“They used to be good friends, when they were younger,” added George.
“They were, that’s true.” George’s wife confirmed it.
“But see, Arthur inherited his grandpa’s money from his mama and got all stuck up and selfish.”
Graham Metzer sat listening, patient and stoic, waiting for the exhibition to wind down; confident the will was solid and unbreakable.
The cousins went on, but Sophie wandered off into her thoughts.
So this was what Arthur wanted to confess to her. He was her birth father. Why else would he leave her BelleEllen? What else could his enormous obligation to her be?
Maybe if she’d come sooner, she could have told him it didn’t matter to her, that she had a perfectly wonderful, truly great dad already. Maybe if she’d come earlier, they could have spared his family the pain of knowing he’d— What? Made a mistake? Impregnated a teenager? Cheated on his wife? Dishonored his ministry?
Gross, appalling sins all. She knew she should be outraged, furious, whatever else someone in her position ought to be feeling—but frankly, at that moment, she simply wasn’t.
Her emotions were turning sympathetically toward Arthur. She couldn’t stop thinking that his life had clearly been far worse than hers. Far, far worse to be weighted down by sins so huge—even by a man marginally as good and kind and reverent as the town believed him to be. It must have been excruciating for him.
And no doubt he deserved it, no doubt at all. But how much sorrow and torment and penance did one soul have to endure before he received a grain of forgiveness? Even now, in death, his memory would continue to suffer. She wasn’t saying he was entitled to forgiveness, only that she absolved him of those perpetrated against her—which was no more than creating her life.
And maybe, if she’d come earlier, she could have eased him of that pain.
So she sat and let the rhetoric wash over and roll off her until Richard Hollister stood and sent his chair clattering against the wall while he shouted, “You haven’t heard the last of this. None of you. I still don’t know who the hell you are, missy, but I’m telling you, like I’m telling all of you, not to get too comfortable with what that old fool read today because it isn’t yours. It’ll never be yours.”
And with that he stomped out the room, bumping and shoving those in his path, which was almost everyone in the room. His wife, brother, and sister-in-law climbed over and around the furniture to catch up with him; and when the trail became too narrow for the larger lady to get by, Craig stood, taking his pregnant wife with him, to let her pass.
“Thank you,” she murmured and followed the others from the room.
This time the silence was more awkward than overwrought, still tense but in a distinctive way. No one wanted to voice out loud what he or she was thinking. No one wanted to know for sure and irrevocably what Sophie’s bequest meant.
“Mr. Metzer,” she spoke softly at first. “is there any way to. . . . Would it be possible for me to sign the property back to Mr. Cubeck’s estate so his family can decide what’s best to do with it?” She turned to look at the others, Hollis in particular. “I don’t know why he left BelleEllen to me. I don’t want to know. And I don’t want the property. If Mr. Metzer will help, I’ll sign the deed over to you . . . and Mr. Chamberlin, I guess. We can work this out. We can make things the way they should be.”
Chapter Four
“Then what happened?” Jesse was perched on the edge of her pins-and-needles chair, biting her nails, wide eyed, all ears—and every other cliché of a good gossip. But who else could Sophie talk to? Besides, she believed her to be a good gossip who’d strive to get all the facts and details straight.
“Nothing. Hollis stood up, real slow, like he was in slow motion.”
“Shock.”
“I hope so.” When Jesse frowned, she added, “Shock passes; anger can hang on forever.” Jesse wagged her head, concurring, keeping the speak-to-listen ratio low to maintain the flow of information. “He held out a hand in case his wife needed help getting up. She didn’t, but she took it anyway and patted it as they walked out of the room with the kids following, without a single word or look back at me. I wanted to sink through the floor.”
“I bet.”
“But the other one, Craig Chamberlin? I thought he was going to do the same thing because he hadn’t said a word and seemed to be taking his cues from Hollis in all this—but at the last minute he stopped. He tried to smile at me and told me not to worry; that Hollis needed time to process and that it would all work out.”
“Mm. He’s the guidance counselor at the middle school.” Apparently, that explained his forbearance. “So apart from the cousins, no one said anything to you? No one asked questions? No one told you why Arthur left you BelleEllen?”
“I don’t think they know any more than I do.”
It had occurred to her on the walk back to the B&B that Graham Metzer wasn’t at all surprised by the contents of the will. Simply because he drafted it? Or did he know the reason behind the inheritance? The details? Had the attorney-client privilege allowed Arthur Cubeck to make a confession, to assuage his guilt, if only for the time it took to tell his lawyer the truth? She decided not to turn around and flip that rock over. She planned to pretend it was none of her business for as long as she could.
“But Hollis and Mr. Metzer will have to hammer it out on their own because I’m going back to Marion tomorrow morning . . . if I can stay here another night.”
“Of course. But what about BelleEllen? Don’t you at least want to see it?”
“What for?” Her frustration made her answer sharp. She cast Jesse a penitent glance. “I don’t want anything to do with any of this. I didn’t want to come here in the first place. But I came. I did what a dying old man asked and now I want to go home.”
“And you’re not curious?” Sophie hadn’t had to mention her suspicions. Her landlady had put together her own one-plus-one and come up with three all by herself. It was a relief to be truthful, to be able to talk about it without actually saying it out loud.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Some, I guess. Like, I’d be curious about the ending to a sad movie but not near enough to tear a family apart, to hurt Hollis or damage his memories of an otherwise fine father, a good man. I’m happy with my life. Not knowing isn’t going to mess me up the way knowing for sure will Hollis. It’s not worth it.”
Jesse studied her for a moment, looked slightly disappointed, but seemed to agree. “You’re pretty wise for someone so young.”
A soft chuckle. “Maybe. This time. When it affects other people more than it does me. But, trust me, there have been many instances where I’ve proven to be extremely unwise.” As in who she was and wasn’t attracted to, for example.
Jesse sighed and leaned back in her chair. “You’re right about BelleEllen, too, though. It should stay in Arthur’s family. Well, you know, with Ellen’s children—child. The grandchildren,” she said, finally getting the connections right. “Except that Hollis lives in Texas now, where Jane’s family is. I wonder if they’ll move back here? Or once this is all settled, maybe he’ll let the Chamberlins live there. Craig was a big help to Arthur out there, since he first got sick. But then, Lucy might not be comfortable there, you know, because of Julie. . . .” She went silent, mentally attempting to solve the problem of what to do with BelleEllen once Sophie walked away.
But that wasn’t her problem. Her involvement would end when she withdrew her claim on the property. And she could do that from Marion. She was going up to pack.
“Oh, no. Don’t, not yet. I’m going to start dinner soon, but I thought I’d have a lemonade first . . . or better yet, a glass of cheap chardonnay. And I hate drinking alone. Unless, of course, you need some time to be alone and I would certainly understand. You can even take your wine up with you. You’ve had a crazy day, that’s for sure.”
Honestly: she was quickly falling in love with this woman. “I’d love a glass of wine—or
two.”
“Wonderful. It’s a gorgeous afternoon. We’ll sit out on the veranda and watch my flowers grow.” When Sophie hesitated, she grinned. “Otherwise known as the front porch? There’s a patio out back but nothing ever happens back there. All the action’s out front.”
And sure enough, as they lounged in the fan-backed wicker chairs like two southern belles sipping white wine instead of mint juleps, Sophie was regaled with the identity and a short—and occasionally quite long—personal history of every waving or honking occupant in every car that drove by. Sophie ranked those ninety minutes of her life right up there with reading Rabble Magazine’s Most and Least Interesting People of the Decade, and enjoyed it thoroughly.
“Uh-oh, there’s Mike. It must be time for dinner. He’s better than a clock. And I haven’t even started it yet.” Jesse grabbed her wineglass and broke for the door. “I was having too much fun. I completely lost track of the time. Stall him, will you? I’ll fix nibbles to hold you both over.”
Sophie, on her second glass of wine, was feeling mighty getalongable at the moment—she’d handle the kid.
Soon enough Mike came into view, casually riding his bike down the middle of the street with one hand only on the handlebars. He used the other to pop his earphones; and seeing her on the porch, he sat up straight and put both hands in his pockets with a friendly smile. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
At a precise point in the road he reached out with both hands for the bars and used the neighbor’s drive to launch himself onto the sidewalk. Passing the corner post of his mother’s wrought-iron fence, he kicked it and like magic the latch slipped and the gate swung open in time for him to sail through, breeze up the path between his mother’s flower beds, across the front of the house and around the side to park in the back.
He must have done it a million times before.
A moment later, he reappeared.
“Wow. Bike skillz.”
He laughed, leaping the new growth in the beds to close the gate. He jog-bounced back to the porch to stand before her. “Wait till I get a car.”
Her turn to laugh. “That would definitely be worth a trip back here to see.”
He draped himself in his mother’s chair like a loose noodle. “I can hardly wait. Yours is a solid ride.”
They both looked to the new red Liberty at the curb. “Well, I need something solid. We can get a lot of snow in Ohio.”
“Yeah, I figured. I meant it’s nice.”
“Oh, right. Solid. Thanks.”
“Problem is, my bike’s better for my speed and strength training,” he went on. “For basketball? And my balance. Probably my reflexes, too, cuz people are always trying to run me down on it.” To her frown, he looked sheepish. “I don’t always pay attention.” And hearing the sound of his mother’s steps coming toward the door, he said in a loud, clear voice, “But don’t tell my mom.”
“Don’t tell your mom what?”
Jesse pushed through the screen door with a small plate of cheese and crackers to snack on. “And don’t tell me nothing or I’ll duct tape your feet to the ceiling and tickle it out of you.”
“How much I love your cooking, Ma.” He grinned and she bought it. “Which reminds me: I’m starving.”
“Here. Dinner’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Share that with Sophie now,” she said, pausing briefly in the doorway. “How’d you do, honey?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Not bad.”
He took exactly half the cheese and crackers and handed the rest to Sophie, who asked, “Can I ask? Sixty-eight what?”
“As mom would say: I don’t know, can you.”
“May I?” She feigned the humbled teacher expression and he chuckled.
“Free throws. I shoot at least a hundred a day, practicing. Today I made sixty-eight of them. I’d like to get it up to between eighty and ninety—consistently. Fifty’s respectable but respectable’s just, you know, respectable. I’m gonna be great.”
“I believe you.” She considered the boy as she took tiny bites of a square piece of cheddar cheese. She really did believe him.
“I can see why she likes you.”
“Your mom?”
He gave a nod. “You’re easy to talk to.” He raised his brows and lowered his voice. “Which she loves to do, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I like her, too. I enjoy people who are”—she searched for the best words—“well versed in current events.”
His laugh was more a hoot. He opened his mouth to respond as a cream-colored Escalade pulled up to the curb and Hollis Cubeck got out.
“Want me to go get my mom?”
The question so startled Sophie that she lost the air she’d been holding in her lungs. “What? No. Why?”
“In case he’s got a gun or something.”
She gave a halfhearted chuckle and shook her head. “You heard? You know already?” He shrugged; he had informational skillz, too. “He’s not going to kill me, especially in front of a witness. He may want to beat me with a baseball bat, but he isn’t carrying one, so I think we should wait and see what he wants first.”
“So I can stay?”
“No. You should probably go. Thanks, though. But this is between him and me.”
“ ’K,” he said, standing, watching Hollis with a wary expression as he slipped inside the house. She suspected he wouldn’t go far, that he’d hear everything anyway and shamelessly she didn’t mind.
Hollis’s steps were heavy and slow as he mounted the steps; she stood to meet him. There were so many emotions etched across his face that she had to guess at his prime motivation for coming to her: dread.
“Mr. Cubeck. I’m glad you’re here. I want to tell you how awful I feel about this morning and that I’m willing to do whatever you think best to make it right. I didn’t come here to—”
He listened with a placid expression at first, then held up his hand to stop her.
“I believe you,” he said at last, his voice calm and reasonable. “I believe you’re as confused by all this as I am. I do. So I came to ask . . . I’d like a paternity test. Please. I suspect we’re both making the same assumptions. And if you are family, I think,” he glanced away briefly, “well, I think we should honor my dad’s wishes.” He hesitated. “The thing is, Ms. Shepard—”
“Sophie.”
“The thing is, Sophie: it doesn’t ring true. What we’re thinking. I know my dad. I knew him. Very well. I think we’re jumping to the wrong conclusion.”
“You do? Oh, thank God. Why?”
He actually laughed at her reaction, visibly relaxing.
“A dozen reasons, the least of which is trying to picture him giving away his own child. Also, he would never, never seduce a teenager. But mostly because he wouldn’t cheat on my mother.” Well, okay—Sophie was willing to hang it up right there. “But that isn’t to say it isn’t possible.” Uh-oh. “How old are you?”
“I’ll be twenty-seven in August.”
He nodded, satisfied. “I’m thirty-nine. My mother and older sister died when I was ten; Julie was eight. That’s at least two years before you were conceived. My dad could certainly be yours. I didn’t know him to date much, at all actually, but I also can’t swear he was a monk for the last thirty years. However, if it turns out he is your father, I can swear that your mother was no teenager.”
She could see why Craig and Mr. Metzer had entrusted the situation to Hollis. He was clear thinking and practical, and far more understanding and charitable than she imagined most people would be in the same circumstances. She had to wonder if these were traits of his father’s that he’d learned to emulate or something intrinsic to him. Either way she, too, felt she could trust him.
She nodded. “Everyone I’ve talked to has told me what a good man he was. I can see you loved him very much. So I have to wonder: Is knowing that important to you, Mr. Cubeck? I mean—”
“Hollis. Please.”
She smiled at his grace, th
en asked, “Aside from me inheriting BelleEllen, which I don’t want, do you really need to know for sure? Is it going to change what you think of him, how you feel about him? I guess it’s natural for you to be curious, but is knowing going to change anything? I’ll be completely honest with you: it doesn’t matter to me. My curiosity has never been more than mild and fleeting, even when I was a kid. I’ve always had the only dad I’ve ever wanted and I’m far more interested in tomorrow than I ever have been the past.”
He nodded, considering her words. “I once had two sisters, and I lost them both. My mother and now my dad are gone, too. I . . . I have no expectations of you, Sophie, but I would like to know if I have a half sister out there—if it’s all the same to you.”
It wasn’t all the same to her. She could ask not to be informed of the results, she guessed, but she’d find out anyway by what Hollis decided to do about BelleEllen, so . . .
Then again, he’d been so cool about the whole thing, it felt like the least she could do for him.
“Knowing I have a half brother could be a good thing, I suppose. You never know when you might need a kidney or something.” She grinned at him. “Let’s do it.”
The next morning, at a nine o’clock appointment in the hospital lab, her contribution to the paternity test was an easy rubbing on the inside of her mouth with a sterile swab. It was over in no time—except for the three-day waiting period for the results, which she’d promised Hollis she would hang around for.
Simply comparing blood types with Arthur Cubeck would have been quick but inconclusive; DNA results were indisputable but they took longer. Of course.
Maybe she ought to rent an apartment, she pondered wryly, wondering how many more times she’d have to postpone her departure.
Not that she had anything more pressing to do.
She’d agreed to do some tutoring of first and second graders struggling with reading and math, but that was still weeks away. She’d thought about painting her bedroom and possibly the bathroom in the meantime, but it wasn’t her favorite leisure-time interest—and she never did decide on colors. Still and all, she hadn’t planned on more than an overnight in Clearfield and she hated being bored.
Something About Sophie Page 4
