by LK Rigel
Sara felt sick hearing the name. “That’s my father.”
“She wanted it to be clear he would receive nothing else.” Mr. Mason looked up; apparently Sara’s uneasiness was obvious. “I can take care of the details, if you like. It’s merely a matter of informing him of the bequest and sending the item. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mason.”
Sara exhaled with relief. Dad would hate her taking anything from Aunt Amelia, and she didn’t want to give him a chance to lecture her. She suspected the study Bible was Aunt Amelia’s way of having the last word, pun intended. The edition wasn’t likely based on the King James Version.
“You said there were two bequests?”
“The other is to Victoria Carly Byrne.”
“Peekie? Oh, I’m glad,” Sara said. “Peekie liked my aunt very much.”
“She’s about to like her more. For years Ms. Byrne’s been paying on a loan Amelia made to her. Unbeknownst to Ms. Byrne, Amelia had been putting the money aside in a trust account.”
Mr. Mason was growing on Sara. He said unbeknownst with flair. She could imagine him telling a story at a murder mystery party.
“Amelia intended to return all the money three years from now after the final payment. With her demise, the remainder of the loan is forgiven and the trust account goes to Ms. Byrne immediately.”
“That’s wonderful,” Sara said. “I can’t wait to tell Peekie.”
“You can tell her now. I’ll have the documents ready for your signature by the end of the week.”
“That reminds me,” Sara said. “We’re having a memorial reception for Aunt Amelia this Friday evening at Turtledove Hill. I hope you’ll come, and please extend the invitation to anyone from Briggs & Mason who’d like to attend.”
“Very nice, Ms. Lyndon,” Mr. Mason said. “I mean Mrs. Blakemore.”
As Sara stood up to shake his hand, reality hit. Good lord, Sara. Millions of dollars. She shoved the idea out of her mind and took a deep breath.
Turtledove Hill was hers; that’s what was important. She liked the idea of waiting to sell the vineyards, at least until she’d found Joss Montague’s remains. Gracien Poole had full use of them anyway, so what could it hurt to wait? Most important, she and Bram could get on with their lives, unafraid of layoffs and conflicting work shifts.
“I don’t mean to tell you what to do,” Mr. Mason said. “But you’ve had big news this morning. It might be wise to go home and take no calls. Let this sink in before you talk to other people.”
“I will, Mr. Mason, as soon as possible. First I have to pick up Aunt Amelia.”
“I DON’T WANT TO keep her in a closet,” Sara told Peekie.
The thought of Aunt Amelia’s ashes in the house was too creepy. There were ghosts enough at Turtledove Hill. The funeral director had talked her into buying an exorbitantly expensive brass urn etched with seagulls in flight, and Peekie had come with her to choose a cremation burial plot.
They were north of the village on Highway 1 up on a hill, traipsing around the Pelican Chase Cemetery. The view of the ocean was outstanding.
“Amelia would like this very much,” Peekie said as they picked through old graves looking at the headstones. “Here’s Gracien’s folks. He put this up about fifteen years ago, I think.”
A large double headstone bore the names Jeremiah Poole, beloved husband and father and Greta Poole, beloved wife and mother.
“Look.” Sara stopped at two markers close together on a rise. “This must be Joss Montague’s wife and son.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “Olivia Montague. 1920-1947. I didn’t realize she was so young when she died. Daniel Montague. Beloved son. 1946-1947.”
“Not what I would have imagined,” Peekie said. “They’re rather plain.”
“I don’t think he liked her much,” Sara said. “I found Montague’s journal at the house. He didn’t spell it out in so many words, but it seemed Daniel was another man’s child, that Olivia was pregnant when Joss came home from the war.”
“Oh, a nice scandal!” Peekie’s eyes widened mischievously. “Dig beneath the surface in Pelican Chase and you’ll find a lot of those.”
“I don’t think Olivia liked Joss much either.”
“At least he didn’t blame the child.” Peekie pointed to the words on the gravestone, beloved son. “The boy died after the mother. He must have chosen those words.”
There was a space beside the child’s grave, room for another. “So he intended to be buried here one day,” Sara said. “But why, near the woman who hated him and the son who wasn’t his?”
“Amelia did it,” Peekie said. “I’ll wager she bought the space in case she ever found the body.”
“Consecrated ground,” Sara said.
“I think of her riding over hundreds of acres of vineyards searching for an ancient lost corpse, and it’s just a story,” Peekie said. “Slightly interesting. A bit of local history, no more. But seeing that empty grave beside mother and child, waiting forever for one who will never come, it breaks my heart.”
“Peekie, you’re a real poet,” Sara said. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“I’m glad you asked,” Peekie said. “I’m going to miss that old woman. She was so good to me…even now, beyond the grave.” Her voice cracked. She looked away, but not before Sara saw the tears in her eyes.
“I wish I’d known her better.”
“The things we think we have,” Peekie said. “It’s all an illusion. Things don’t last. Feelings last. Love lasts.”
“And hatred.” Sara thought of her father and Cindy. She’d broken off from them years ago, but her resentment had kept them both in her life.
“And kindness.” Peekie brushed her massive red curls out of her face. “With Amelia’s gift, I can pay off the store’s mortgage and keep going. The Beak doesn’t make much, you know. I don’t begin to compete with the megastores, and certainly not with online shopping. But I just can’t let it go. I love books, and I refuse to face reality.”
“That could be my motto,” Sara said. They started back to the car. “You do a bang-up coffee business, it seems.”
“Coffee pays everyone’s salaries. Praise Spot,” Peekie said. “And the village council.”
“Why?”
“The council for banning chain coffee franchises, and Spot for his disgusting brew.”
“Let’s hope neither one changes.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Peekie said.
“Oh, look. This must be Amelia’s Eleanor.” Sara stopped at a large marble headstone with the name Eleanor Norquist. It was a simple design with only her name and dates, but the stone itself was lovely. “I wonder if I could bury Aunt Amelia’s urn here instead. They were such good friends.”
“Not a good idea.” Peekie’s voice went flat.
“But why?”
“Bonnie would see redder than ever.” Peekie had a strange look on her face. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Apparently not.” Sara had the feeling of walking into a room that goes silent because everyone’s discussing a secret she wasn’t allowed to know. “What is it?”
“Amelia and Eleanor were more than friends, Sara. They were life mates. Lovers. Eleanor left Bonnie’s father for Amelia.”
- 19 -
This Old House
SARA DROVE PEEKIE BACK TO the bookshop, her thoughts shifting from discovery to discovery like glass fragments in a kaleidoscope.
Aunt Amelia definitely had a lover, but not the one she’d always assumed. Worse than a younger man—in Dad’s estimation. A younger lesbian! It wasn’t funny, but the futility of it was ironic. Poor Dad. If he didn’t change, his prejudices were going to make him a lonely, lonely person.
And Bonnie. No wonder she was so resentful. Now that, Sara understood. It had nothing to do with homophobia and everything to do with home-wrecking. From Bonnie’s point of view, Aunt Amelia was the bad guy in the story.
Bram’s truck was park
ed out front. He wasn’t in The Book Beak, and Sara didn’t feel like chasing him all over the village. She grabbed a latte and headed home. On Highway 1 she stuck the BlueAnt in her ear and called his cell.
“Hi, babe,” Bram answered. “How did it go with the lawyer?”
“It was…interesting. It was weird driving around with Aunt Amelia in a jar, but Peekie and I found a place for her urn at the cemetery. That’s taken care of.”
“Is Gracien going to be happy?” Bram said. “I saw him a few minutes ago.”
“Did he ask about the vineyards?”
“Not really. He leaves that stuff up to Bonnie, but it seemed like he’s hoping to hear something.”
“You saw Bonnie?” She should tell him what she’d learned about Bonnie’s mom. On the other hand, maybe Bonnie already had.
“She found me at Spot’s,” Bram said. “That guy makes great eggs.”
Sara turned off the highway onto Turtledove Hill Road. “You can tell her there might be a short delay, but Mr. Mason did say the vineyards and house are on two separate assessor parcels. It would be easy to sell the fields and keep the house.”
“With internet, the house would be a great,” Bram said.
“Well, it needs more than internet.”
“It could be a showplace, babe. Bonnie says it’s a genuine arts and crafts design. She called it an ultimate bungalow. She thinks Greene and Greene might have been the architects.”
“Who are they?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “But she thinks it’s a good thing. Anyway, if we stay I might turn that room on the roof into my writer’s retreat.”
Everything in Sara screamed against it. The aerie belonged to Joss, and the widow's walk was her special place. But it would be a perfect place to write. And soon Joss Montague would be moving on. “We can talk about it when you get home.”
“Okay, babe. But I’ll be late. I’m working on a great subplot. I need internet access to do research.” Bram sounded more cheerful than he had in ages.
“That’s good, Bram.” The cell phone reception started cutting out.
“Another thing,” he said through the static. “Gracien Poole is sending his maintenance crew out to fix the stairs.”
“Sounds great, Bram. I’m glad you’re getting in some writing time.” The line went dead as she drove into the courtyard.
She parked and went into the house feeling slightly off. She was about to call out Joss’s name when the brass bell caught her eye, still on the table in the nook. She picked it up and turned it, caressing the snowdrops around the rim.
Aunt Amelia had hidden the bell away, and now Sara understood why—so Joss Montague wouldn’t imprint on anybody else. There was a mystical power in the bell that transcended the worlds of the living and the dead. It was dangerous.
She laughed at herself. A week ago, the only mystical powers in her life were things she read in books. Now she was haunted by a real ghost, a handsome and interesting one at that. A man who was—or had been—thoughtful and kind. This was not good. Every minute she spent thinking about Joss Montague and his finer qualities was time she wasn’t thinking about her husband. Her living, breathing husband.
If she was going to give Bram a chance, then he deserved a real chance.
She took the bell to the barn and hid it at the bottom of the steamer trunk under the fine clothes and pushed the trunk against the wall. As she picked up the saddle to replace it on the trunk, she thought heard a sound from overhead, like a snap, but there was nothing in the rafters but a few extra bundles of vine stakes.
She hoisted the saddle on top of the trunk and turned to go. Another noise came from overhead, a creepy sound of metal sliding against metal. She looked up to see several loose steel stakes shooting out of the rafters—and flying straight toward her.
“Ach!” She screamed as someone grabbed her from behind and jerked her backwards. She ended up sitting on the trunk as the steel stakes streaked downward, plunging into the dirt and clattering on the ground right where she’d been standing.
“Who’s there?” She fought through the pounding of her heart. Breathe, Sara. “Joss?” No answer, but she had no doubt he’d pulled her from harm’s way.
Someone had stored vine stakes in the rafters, a stupidly dangerous decision. The ties on the bundles had come loose, and she must have jolted them out of place when she knocked the saddle against the wall while putting it back on the steam trunk.
Shaken, she went into the house for a glass of water. Forget that. Something stronger was in order. She’d seen a cabinet full of crystal in the butler’s pantry off the formal dining room. As she hoped, the pantry also had a liquor cabinet stocked with scotch and brandy and an assortment of red wines, mostly the Poole Haven label. As she pulled the cork out of a Poole Haven reserve pinot noir, someone knocked on the kitchen door.
“Hi, Mrs. Blakemore. I’m Rafe from Poole Haven.”
She recognized him instantly. After fourteen years, his smile was as brilliant as ever. The farm worker in the old pickup truck. She remembered a cute boy. This was a handsome man. His dark hair was combed back and trimmed above his collar, and he was neatly dressed in designer jeans and a polo shirt like Gracien Poole’s embroidered with Rafe Corazon, Vice President, Poole Haven Wines.
“We’re here about your stairs.” He indicated the men unloading lumber and tools from a pickup truck in the courtyard.
“Great,” she said. “What do you need from me?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look while my guys get ready.”
It was decided they could repair the bad tread on the main staircase right now, but the stairs to the aerie would have to be completely rebuilt. Rafe gave Sara the business card of a company that specialized in staircases.
“I can call the guy for you,” he said. “And we can get the measurements today.”
“Thanks. By the way,” Sara said. “Could you have your people be more careful how they store stuff in the barn? I was almost skewered by vine stakes a while ago.”
She wasn’t sure he believed her, but he promised to check it out.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” She took the bottle of pinot out front.
The veranda was half the width of the house and at least twenty feet deep. A half wall ran along the border made of round stones of different shades of white, brown, pink, and blue-gray. Nasturtiums spilled out of pots on the floor spaced out along the wall, sprays of red, orange, yellow, and pink. Alternating ferns and fuchsias hung from an exposed beam above the half wall.
The plants all looked much better than they should. Sara stuck her finger in one of the pots, expecting them to be dried out, but the soil was moist. They were on a drip system.
The front of the house faced southeast. The veranda’s wide stairs led down to an expansive lawn. Sitting on the wall, Sara could see the driveway along lawn’s right perimeter, all the way out to Turtledove Hill Road. This was a perfect setting for a society wedding you’d read about in a glossy magazine.
It was all so lovely here. Everything was lovely. Her house was lovely. Her husband was lovely. Her bank account was lovely. This wine was lovely. Her life was lovely.
Without warning, her shoulders shook and tears spilled out of her eyes. She took a big gulp of wine and let it sit in her mouth, lightly burning her tongue before she swallowed. How did she get from there to here? From then to now?
She imagined a timeline of her life from the day she first saw the boy in the truck to half an hour ago when Rafe Corazon knocked on the door. The timeline was made of red yarn, connected by pushpins from one pillar on the veranda to another. Little stick-figure Saras dangled along the yarn, desperate not to fall.
They were all trying to do the right thing. Marry the father of her doomed child. Write a good enough thesis. Pray well enough so her mother wouldn’t die. Help Joss Montague find a peaceful resting place. Reconnect with her husband. But none of it was right. None of it belonged on the timeline. And no one
would tell her what did.
“I’d hold you if I could,” Joss said. He was beside her on the wall, leaning against a stone pillar, a knee bent with an arm resting on it, the other leg stretched out straight. “I tried to give you some privacy, but the pull was too intense.”
“Joss.” She felt miserable, but she was glad to see him.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Someone’s feeling sorry for herself.”
“I have no right,” she said. “No right to feel sorry for myself.”
“So true,” Joss said. His gentle voice had an element of tough love. He wasn’t humoring her. “You’re married to your high school sweetheart. You’ve inherited the house of your dreams. Your children will never want for anything.”
“If I ever ha-ha-have an-n-ny children!” The crying thing lurched into a jag and went viral through her body. “I’ve only ha-ha-had sex once in the last six months, and my husband wasn’t even th-th-there!”
“Maybe that’s why,” Joss said.
“Why what?”
“Why you feel so lonely to me.”
The words were like a knife plunged into her heart. “Is this you trying to help?”
Before Joss could answer, a man’s blood-curdling scream ripped through the air.
“What the hell?”
Sara raced into the house. The men from Poole Haven were already headed through the kitchen door and down the back stairs. She jumped over their tools and followed them—and the screams—out to the barn.
Rafe was on the ground, flailing about like a gasping fish out of water. A steel vine stake ran through his shoulder and pinned him to the dirt. Nonstop Spanish, surely loaded with choice curse words, streamed out of his mouth.
Sara looked up at the rafters. All the vine stakes had fallen. “Oh, god,” she screamed. “Call 911!”
- 20 -
Corazon
“SIX IRISES, THREE RED TULIPS, and three white ones. Six of those pink roses.” Bonnie always went into the walk-in with the florist to select stems and oversee the construction of bouquets. “Six daffodils and three yellow roses.”
