The Will

by Kristen Ashley

  I opened my mouth to say something but he wasn’t quite finished.

  “And a woman’s body is beautiful, standin’, sittin’, lyin’ down, definitely dancin’. They know that, they use it, there’s not one fuckin’ thing wrong with it. Though, says a fuck of a lot about you that you look down your nose at it.”

  I truly wished I didn’t have to admit it but he was not wrong. A woman’s body was beautiful.

  And I’d never thought of exotic dancing like that.

  I decided at that juncture not to admit that out loud and instead move us to a different subject.

  Therefore, I asked, “Has it struck you as strange that you know me but I know nothing about you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” I queried.

  “I don’t know,” he answered sarcastically. “Maybe it has somethin’ to do with you bein’ a judgmental, stick up your ass bitch who’d react just the way you reacted about a minute ago if she told you about me.”

  I glared at him, not altogether thrilled with his words and especially not his sarcasm. “Yes, perhaps you’re correct, as I might be a wee bit judgmental and react if she told me she was loaning a man money to buy a strip club, a man who’s been married three times.”

  His arms crossed on his chest and his face got hard. “You been askin’ around about me?”

  “No. A not-so-gentlemanly gentleman hit on me last night at Breeze Point and I’ve had a difficult few days, was not up to dealing with him, and unwisely used you as my pretend lover to get him to leave me alone. He then shared a good deal about you in a scathing way. The good news about this was, my ploy worked. He went away. The bad news was, he shared a good deal about you before he did.”

  More pressure hit the room, making me press back into the counter before he asked, “Some dick hit on you last night?”

  “That isn’t the point,” I informed him.

  “And what is the point, Josie?” he asked and didn’t allow me to answer. “With this shit, you sayin’ you know me when you don’t. You got my ticket when you have no fuckin’ clue. You want me to piss off when your grandmother wanted me in your life. Is that what the point is?”

  “I don’t know the point,” I returned. “I might know if it you didn’t break in and start berating me practically the moment I awoke and definitely before I had my first cup of coffee.”

  “Berating?” he clipped.

  “Rebuking,” I explained. His face got even harder and I correctly took that as a sign he didn’t understand that either so I snapped, “Scolding.”

  “You know, babe, it’s cute, normally. And it’s real cute, you in that nightie,” he stated, throwing out a hand and sweeping it up to indicate what I was wearing.

  It was also something I forgot I was wearing and doing it without closing my robe, which was something I immediately rectified, my hands going to the edges of my robe and wrapping it around me.

  “The uppity shit you got goin’ on,” he continued, explaining what was “cute.” “What isn’t cute is you hiding behind that shit in order to shield yourself from living your life.”

  I felt my eyes get big as my heart started shriveling.

  “You don’t know me. You can’t say something like that,” I whispered.

  And he didn’t.

  Except for what Gran had told him about me.

  Was that was Gran thought about me?

  “Babe, I don’t have to know you to know your fucked up gig. But, just sayin’, I do know you. It’s you who’s totally clueless about you.”

  And on that, he turned toward the door, prowled to it and used it.

  I lost sight of him and within moments heard the front door slam.

  I stared at where I last saw him for some time before my feet moved.

  And they moved to the family room where I could find them on the mantel over the fireplace.

  Dozens of frames of all different sizes.

  My eyes scanned them and I saw what I already knew was there.

  Photos of my father and uncle when they were babies and young boys, nothing later than when they were nine years of age because, as Gran explained, “That’s when they turned, buttercup, and I don’t need a reminder of that.”

  Photos of me from growing up to grown up.

  Photos of my great-grandparents and my Aunt Julia who’d died in town, hit by a car when she was eleven.

  I moved out of the family room and into the formal living room at the front of the house.

  Two long, thin tables behind the two facing couches. More frames on both, all silver. Most of the photos black and white and old. My grandmother. Aunt Julia. My great-grandparents. Their siblings and children. And even older photos of long since gone family who’d lived in Lavender House.

  And me.

  The largest photo of them all, taken by Henry at a Dolce and Gabbana show years earlier. I was sitting beside the runway, my elbows to my knees, my chin held in my palms, my eyes turned up, my expression rapt. It was in profile.

  I loved that picture. Henry had given it to Gran the Christmas after it was taken. And Gran had put it there and never moved it so when you walked into the house, if you turned your head left, that was what you’d see.

  Me.

  My heart was beating faster as I moved out of the living room, into the foyer then deeper into the house. What was there tried to force itself on my consciousness but I fought it back, my feet dragging but taking me there anyway.

  The den.

  Gran had had her bedroom set up there when it became difficult for her to negotiate stairs.

  I hadn’t been in that room since I’d been home

  I didn’t want to go there now.

  But I went there, opening the door and feeling her loss burn through me just like it was fresh when I saw all that was her all around, smelled her perfume.

  I swallowed and moved to the bed.

  It was unmade. The nurse who came in and made sure she was up, bathed, dressed and fed had found her there. They’d taken her from there.

  Gone.

  No one had made the bed since.

  She’d died in that bed, in those sheets, that was the last place she’d been breathing.

  Then she’d slipped away.

  I turned my eyes from the bed to the nightstand.

  Another silver framed photo. Me and Gran. Taken that summer when I left my life behind and came to her. We were outside the house amongst the lavender. It was in color. She was sitting in one of her wicker chairs and I was bent to her, arms around her, my cheek to her cheek, both of us looking in the camera one of her friends held. Both of us smiling.

  I closed my eyes and turned away, taking in a deep breath, feeling it fill my lungs.

  I opened my eyes and looked to the other nightstand.

  There it was.

  Slowly, I moved there, wrapped my hand around the side of the big frame and lifted the picture up to take a closer look.

  Jake Spear surrounded by his kids, all of them surrounded by lavender, and, behind them, the sea.

  It had been taken outside the house.

  His daughter was at his side, her front pressed into it, her arms around his middle, her cheek to his chest, her eyes to the camera, her lips smiling.

  His eldest son was at his other side, Jake’s arm was around his shoulders too, and I could tell the young man had an arm around his father’s waist as they were standing tucked close. The young man was also smiling.

  And standing in front of the girl was Jake’s youngest son. He was leaning back against her body.

  He, too, was smiling at the camera.

  As was Jake.

  I turned and sat on the bed, staring at the photo.

  They were all younger. Not by much, years maybe, but with children, much changes as years pass.

  And she had them close. By her bed.

  Yet she never told me about them. I’d even been in this room more than once in the last seven years and had not seen this picture.

&nb
sp; But it was there and she kept them close.

  Close until the day she died.

  They all had keys to her home.

  She’d given them large sums of money.

  She’d given me to that man.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about him, Gran?” I whispered to the photo then looked up.

  I aimed my eyes across the room to the window seeing lavender grown high and beyond that, sea.

  “What did you tell him about me?” I asked the window.

  The sun glinted on the sea and the lavender swayed gently in the breeze.

  I shook my head.

  “What did you want him to do with me?”

  The lavender, the sea, the room, all of them had no answers for me.

  Chapter Four

  Only There

  I parked in the curving lane at the front of Lavender House, opened the door and got out, slamming the door behind me and moving to the trunk where I’d stowed the groceries.

  I wouldn’t be in Magdalene for very long but I would be there for a while. I also had a life where I ate most of my meals in restaurants or at parties and rarely had the chance to cook.

  After Jake Spear left and I got no answers to questions that were hounding me, I decided that since I was there, I’d take advantage of being there.

  Meaning I would give myself a treat and cook.

  Thus, I prepared for the day and went to the market in town.

  I had filled brown paper bags in each arm when the SUV drove up the lane.

  I looked through my shades to the shiny black Escalade and primarily the man who sat behind the wheel.

  I’d never seen him before.

  I watched him approach deciding I did not need this.

  I had a number of things to do, the priority at that moment was getting the groceries in the house, but it was never a priority to deal with an unannounced visitor seeing as it was most rude to show up unannounced.

  He could be someone who simply wished to give his condolences. However, he could call, like dozens of other people had done since Gran had died. He didn’t need to come to the house.

  Especially since I had no idea who he was.

  His sunglassed eyes never leaving me, he got out of his vehicle and I saw he was tall, lean and well-dressed, in well-fitting, excellent quality dark blue trousers and an equally well-fitting, tailored light blue shirt.

  No tie.

  His dark brown hair was cut well.

  And at a glance, I knew his sunglasses cost five hundred dollars.

  “Can I help you with those?” he called when he was about ten feet away.

  “Not to be rude,” I replied. “But I don’t know you so I’m afraid I’ll need to refuse.”

  He nodded his head, stopped four feet away and suggested, “Let’s remedy that. I’m Boston Stone.”

  My face must have betrayed my response to his absurd name because he smiled and it was not an unattractive smile.

  “My mother said she was under the influence of drugs post-birth,” he explained his name in a manner where I knew he’d done it frequently in his life. Then again, with that name, he would have to.

  I nodded and asked, “How can I help you, Mr. Stone?”

  His head tipped slightly to the side before he answered and part of his answer included him strangely repeating himself, “I’m Boston Stone. CEO of Stone Incorporated.”

  I said nothing.

  “I believe Terry told you about me?” he queried.

  “Terry?” I queried back.

  “Terry Baginski. The associate at Weaver and Schuller who read your grandmother’s will yesterday.”

  I felt my body lock as an unexpected and unpleasant pulse thumped through it

  Stone Incorporated. In all that had happened, I’d forgotten.

  The other thing Gran never told me. This man wanted to buy Lavender House.

  “Yes,” I stated. “Ms. Baginski told me about you.”

  “As you’re busy,” he replied, tipping his head to the bags in my arms, “I’ll not keep you except to ask if you’d like to have lunch with me tomorrow to discuss your plans for Lavender House.”

  That pulse thumped through me again and it was far more unpleasant.

  Boston Stone of Stone Incorporated.

  A man behind a company.

  Not a family with children, the wife cutting lavender to put in the family room and on the kitchen table, the kids playing Frisbee in the back yard around the arbor with petals of wisteria blowing through the air around them, the husband knowing how to fix the sink and keeping the house in tiptop shape with loving care…forever.

  I tasted something sour in my mouth and forced through it, “Mr. Stone, I don’t wish to be rude, but as you can see, I’m busy. And as you know, my grandmother died only five days ago. There are a variety of things on my mind and one of them is not having lunch with someone to discuss my plans for Lavender House.”

  This wasn’t strictly true. I’d given vague thought to it.

  It was just that it was vague.

  Now, with this man standing in front of me, it was not vague in the slightest and I didn’t like how that felt.

  “Of course, my apologies. It’s too soon,” he murmured.

  “It is,” I agreed.

  “Then I’ll repeat my offer of lunch but I’ll do it in order to give you a lovely meal and, perhaps, take your mind off your recent loss.”

  I studied him as I processed his words.

  And then I processed his words.

  Good God, I’d just met the man in my grandmother’s driveway and he was asking me out.

  Although he was quite handsome and it was done smoothly, in a kind tone, and with respect, I couldn’t believe it.

  “Mr. Stone—”

  “Ms. Malone, just lunch, no business, getting you away from memories and taking your mind off things. I know a place that does wonderful things with mussels. If you like seafood, I’d enjoy introducing you to it.”

  He was quite nice, not to mention I loved mussels and all seafood.

  I just had no desire to have lunch with him.

  “That offer is kind, Mr. Stone,” I said quietly. “But I’m afraid your endeavors wouldn’t succeed. I have much to think about and even more to do.”

  He nodded and lifted then immediately dropped a hand. “Of course. But if you change your mind, the information Terry gave you includes a direct line to me. Just phone and we’ll make plans.”

  “If I change my mind”—highly unlikely—“I’ll do that.”

  His smooth voice dipped lower and even smoother when he said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Josephine. Lydia was much loved and there were many reasons for that. So please know, I understand this loss is grave.”

  I felt my throat close so I just nodded.

  “I hope you call,” he finished, still talking lower and smoother.

  “I’ll think about it. Have a nice day, Mr. Stone.”

  His sunglasses held my sunglasses before he dipped his chin, turned and moved to his SUV.

  I watched him get in and slam the door. After he did that, I moved to the house.

  When I’d entered, I kicked the door shut behind me with my pump and stopped dead.

  I did this because it hit me.

  All of it.

  Everything I was seeing.

  Everything I was experiencing.

  But most of all, everything I was feeling.

  The shafts of light piercing the shadows, dust motes drifting making the air itself seem almost magical.

  The abundance of furniture stuffed in the large rooms opening off the foyer. All of it old, all of it plush, all of it comfortable.

  And then there was the profusion of knickknacks, some of them likely worthless, some of them perhaps priceless, but all of them precious. The gleaming wood of the antique tables. The framed prints on the walls that had hung there for decades, maybe some of them for over a century.

  My mind’s eye conjured an image of the land around
the house. The rough gray stone of the coastline. The rocky beach with its deep pier. The massive bushes of lavender that hugged the sprawling tall house all around. The green clipped lawns. The arbor covered in wisteria with the white wicker furniture under it pointed at the sea. The rectangular greenhouse leading to the mosaic-tiled patio, also pointed at the sea. The small garden surrounded by the low, white fence.

  My family had lived in that house for over one hundred and fifty years. My grandmother had grown up there. She’d lost her sister there. She’d escaped there after her husband used and abused her. She’d helped me escape there after her son used and abused me.

  I’d only ever been truly happy there.

  Only there.

  Only there.

  On this thought, I numbly moved through the house to the kitchen and, once there, dropped the bags on the butcher block, shoved my sunglasses back on my head and took in the huge expanse.

  The Aga stove that stayed warm all the time and produced sublime food. The slate floors. The deep-bowled farm sink. The plethora of cream-painted glass-fronted cabinets. The grooved doors of the cupboards below. The greenhouse leading off it where herbs grew in pots on shelves in the windows. The massive butcher block that ran the length of the middle of the room, worn, cut and warped.

  I shrugged my purse from my shoulder and set it beside the bags. I then moved back out to my rental car, getting the last bag, slamming the trunk and taking it into the house.

  I put the groceries away and I did it not feeling numb anymore.

  Not even close.

  My brain felt heated, even fevered.

  I no longer felt uneasy.

  I felt unwell.

  Something wasn’t right.

  No, everything wasn’t right.

  Then again, there was no right to a world without Lydia Josephine Malone in it.

  And I only knew one way to make it right.

  I folded the bags and tucked them in the pantry then moved directly to the phone.

  Gran kept her address book there.

  I opened it and flipped through the pages, finding the M’s. There were sheets of M’s and sheets of names written amongst the pages.

  But I wasn’t there.