More Than You Know

by Nan Rossiter

  “That sounds good, but don’t forget I bought food too.”

  They carried everything inside and she dropped the flattened boxes on the pile in the living room. When she came back into the kitchen, Isak was sitting at the table looking at her open laptop with Rumer looking over her shoulder. “Do you know what Grandpa’s middle name wa—” she started to ask, but Isak held up her hand.

  “This is perfect,” Rumer said softly, looking up.

  When they finished reading, Isak nodded slowly. “It’s great, Ber, very nice.”

  “Thanks. I just couldn’t remember Grandpa’s middle name …”

  “It was Francis, I think—but you don’t need it,” Isak said.

  “Okay, well, when I submit it online, they’ll post it right away and then run it in Friday’s paper.”

  “Sounds good,” Rumer said.

  Isak nodded in agreement. “Thanks for doing it.” She paused. “You know, we also need to find Mum’s will … or whatever she had set up.”

  Beryl nodded. “I think she had a trust, but I have no idea where it is.”

  Rumer opened the bag of wraps while Beryl put the croissants in the fridge and poured three iced teas. “Okay,” she said, “so right after lunch we’re going to get started, right?”

  “Yup, right after my nap in the sun,” Rumer teased.

  12

  “I don’t know, Dad,” Micah said, looking across the yard at the barn. They’d driven out to his parents’ cabin after church. “I’ve always loved it out here; it’s such a peaceful spot with the river and everything. But it’s so secluded and there wouldn’t be anyone for Charlotte to play with.”

  “That’s fine, Micah. I’m not saying you have to stay here. I just had to come out to check on it and I thought you’d like to come along—and then it occurred to me that you might be interested in it. When it’s empty, it’s a big temptation for kids looking for a place to party. And the price is right—same deal I had with Linden Finch—just look after and maintain it. In fact, in his spare time, Linden built all those stone walls,” Asa said, pointing across the meadow. “He had a whole menagerie of animals here, but when that old fellow from New York—the writer, can’t think of his name just now—passed away, he left his farm in Dublin—the old Harris farm—to Linden. The old guy had no family, but he’d taken a liking to Linden.”

  “Lucky, lucky Linden,” Micah said with a smile.

  “Anyway, no pressure—you and Charlotte are welcome to stay at the house with us as long as you need to. Heaven knows we have plenty of room, and your mother loves having you and Charlotte home. But in case you decide you’d like a place of your own, you’re welcome to it.”

  Micah nodded thoughtfully. He hadn’t wanted to move back in with his parents, but after Beth died, his world had collapsed around him and he needed some time to get back on his feet. “Let me think about it, Dad.”

  “That’s fine,” Asa said, putting his hand on his shoulder. “The offer stands—you might find you want some privacy and can’t handle living with your old parents.”

  Micah laughed as they walked toward the barn and Asa unlocked the padlock and slid the doors open. As he did, an old owl flew out from the rafters through the open hay door above them.

  “Atticus is still here?” Micah asked in surprise.

  “He is, old fellow …”

  Micah walked toward the back of the barn and lifted up the dusty sheet covering his dad’s old Chevy pickup. “Dad, I think it’s time we restored this old truck.”

  Asa smiled. “I hauled beach wood in that, took it to college—lots of memories in that old truck.”

  “Well, you have time to work on it now—and I have time. What do you say?”

  “Maybe …” Asa said, nodding wistfully. “Maybe.”

  When they pulled into his parents’ house in town, a black Labrador pushed open the screen door, bounded across the yard, and, wagging her tail, dropped a sloppy tennis ball at Micah’s feet.

  “Hey, Harper,” Micah said, picking up the ball. He threw it as far as he could, and Harper took off after it.

  “She sure knows a pushover when she sees one,” his father teased.

  “And you’re the biggest pushover of all,” Micah teased back.

  “You’re probably right.”

  Harper dropped the ball at Micah’s feet again. “One more, and then it’s time for lunch.” He threw the ball into the field next to the house and she charged off, but when she came back this time, ready to go again, she was disappointed to find him holding the door open for her. “Come on in and get a drink.” She sailed over the two steps and skidded into the kitchen, still carrying the sloppy green ball.

  Charlotte was standing on a chair next to her grandmother, munching on an apple slice. “Hi, Daddy,” she said with a big grin. “We’re making apple crisp.”

  “You are?” Micah said, reaching for a slice.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Charlotte said, her blond head bobbing.

  “How come you’re making two?” he asked.

  “So you can take one to Beryl,” Charlotte answered.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Grandma says it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Well, Grandma would know.”

  13

  “Okay, if we’re going to find the will or trust—or anything of importance—I think we should start in the office,” Isak said, crumpling the paper from her chicken salad wrap into a tight ball. She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it, and then tucked the stray strands behind her ears. Standing up, she carried as much as she could to the counter.

  Beryl watched as her oldest sister filled the sink with hot water. No matter what, Beryl decided, Isak always carried herself with grace and poise—and she did a very good job of hiding her demons. She stood to help clear the remaining glasses and called through the screen, “C’mon, Ru, your vitamin D absorption session is over.”

  Rumer opened one eye and squinted. “Cute!”

  Moments later, they all stood side by side in the sunny downstairs bedroom that their mom had converted into her office and surveyed her piles of papers. “This is depressing,” Isak said gloomily. She walked over to a stack of boxes near the window and opened one. It was filled with cards and letters dating back decades. “What do we do with all of this?” she groaned. “I think Mum must’ve saved every card that was ever sent to her! And all the letters—our whole lives are here. What do we do with them? Throw them away?”

  “I don’t know,” Rumer said, shaking her head. “What do people do with their parents’ stuff? We definitely don’t have time to read every letter, but I hate to throw anything away that might be important.”

  Isak shook her head. “Remind me not to do this to my kids. In fact, when I get home, the first thing I’m doing is renting a Dumpster!”

  “Maybe that’s what we need,” Beryl suggested.

  “Well, it might come to that,” Isak said, “but let’s start with those big garbage bags and some empty boxes and see how it goes.” She and Rumer went to get the bags, boxes, and tape, and when they returned, Beryl had fished out the key she’d found that morning.

  “If you come across anything that needs unlocking, this could be the key,” she said brightly, holding it up.

  Isak looked at it. “Did Mum have a safe deposit box?”

  Beryl shook her head. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Well, if worse comes to worst, her attorney or accountant will know, right? Do we know who they are?”

  “Hmm,” Beryl mused with a funny puzzled expression.

  “Gee, you’re a big help,” Isak teased. “You were supposed to find out some of these things before Mum forgot.”

  “You’re right, I should’ve; but hopefully we’ll find some clues when we go through her stuff.”

  They got right to work, quickly establishing a system: Each one had a box and a bag—saved items went into a box, and garbage went into a bag. Slowly, slowly, the piles diminished.
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  Every once in a while, one of them would come across a funny anecdote or an interesting tidbit and would share it. “Holy cow!” Rumer exclaimed in an astonished voice, holding up a faded document. “Guess how much Mum and Dad paid for this house in 1964?” Beryl and Isak looked up quizzically from behind their piles and Rumer read the figure out loud: “$17,500!”

  “That’s crazy!” Isak said. “You couldn’t buy an acre for that now.”

  “Well, when we put it on the market, I don’t think we should ask less than $300,000,” Beryl said.

  “We’ll have to have it assessed first,” Isak said with a sigh.

  “By the way, Ber,” Rumer said, looking up, “I’ve been wondering how we’ve been paying for the nursing home all this time. Usually people have to sell everything they own.”

  “Mum had a sizeable nest egg stashed away. I don’t know how she did it, but it’s almost gone now. There’ve also been regular deposits into her checking account all along, including a large sum at the end of last year, but I always assumed they were automatic deposits from a retirement account. I was beginning to worry that she’d run out and then we’d have to sell the house at a loss.”

  “It’s odd that there was that one big deposit,” Isak mused. “Usually when monies are coming from a retirement account, it’s set up so it’s always the same amount.”

  Beryl shook her head. “I don’t really know. I guess I should have paid more attention to it.”

  They went back to their piles and once she’d gotten through a few layers of paper, Beryl uncovered her mom’s old turntable and receiver. She traced the wires back to actual speakers and then discovered an old Rinso box full of 45’s and 78’s, and an L.L. Bean box full of albums. She looked up to see if her sisters had noticed her discovery, but they were so absorbed in their own piles they hadn’t even looked up. Quietly, she flipped through the albums, slid one out, and gingerly placed it on the turntable; when it started to spin, she set the needle down and it crackled to life. At the familiar sound, Rumer and Isak both looked up, and then big band sounds filled the room along with Frank Sinatra’s smooth, unmistakable voice crooning “Come Dance with Me.” Rumer and Isak smiled, remembering how their mom used to swing them around the kitchen when they were little, singing along to Ol’ Blue Eyes; suddenly Beryl started dancing around the room like their mom used to do, singing at the same time. Laughing, Rumer and Isak joined in—surprised that they remembered every word. When the album ended, Isak looked for a clock. “Is it cocktail hour yet?”

  “Nope, it’s only four forty-five,” Beryl said, changing albums and hoping they could get a little more done.

  As Patsy Cline began to sing “You Belong to Me,” Rumer leaned back in her mom’s chair and groaned. “This drawer is locked. Do you think that key opens it?” The heavy oak desk had multiple drawers on both sides, but the bottom drawers were bigger than the rest. She leaned over to the other side. “This one is too.”

  “I never knew that desk locked,” Beryl said.

  “The locks are under the handles,” Rumer said, fiddling with the key but having no success. “Maybe we should get some WD-40.”

  Isak knelt down in front of the desk, pulled the key back out, flipped it over, slid it back in, and turned it again. This time the lock clicked open. She pulled the drawer out and glanced through its contents. “More papers,” she announced, “which can only mean one thing—it’s definitely cocktail hour.” She stood up and looked around the room. “We’re getting there, though.”

  “I’m with you,” Rumer agreed. “It’s time for a break.”

  Beryl sat down in the chair. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she said. She pulled open the drawer, sifted through some of the loose papers on top, reached underneath, and pulled out an old manila envelope. It was tied closed with a red string wound tightly around a small cardboard circle. As she slowly unwound it, she pictured her mom’s hands—the last to touch it….

  Beryl slid the contents of the envelope out onto the desk. It was a collection of fragile, yellow newspaper clippings. She looked in the manila envelope again to make sure it was empty and saw a crumpled piece of paper at the bottom. She pulled it out and unfolded it; it was a typed report, but the date was scrawled across the top in pencil: November 15, 1968—the day she was born!

  With Patsy Cline softly singing “Sweet Dreams,” Beryl carefully read the accident report that had haunted her mother’s life, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, she felt, for the first time, the extent of her mother’s grief. When she finished reading it, she turned to the newspaper clippings. There were two about the accident: One showed a picture of the demolished truck, and one showed a picture of her father smiling. He looked no older than a boy and the caption read: “Thomas Graham, 26, leaves behind a young wife and three small children.” Paper-clipped to the article were three copies of his obituary.

  Beryl wiped her eyes and glanced through the other clippings. There was an obituary for a man named Clay Davis. Mr. Davis, it said, had died on Christmas Eve, but it didn’t say how he died; it only asked that contributions be made to the VA in his son’s name. Beryl stared at the name, trying to remember where she’d read it before; then she looked back at the accident report and put her hand over her mouth in surprise. She continued to sift through the clippings, trying to make sense of everything. There was a clipping of a painting of New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain and its caption read: “ ‘Old Man and the Moon’ as seen through the eyes of painter David Gilead, currently an artist in residence at Macdowell Colony, 1969.” There were several more articles about the artist and the shows he would be having—New York, Paris, Rome. One article showed a photograph of him standing beside a landscape. Beryl looked closely at the photo—he was very handsome and, even in the faded newspaper photograph, his eyes were striking. Finally, Beryl looked at the last clipping. It was torn, but it looked like it had been repaired with tape—tape that was now yellow with age and had lost its adhesiveness. The photo was of a woman wearing an elegant gown, and the caption read: “Catherine Gilead at a New York City Catholic charity fundraiser”; the year, 1980, was scribbled next to the picture in pencil.

  Beryl squeezed her eyes shut, trying to absorb what she was reading. Why had her mom saved these clippings? And why were they kept together with the clippings about the accident and her father’s obituary? What significance could they possibly have?

  14

  “Ber, Micah’s here!” Rumer called from the kitchen. Beryl looked up, startled, and realized the needle had never lifted from the album—it was still gliding across the smooth black inner circle, hitting the label and jumping back, making a scratching sound. She stood up, leaving all the papers on the desk, set the arm of the needle on its stand, clicked the turntable off, and hurried to the kitchen.

  “Hey!” she said with a smile when she saw Micah standing in the kitchen with Flan sitting on his foot.

  “Hey,” he replied.

  “I see you’ve made a friend!”

  “Yup,” he answered with a grin, leaning down to scratch Flan’s blocky head. “What’s her name?”

  “Flannery … Flannery O’Connor,” Beryl answered with a smile.

  Micah chuckled. “Very appropriate.”

  “Uh-oh,” she teased, nodding to the glass of wine in his hand. “I see my sisters corralled you into joining them for cocktail hour.”

  “Yeah, sort of—they said you’d be joining us.”

  Beryl raised her eyebrows. “Did they? And I was hoping to get more work out of them.”

  “You guys deserve a break,” Micah said sympathetically. “I don’t envy the task you’re facing.” He paused. “Anyway, my mom thought you might need some sustenance.” He nodded toward an apple crisp on the counter. “She said it’s from a recipe your mom gave her years ago and she hopes she’s done it justice.”

  “I’m sure she has,” Beryl said. “It looks yummy. Please tell her, ‘Thank you.’ ”

  Rumer nod
ded. “It looks like a picture.”

  Isak looked up from filling a big pot with water. “Thanks, Micah—that was very thoughtful.” She put the pot on the stove top and lit the burner. “Can you stay for dinner?”

  Micah frowned and shook his head. “No, no, I couldn’t … I mean I can’t. I meant to come earlier—not at dinnertime—but Charlotte and I took Harp for a walk and it got late.”

  Beryl looked at the wine bottles, trying to decide if she wanted any. “Who’s Harp?” she asked curiously, looking to see what color Micah had in his glass.

  “Harper is my parents’ Lab.”

  Isak eyed him thoughtfully. “Hmm, seems there was a book your dad loved to teach by an author with that name—could there be a connection?”

  Micah laughed. “How’d you know?” He seemed to relax a little and took a sip of his wine.

  Beryl smiled, finally pouring a glass of the Free Range Red. “I think your dad and our mom shared that odd trait of naming their pets—and in our mom’s case, her children—after famous authors.”

  “Was your mom behind all your names?”

  Beryl looked at her sisters and laughed. “She claimed to be.”

  Micah nodded thoughtfully. “Beryl … Markham, right?” Beryl nodded, and he turned to Rumer. “And Rumer … hmm—Godden?” Rumer grinned, and he looked at Isak thoughtfully. “Isak Dinesen—of course!” Then a puzzled expression crossed his face. “But her real name was Karen… . in fact, her family called her Tanne.”

  Isak grinned, impressed by his knowledge. “It was Karen, but Isak is much more interesting, don’t you think?” She eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know so much about all these women writers, anyway?”

  “Well, you have to remember, I owned a bookstore, and they were all remarkable ladies … and authors,” Micah explained. “They lived in exotic places, flew airplanes, loved passionately—and wrote books!”

  Beryl laughed. “I guess our mom had really high hopes for us.” She paused. “It’s funny that our mom and your dad both did that. I wonder if they got it from each other… .”

  “It’s possible,” Micah said. “They’ve known each other a lot longer than I realized. My parents remember the accident—my mom said it was …” He stopped in midsentence and shook his head. “I’m sorry—that is probably the last thing you want to talk about now.”