as he scanned the room, looking for any evidence, any clues that would give away the secret he kept. He must remember not to look at the false wall or the two floorboards in the corner that when lifted would reveal a small chamber. He must remember to look as frightened and desperate as they no doubt were to be threatening violence upon him. His wife, Slava, sat in one of the single-room home’s two chairs, her eyes wide with fear. He prayed she would not give them away, either, but he knew she would hold her tongue at least.
“This is your last chance, Kolya.”
He forced himself to sound meek. “I’m only frightened, Evgeni. You are my neighbor, my friend. I do not know what I have done to anger you so. You have always been welcome in my home, and are welcome still if only you will assure me that you will not harm me.”
“No harm will come to you if you have done nothing to earn it. Now open the door.”
“I will, my friend. I will.” He lifted the beam barring it and leaned it against the table, where he could grab it easily if he needed a weapon. Hunching forward, trying to make himself look small, he pulled open the door to face the three men on his doorstep. They all held makeshift weapons, and Evgeni’s pitchfork looked the most lethal. Surely, he meant only to threaten. “Evgeni, Vadim, Pavel, please come in. Warm yourselves at my fire, small though it may be.” He stepped aside and fought the urge to usher the men quickly in so he could keep what little heat was in the home from escaping. The cruel wind cut through his sweater, and this time when he shivered and clutched his arms around himself it was not an act. Always keeping the bar within arm’s reach, he pushed the door shut once the three men trooped inside, their boots caked thick with snow none of them bothered to stamp off. At least it was now cold enough that the clumps they left behind did not begin to melt, and he would be able to sweep them out later.
“We are not here to visit,” Evgeni said as he pulled open the drawers of the wooden hutch, inspecting each one to the very back. The hutch would be the next thing they would have to burn. They had been feeding bits of their lives to the fire for the past month, ever since the firewood had run out, and the nearly-empty house was proof of the hardship they had endured and were still enduring. Slava said nothing, only looked miserable, as she was perpetually wont to do. In the end, Pavel’s search turned up two potatoes and a few cabbage leaves wrapped around them, all from this week’s ration.
“I assure you, my friends, I have nothing to hide. Just look about you. We have next to nothing.” None of the men replied. Vadim was busy sifting through the quilts on the bed, stripping them off one at a time. Finally, he beat the straw-tick mattress with his hands, feeling each part of it. Kolya hoped he didn’t cut into it and dump its contents, not because it hid anything, but because it would make an ungodly mess and would take most of the night for Slava to stitch up again. Vadim seemed satisfied with his cursory inspection, however.
There was precious else to search. The table held no drawers or compartments, and everything else had been lost in the service of fighting off the cold. Then Evgeni did what Kolya hoped least he would do—he turned to Slava.
“Stand, woman.” Slava’s eyes darted to Kolya, becoming impossibly wider. He met them with his own and nodded, a single jerk of his chin. Would they beat the truth out of her? “Shake out your skirts and turn out your pockets.” Kolya fought back a sigh of relief, forced himself instead to maintain the mask of fear on his face. Evgeni thought Slava concealed their secret.
Slava obeyed wordlessly, even lifting her skirts above her knees, revealing her rough gray stockings, to show she held nothing beneath them.
“Evgeni, my friend,” Kolya said, appealing to his neighbor. “Can’t you see we’re just as hungry and desperate as everyone else? We are not hiding anything. We have nothing to hide. You have seen with your own eyes. Check the shed. Check the chicken coop. You will find nothing in there either.” Kolya knew they already had—it was the light of their torch spotted through the window that had given him the time to make sure all was concealed. He would have to be more careful from now on, lest there was another inspection in the future. “Why are you here, my friends? What have I done to earn your mistrust?”
“There was garlic on your breath yesterday. I smelled it myself, as did others. There has not been garlic in the rations in two months.”
Inwardly, Kolya cursed Slava for insisting they flavor the soup. He could not deny it when so many people had detected the pungent scent. He needed to think quickly to pacify the men. “I gave all my food stores, all my grain, everything we had to the town council, just as you did, just as we all did,” he said. “Two days ago, Slava was digging in the garden, hoping to find a potato or a parsnip we might have missed last autumn when she turned up a small head of garlic. It was half-rotten, only four small cloves, that we thought there was no point in adding it to the rations since it could never be divided up amongst us all. Perhaps that was wrong, but I was weak, and I gave two of the cloves to her and kept two for myself. We ate them raw. That’s all it was, my friends. Forgive me, I should have handed it in.” He bowed his head as though in shame.
Evgeni mulled this explanation over. Kolya and Slava had been careful not to eat too much from their secret store, lest they gave themselves away by remaining too fat as everyone else in their small village, locked in by a winter that seemed as though it would never end, starved. Besides, who knew if this winter would ever end? They needed to stretch their own supplies as far as they could. When the town council elders had declared that everyone must pool what food remained amongst them to ensure everyone received the same amount, Kolya had naturally held a portion back. Why should his hard work go to feed someone lazier or with less foresight? Why should he suffer so others may live? He built the false wall to store the grain, and the rough hole below the floor to house the vegetables, the dried fruits, the sacks of sugar and flour and the precious wheels of cheese, of which he still had almost one complete round left. They had both toiled hard to provide for themselves, and he would be damned if he saw it go to another while he himself starved.
“I apologize, Kolya,” Evgeni said finally. “You can see how we had the right to be suspi
cious.”
“Of course, my friend,” Kolya replied. “There is no harm done. Tell me, is it true Yegor snared a hare today?” All smiles now, a hopeful look on his face.
“Yes. A small one. The council made a stew from it for the children.”
“That’s wonderful. As it should be. We must protect the children above all.” Kolya nodded vigorously as he spoke, hoping to convince the men he believed the sentiment.
“Goodnight, Kolya, Slava,” Evgeni said, and he and the other two left without another word, although Pavel, his confidant, and sometime gambling partner, gave him a small shrug of apology. Once the door was barred again, and he could no longer hear the footsteps crunching through the snow, he allowed himself to relax and heaved a sigh of relief, shooting Slava an accusatory glare for getting them into the predicament in the first place. She stared at him mournfully and began piling the quilts back on the bed.
4
Iwalk down the street on auto-pilot, thankful the town is quiet enough I don’t have to worry about dodging traffic or other pedestrians. I’m almost all the way to the lawyer’s office before the vision finishes playing itself out in my head. It’s definitely one of the longer ones I’ve had, and its tone disturbs me. I would not allow myself to jump to conclusions and assume that because she once had held something back in a past life, Cora was doing the same again. Not every event from history played out again to the letter. Maybe her spirit had recalled those events because it had felt similarly threatened by my appearance.
Lighthouse Street appears to serve as Soberly’s main drag if such a small town could be said to have one. It’s lined on both sides with brightly painted storefronts, their facades all meticulously maintained to reflect settlement times. Awnings provide intervals of shade along the sidewalk, and each shop has a wooden sign, all in the same style, announcing its name and trade. There’s the requisite souvenir shop, an ice cream parlor, a cafe with a few round tables and folding chairs set out in front of it, an antique store, and a place selling beachwear, but nothing that would indicate a lawyer or any type of offices at all.
Naturally, I pick the antique shop to inquire. It draws me like a magnet. One never knows what hidden gems you’ll find amongst the ships in bottles and endless incomplete sets of china.
A bell jingles above my head as I step inside. A woman maybe five years older than me sits behind the glass counter, which is stuffed full of costume jewelry. There’s a wooden Indian to my immediate right, and long rows of shelves crammed full of old telephones, cameras, mason jars, leather-bound books, and all sorts of other detritus brought forth from the cellars of the locals over the years. All overpriced, no doubt.
“Can you tell me where I can find the offices of William Blackmoor?” I ask, telling myself this is not the time to get lost in a treasure hunt. My eyes roam the shelves almost compulsively, taking in the stock.
“You must be the new owner of the inn.” The woman’s voice goes up half an octave, and a smile breaks out on her face. “I heard you were here.”
“Umm, what?” I drag my gaze away from the merchandise and toward her. How the hell did she find that out so fast?
“Oh, shit. I mean, my condolences. Roslyn was family of yours, wasn’t she?” The woman looks chagrined.
“Yes, my aunt. How did you know?”
“Linda was eating lunch in the pub, and she texted Marnie next door at the pharmacy, who came over to tell me not five minutes ago. It only makes sense that you’d have to speak to Roslyn’s lawyer about the will and everything. You’re the most exciting thing to happen to this one-horse town since they found Marnie’s daughter drunk, passed out in the trough outside Rooster’s a couple months ago. Only fourteen years old.”
“What trough? Who’s Rooster?” My head is spinning, trying to follow this conversation.
“The general store around the corner, on Driftwood. It has a trough from when people used to tie their horses up outside. Thankfully, they keep it empty now, otherwise Kenzie would’ve drowned.”
“Right.” I have no idea what to make of any of this information, only that it has nothing to do with my mission. This Kenzie must be grateful she’s no longer the most interesting person in Soberly. “Mr. Blackmoor’s offices?” I’ve spied what I think is an emerald-green inkwell on one of the shelves, tucked in amongst a hodgepodge of old tonic and spice bottles, each worth no more than a couple bucks each. Dammit. If it’s hand-blown, as I suspect it is from its imperfect shape, it could be worth a few hundred dollars. Trust treasure to find me precisely when I didn’t want it. I like inkwells. They’re small, which makes them easy to collect for someone who moves often and they come in an endless number of designs. I have one in a similar octagonal shape in cobalt blue. Ruthlessly I turn my eyes away. Not today.
“Bill’s right across the street, the door next to the cafe’s entrance is his. His office is upstairs, but don’t rush out so fast. I didn’t even get your name. I’m Sheena.”
The Ramones start running unbidden through my head. “Audrey,” I reply. This Sheena is the furthest thing from a punk rocker—her pin-straight blonde hair is cut in a reverse bob, and her style falls somewhere in the Anthropologie range. Sheena’s behind the counter, and there’s enough distance between us that I don’t offer my hand to shake, nor does she. I’m still sifting through the details of the vision I received from Cora, and I don’t feel like adding to the stew of thoughts in my head. “I have an appointment so I do have to go, but I’m sure I’ll see you soon. It seems like that sort of town.” I smile to take the sting out of my wry tone and ask silent forgiveness for the white lie. I want to get this business of the inn’s ownership settled and read the letter Roz left to me.
“It pretty well is, but we’re good people. I’m glad to meet you for myself.”
“Nice to meet you too.” I pause as I step over the threshold, and with an inward sigh, turn back. “Hey Sheena, know that green inkwell you’ve got in with the other glass on the shelf there?” She nods. “Do a bit more research on it. You can get a couple hundred bucks on eBay if it’s in good condition, easy.”
“Seriously? How do you know that? Mr. Maxwell brought it in with a bunch of other bottles he found when he ripped up his front porch a couple weeks ago. I didn’t think it was anything special. I gave him five bucks for it, and I thought I was being generous.”
“I’m a historian. Old stuff is what I know.”
“You come back some night and tell me what else I’m missing, and I’ll provide all the wine and fried clams you can handle,” she calls after me. I doubt I’ll be in town long enough to take her up on her offer, but I don’t want to sound rude.
“It’s a deal,” I tell her.
***
I could see how a person might miss the office of W. Blackmoor, Barrister. The letters stenciled on the plain frame door were as unobtrusive as they come. With Sheena’s directions, however, I spot it immediately and make my way up the stuffy stairs, where I’m met with another door. A deep, sonorous voice calls for me to come in when I knock.
“Mr. Blackmoor?” I ask the white-haired man sitting at the desk facing me as I step inside the office. He looks like a less-craggy version of Clint Eastwood, a little rounder in the face and body, but with the same piercing blue eyes and shrewd look. The sunlight streaming through the lead-paned windows illuminate his white hair into a halo around his head. “I’m Audrey Eames. We spoke on the phone a few days ago.”
“Audrey, very pleased to meet you. Call me Bill.” Once the introductions are out of the way and I’m seated across from him, he pulls a manila folder out of a drawer and sets it in front of him. “Now, as I said, Roslyn left you the inn and its assets, barring a few personal effects. She and I drafted her last will and testament shortly after she received her diagnosis. She also asked me to act as her estate’s executor.” I nod. “I have a copy of her will here for you to review.”
I scan the single sheet he hands over to me. Her share in the house they owned, a
long with her personal assets, she had left to Cora, who was also the sole beneficiary of a healthy life insurance policy. Then next paragraph:
To my niece, Audrey Isobel Eames, I leave my business, the Soberly Inn and Public House, as well as its contents and assets, excepting those listed below. It is my wish that my niece take over the management and day-to-day operations of the Inn.
Below is a short list of a few items Roz says she wants returned to Cora, including a clock Cora gave her and a few photographs, then signatures and the notary’s mark. Nothing that explains her reasoning at all. I look up at Bill doubtfully.
“This is pretty short on details,” I say. “Did Roz tell you why she wanted me to move halfway across the country, give up my career, and become an innkeeper?”
“No, she didn’t, but she was adamant that you do,” he replies.
“Was she…” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb. There’s no delicate way to put my question. “Was she competent when she made this will? I know with some types of tumors a person’s mental faculties can be affected. I mean, Roz never mentioned anything about this to me, and she didn’t try and get in touch before she…passed. It’s taken me completely by surprise.”
“I believe she was, and her doctors were in agreement as well,” he says. “I questioned her about this choice since Cora is so involved in the operations of the inn. I was surprised to learn they didn’t own it jointly, to be honest. She didn’t tell me why she was leaving the inn to you, but I suspect this might answer some of your questions.” He pulls a sealed envelope out of the folder and hands it to me. For Audrey, it says. It feels thick, promising several pages inside. I tear it open with shaking hands. As expected, inside are five or six folded sheets, and I recognize the handwriting from the occasional Christmas cards that managed to find their way to me over the years. The first page only has a few lines.