by Chassie West
“And this is where you’ll be working.”
“Yup. Lord knows when, the way things are going.”
Tina, squinting across the bay, moved farther toward the water, stopping just beyond the point where it lapped against the shore. “Is that land over there?”
“The Eastern Shore. You know—Cambridge, Salisbury, Ocean City.”
“Oh.”
My phone jiggled. Janeece.
“Hey, roomie, gotta make this short. I just ran into Gracie. She told me to tell you that one of her students remembered that the woman with the accent was named Nell Gwynn. She’s already called the cop you talked to but I wanted you to know.”
“Thanks, Janeece. I’ll try to pop in tomorrow and thank her.”
“Do that. She’s a sweetie. Gotta go. Later, gator.” Click. She was gone.
Nell Gwynn. I’d heard the name somewhere before. Where?
“Hey,” Tank called, “y’all gonna stay there all day or what? It’s gonna be dark by the time we start back.”
“So what?” Tina responded over her shoulder. “It’s not like we’ve got anything special planned this evening.”
“Well, I,” he responded, sounding peeved, “thought we did.”
Tina threw up her hands in defeat. “Swear to God, you’d think he never gets any nookie. Guess we’d better get moving. Where are we going?”
Back in the SUV, I directed them to my grandparents’ house. I’m not sure which impressed Tina more, the gate to the compound—“Just like in The Godfather!” she said, wide-eyed—the fact that my father’s family members lived beyond it, or that a good many of the houses were those she’d spotted from the shore. Most perched on brick pillars tall enough to protect a home during a flood, some high enough to afford covered parking spaces. Stand out in the street, look under the house, and one had an unobstructed view of the Chesapeake. So did the houses across the street, each positioned at a point between the ones that backed onto the bay.
“These folks have boats?” she asked.
“Some do, but most don’t. A good many are retirees who live here year round, the others only during the summer or weekends.”
“And they’re all your relatives?”
“In one way or another. You want to talk about cousins fifth and sixth removed? Knock on any door.”
“Jesus,” she whispered.
I wasn’t sure whether she thought that was good or bad and decided it might be better not to ask.
Ritch Road homes ran the gamut from old clapboard edifices and modest ranches, through redwood A-frames and sturdy stucco two-stories. All had decks or porches, almost all with a swing or hooks for hammocks. The lots were rife with trees older than the town itself, lending an air of permanence.
I pointed out my brother’s house, and that of an aunt I had yet to meet, described by various cousins on my mother’s side as having a whimsical nature.
“Bullshit,” my brother had confided. “The truth is, Aunt Beth’s nuttier than a bar of peanut brittle.”
The white clapboard home of my grandparents anchored the end of the road, its three stories stacked like a wedding cake, each with its own wraparound porch, and a widow’s walk skirting the roof. It gleamed in the late afternoon sun, the effect blinding against the muted gray of the Chesapeake beyond it. The lawn, in winter hues of muted greens and browns, was immaculate, not a dead leaf in sight in spite of the oaks and fir trees nestled around the house.
“Fair warning,” I said, as we climbed the steps to the porch, “the first floor is a museum, literally. There are things in here that date from the town’s founding in nineteen-oh-one. I don’t know how long this visit with my grandmother will take, so feel free to wander through all the rooms.”
I pulled a lever beside the front door and heard the distant jingle of a bell, noting the candles and wreaths of holly in each window. My grandmother must have been waiting because the door opened almost immediately. She stood, hand on the knob, her pale brown eyes regarding me coolly. Elizabeth Ritch was barely five feet tall, yet somehow managed to tower above us all, even Tank, something about her snow-white hair and erect posture lending her a regal air.
“Leigh. You’re better. Good. Thank you for coming. And you’ve brought friends. I thought I made it clear that we would be discussing business.”
Actually, she hadn’t, and any other day I might have reacted differently. But it wasn’t any other day, and she’d pissed me off.
“Grandmother, I’d like you to meet Bernard and Tina Younts. Tank.” I turned to him, hoping he realized that under no circumstances could I continue to call him Bernard or, God forbid, Bernie. “Tank, Tina, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Ritch. Tank and Tina are members of the D.C. Metropolitan Police Department and Duck’s and my close friends. They are also our financial and legal advisers, so there should be no problem with their sitting in, don’t you agree?”
I sensed, rather than actually saw, Tank’s start of surprise. Tina, cool as ever, didn’t bat an eye and reached to shake my grandmother’s hand. Tank followed suit, his big mitt swallowing Elizabeth’s. Hey, they were cops, which took care of the legal, and with luck, they’d be instrumental in my getting a good price for the removal of the paint on my car. So I’d stretched it a bit. Sue me. As I said, I was pissed at her high-handed manner.
“Then of course they’re welcome,” she said stiffly, a patch of pink rising in her cheeks.
“What a terrific room,” Tina said, her eyes widening. “Oh, Tank, look at the decorations!”
Ritch Manor was ready for the holidays, a monster tree in the corner. Strung with popcorn, candy canes, and baubles that were clearly from another era, it was unlit, with candles perched on the branches. I hoped they were only for effect. This place was a tinderbox, a first-class fire hazard. Toys, obviously homemade and, from the looks of them, thrice my age, were clustered around the base of the tree. It was like an old-fashioned Christmas card.
“The room looks lovely, Grandmother.” I could try for graciousness, even if she couldn’t.
“I’ll let Amalie know. It’s her handiwork, too much for me now. If you’ll follow me, we’ll go up to—”
She was interrupted by a squeal from Tina, her eyes glued to the front corner on our right. “Tank, look! A potbellied stove!”
My grandmother, who I admit I tended to think of as Elizabeth, as opposed to Grandmother, Gran, or any other affectionate variation, eyed Tina with surprise. “I’m pleased that you recognized it. Most your age have never seen a potbellied stove.”
“I used to spend summers on my great-aunt’s farm in Virginia,” Tina said, making a bead for the corner. “She had one of these in her living room, a Klondike or something to do with Alaska, and another in the kitchen.” She dropped to her knees and opened its door. “Oh, it’s wonderful!”
I looked at Tank, who shrugged. Elizabeth missed our reactions, since she had followed Tina to the stove. “This came from Grandfather Ritch’s home, built in 1902. We have most of its contents, as well as items from other Ourland homes of that era. Would you—and your husband, of course—be interested in seeing them?”
Tina, still on her knees, looked up at Elizabeth as if she’d been offered the crown jewels. “Oh, could we?” This was no act, a Tina I’d never seen before.
I gave Tank a quick jab in the ribs and he came to life. “Only if you can spare the time, Mrs. Ritch. If you’d prefer to get on with the subject of the meeting, Tina and I could come back another day.”
Elizabeth beamed at them, glowing with pleasure, yet another first for me. She was usually cool as a cucumber, a pickled one at that. Her sister, Ruth, or my cousin Amalie normally conducted the tours through the museum, and I’d gotten the impression that my grandmother considered the whole business a nuisance. It bugged me that I’d been wrong.
We covered the whole of the first floor, including nooks and crannies not normally open to tour groups, thanks to Tina’s obvious appreciation of Ourland’s antiques. Between h
omemade furniture, Franklin stoves, pie chests, vintage kitchen utensils, telephones, gramophones, spinning wheels, butter churns, you name it, Tina appeared to be in her own personal Garden of Eden.
“Did you know she liked antiques?” I asked Tank sotto voce as we made our way through the second of the two kitchens on display.
“I knew she liked them, just didn’t know she was ape-shit over them. The thing that gets me is that it sounds like she knows what she’s talking about. I mean, I wouldn’t be able to figure out what half of this stuff was used for but she’s actually naming them.” His chest swelled as he watched her. “But that’s my Tina. She’s always surprising me.”
That made two of us. I knew that she was taking college courses and that she was good at her job, but not much more. When I’d met her back in October, she’d given me the impression that she’d spent her early years on D.C.’s meaner streets and could mix it up with the best of them. She was definitely smart, and on her way up the promotional ladder. But I was beginning to wonder about her tough-girl persona.
“Well, that’s the lot,” Elizabeth said finally. “I’ve enjoyed this immensely, Christina.”
It was my turn to stiffen with surprise. Christina?
Tina squeezed my grandmother’s arm. “I have too. This place is wonderful. I’ll have to bring my mom to see all this. She’d love it.”
“You’re welcome any time,” Elizabeth said with such warmth, I felt a pinch of jealousy. She’d never spoken to me in that tone. “Well, I was hoping that Wayne might get here before now. He’s still at the physical therapist’s. Those two get to talking shop and go on for hours. There’s no point in our waiting for him. Let’s retire to his office.”
My curiosity ratcheted up a couple of notches. If we were to use Granddad’s office, this was serious business indeed.
One of the first-floor nooks masked an elevator but my grandmother walked us up two flights of steps instead, her gait far more sprightly than mine. She flipped the switch to turn on the lights as we entered Granddad’s sanctuary, its paneled walls and massive desk reminding me of the last time I’d been here searching for the Silver Star awarded my father. The room smelled like old books, of which there were plenty, the majority of them medical tomes.
Tank squinted at a framed document on the wall just inside the door. “Leigh, your granddaddy’s a doctor?”
Elizabeth answered for me. “An obstetrician, retired now, although you’d never know it considering the number of calls he still gets. He’s delivered practically every child born in the area. I think he lost count after twenty-five hundred.”
She skirted the desk and sat down in the big leather chair behind it, its size reducing her to childlike dimensions. I doubted her feet reached the floor.
“Have a seat. Bernard, if you’ll please move chairs for yourself and Christina closer to the desk.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’d winced when she’d used his name but didn’t object. I saw the corners of Tina’s lips twitch.
Once we were all seated, Elizabeth gazed at the solitary folder on the desk and cleared her throat. She hesitated, and I got the distinct impression that she felt awkward about whatever was coming.
“This,” she said, tapping the folder with a slender index finger, “is the last will and testament of . . . my half-brother, Roosevelt Lawrence. It seems he died in September but we weren’t notified until a month ago.”
She squirmed a little, and I suddenly realized the source of her discomfort. When I was searching for my father’s family I had jotted down all the names on the family tree displayed in the Ourland town hall. There had been no Roosevelt Lawrence dangling from any branch anywhere. I would have remembered.
“I’m sorry, Grandmother,” I said. “It must be difficult to lose a sibling.” It was the best I could do, especially considering that her sister, Ruth, was terminally ill too.
She glanced up at me, her lids lowered. “You’re being very diplomatic, and I appreciate it. The truth is, my father had a dalliance, shall we call it, during the First World War. He was in the army, and Roosevelt’s mother lived in the town in which he was stationed. Roosevelt—named after Theodore, of course—was almost ten years old before we found out about him. When his mother died and there was no other family, he came to live with us until he was old enough to enlist himself. He made a career of the army, retired and lived out his remaining years in Virginia.”
“I see,” I said, even though I didn’t.
She folded her hands, index fingers touching, like “here’s the church, here’s the steeple,” and gnawed on her bottom lip for a moment.
“We didn’t see much of Roosevelt after he left Ourland, which was just as well, since he was . . . well, a bit of a rake. He’d pop up unannounced every couple of years with a different lady friend, stay for a short period, then disappear. So I’m not hypocritical enough to say that I’m devastated by his death.”
“Understandable.” I still couldn’t figure out what this had to do with me.
She must have sensed it. “I’ll get to the point. Your great-grandfather felt the same obligation to Roosevelt as he did to his other children. As a result, Father purchased a lot for him, and during one of Roosevelt’s abbreviated visits, he had a house built on it. Roosevelt had no children, in fact, never married. Which means his property reverts to the family. Wayne and I would like to give it to you.”
I should have seen it coming a couple of sentences before, but for some reason, I didn’t. “You . . . you want to give me a house?”
Elizabeth’s questioning gaze raked my features. “Is there a problem? I realize that you’ve also inherited your mother’s lot, but as you and Dillon will be newlyweds, I assume it will be a few years before you’11 be able to afford putting a house on it. Besides, if you accept, you’ll have a home base here as well as in Washington. Once you’re working here, I’m certain there’ll be nights you won’t feel like making that long drive back to town. This solves that problem. You don’t want it?”
Tina leaned over and swatted me. “Are you crazy? Take it, girl! As your financial adviser, I’m advising you to take it.”
“It’s free and clear of any encumbrances, if you’re worried about that,” Elizabeth said, in concern. “There are the taxes, of course, and utilities and the usual upkeep that comes with a house this close to water—”
Tina edged forward in her chair. “It’s one of the ones that backs onto the bay?”
Elizabeth blinked. “Well, no, it’s across the street, but one can clearly see the bay from the decks.”
“Decks, plural?” Tina scooted farther toward the edge, in grave danger of winding up fanny on floor. She turned and glared at me. “Take it, girl. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I’m . . . I mean, I’m just shocked. It’s so generous of you, Grandmother. And unexpected.”
“Generosity has nothing to do with it,” she snapped. “You’d be doing us a favor. If you don’t accept, we’ll have to turn over the property to the Ourland Trust. Only relatives of founding families are allowed to own property inside the nineteen-oh-two town limits,” she said for Tank’s and Tina’s benefit. Mine too, since I’d gotten the impression that ownership of property extended to the whole town.
“The trust would put Roosevelt’s house up for auction,” she continued, her patrician features molded in lines of displeasure, “and then the squabbling would start over which Ourland family should get it. They’d be outbidding one another, the property would probably be sold for an outrageous price, and the losers wouldn’t speak to the winners for the next decade. Thanks to you, the town’s just getting over the feud that divided us for thirty-some years, and it’s been wonderful, just like the old days. I’d like to see it stay that way. As a member of an Ourland family, and a representative of the law, it’s your double obligation to see that the peace is kept.”
I’d have to give Elizabeth credit for the most creative argument for home ownership I’d ever heard. R
egardless, I wasn’t sure Duck and I could afford it. Any residence within spitting distance of the Chesapeake had to bring a smile to the face of the state treasurer. You paid for the view in more ways than one.
“I’ll have to discuss it with Duck,” I said, my head still spinning. “If he agrees, I’ll accept, Grandmother.”
“He’ll agree.” Tank nodded sagely. “Duck’s no dummy.”
Elizabeth slid the folder across to me. “Wayne computed everything he thought you’d need to know to make an intelligent decision—how much the taxes and utilities have run for the last five years, seasonal maintenance, the rents.”
“Rents?” Tina and I asked in chorus. What was she offering me, a rooming house?
“Didn’t I say? That’s how Roosevelt made it pay for itself. Here, child. Go see for yourself. It’s unoccupied.” Opening the lap drawer, she extracted a set of keys on a small black key retainer. “I think the longer one is for the upper unit.”
“Upper unit?” Tina and I again. Work out a dance routine and we could cut a video.
My grandmother stood. Clearly the meeting was over. “Four-ten Ritch Road. It’s fully furnished, so of course the contents are a part of the estate as well.” Her nose twitched with distaste. “Feel free to do what you wish with them.”
It sounded to me as if Elizabeth considered the property mine already and its appointments undeserving of further description, as if Great-uncle Roosevelt had caught a sale at the equivalent of a Dollar Store.
“One thing at a time, Grandmother,” I said, and she stiffened. I doubt she was used to hearing “no.” “I’ll need a few days to go over Granddad’s figures with Duck. He’ll want to see it, of course, and I’m not sure of his next day off. But you have my word you’11 have our decision as soon as we can manage it.”
She was not happy and made no effort to hide it. “Well, do the best you can. Bernard, Christina, do come again.” Sweeping around the desk, she took their arms and escorted them from the room. Me she left to my own devices.
“Man, she’s something else, isn’t she?” Tina said, as we closed the front door behind us. “I can see why you two butted heads when you met. She’s used to getting her own way. But, jeez, Leigh, a house! And one that pays for itself? What could be better?”
