“Hey, now. Easy there, lady. Didn’t mean to startle ya.” The old man smiled, showing yellowing teeth through a stubbly beard. He pointed at the tire iron. “Know how to use that thing?” I just stared at him, the weapon suspended between us. He shrugged his shoulders. “Just thought you might need a little help.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I dropped my hand but kept the weapon at my side. I eyed him. He didn’t seem bothered. I chewed my lip. Finally, I conceded. “Yes, thank you. I really could use some help.”
“Well, let me check out the damage.” He walked past me through the overgrown grass and surveyed the tire. “Yep, this ’un’s shot. You’ll have to get a new one. There’s a Wal-Mart just up the road that’s got a tire shop. I’ll get yer spare on. It’ll hold ya that far, so long as you don’t go too fast.”
I nodded. “Thanks.” Good to know a spare wasn’t actually an extra tire. That bit of information had probably just saved me from another blow out.
“Made in China. Everything’s always made in China,” the man grumbled as he hefted the spare from the back of my Honda.
“Japan.”
“Huh?”
“You said China. Hondas are made in Japan.”
He smiled at me with the tire balanced on his shoulder. “Don’t make no difference. Lost good buddies in the Air Corps fighting ’em. Ain’t gonna buy all my junk from them now. Whatever happened to dependable American-made cars?”
Too expensive.
I got the feeling that particular comment might start a conversation that could delay or, worse, prevent my tire from being fixed, so I refrained from voicing my observation. I smiled and shrugged, and he resumed his task.
In a matter of minutes, he swapped the tires with the speed and agility of a much younger man. “Welp, that arta do it.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Mr….”
“Sam. Sam McClintock. Most folks call me Mac.”
“Thanks again, Mr. McClintock. Where I’m from, people don’t stop to help a stranger on the side of the road.”
He grinned. “Then perhaps you’re livin’ in the wrong place.” He tilted his chin and got back into his old Ford pickup.
What a nice guy. I waved as he went by. Maybe a few still existed after all.
My little rental limped to the next exit as cars blared their horns in frustration. Let them be mad. I wasn’t about to push it. They could pass me.
The Wal-Mart delay took longer than expected, but wandering around the store I found a sketch pad and some new charcoal pencils to keep me occupied while I waited. I’m not that good at drawing, but I missed the paints back at my apartment. Painting calms me. There was just something about watching the colors blend on the canvas and letting the images in my mind come to life that was deeply satisfying.
Allowing my mind to roam, I began sketching one of the two things that came easiest to me, flowers and horses. This time it was a lily. I finished the final stroke and studied it. The delicate petals curved gracefully as it opened itself to the world. It might make a good painting when I got home.
The intercom system gave a loud beep. My pencil skidded in an awkward line across the page. “Emily Burns, your vehicle is ready in the car care center. Emily Burns, your car is ready.” I checked my watch, surprised that the ninety minutes had passed so quickly. I tucked the small sketch pad in my purse, and after paying for the tire and grabbing a sandwich for the road, I was finally on my way again. At this rate, I’d have my inheritance spent before they cut the check.
A quiet three hours passed without incident or expense, and I spotted a sign that said “Oakville 1 mile”. Relieved, I took my exit and fished for the directions to Buford’s office. I shouldn’t have bothered. If I missed his office, a quick trip around the block would probably have put me in the front of town again. I crept through at the posted twenty-five limit. I approached the blinking yellow light – they didn’t even have a real stoplight – at what was apparently the town’s only intersection. Great. I’d gone from Mayberry to Hickville.
Past a tiny gas station and across from a quaint little café hung a hand-painted sign for Buford D. Cornwall, attorney-at-law. The old brick building recalled a time when architecture mattered and craftsmanship was valued. Only two cars were parked out front. I pulled in at the end of the row and locked the car before sliding the keys into my pocket.
I pushed open the clean glass door with gold lettering, making the chimes on the doorframe jingle. I’d barely set foot inside when the melodious Southern accent of an older lady greeted me. She smiled warmly, her wrinkled features gathering in the corners.
“Good afternoon, Ma’am. How can I help you?”
“Hello,” I said, coming to stand in front of the dark, carved-wood desk. From the looks of this office, small-town law was going well. “I’m here to see Mr. Cornwall about my great-aunt’s estate.”
“Oh! Why, of course. You must be Adela’s niece.” She clasped her hands together and grinned at me. “Just sit down right over there, dear.”
Great-niece. Not that it mattered. I didn’t bother correcting her. I sat in one of the plush, green overstuffed chairs in the waiting area. I had my choice of two magazines, Field and Stream or Southern Living. Oh, joy. I chose the latter. I flipped through the pages, actually finding the garden photos and charming houses somewhat interesting. I was about to read an article on organizing to make the most out of your small space when I heard agitated voices coming from Buford’s office. I couldn’t make anything out at first, but as a woman’s shrill voice became louder, her shouted words became clearer. I stared at the magazine and pretended to read.
“You can’t do this to me. She promised me! It’s rightfully mine!” I risked a glance at the receptionist. She stared at her computer. I looked back down at the article.
A deeper voice I assumed was Buford’s replied. I couldn’t make out his words through the door to my right, but I could tell he was irritated.
Suddenly, the door flew open, slammed back against the wall, and startled me enough that the magazine slipped from my lap and fluttered to the floor. A woman I guessed to be in her mid-forties stomped past me, her black pumps thudding on the hardwood floor.
“Good day, Mrs. McCrae,” the receptionist called after her. The woman didn’t respond. She stalked out the front door, not bothering to pull it closed behind her.
The receptionist sighed and walked around her desk to close the door. She looked at me and smiled. Something in her eyes twinkled of amusement.
“Hello, Emily. I’m so glad you came.” A heavy hand rested on my shoulder. I turned to see Buford grinning at me. “Now, don’t you worry about her. I’ve got it all covered.”
I frowned. What exactly did he have covered? “Okay.”
I followed Buford into his office. “Law requires that we post an estate for ninety days in the paper before we can close it,” Buford said as he rounded his desk and eased himself into a large leather chair. He motioned for me to sit.
I poised on the edge of the upholstered seat. My stomach flopped. Ninety days? So much for come in, sign a few papers, and get my check. That figured.
“But, since it took me awhile to find you, there’s just a few days, maybe a week, left to go.”
Well, that was something. “Why do you have to post it for that long? I don’t understand. Can someone else claim everything?”
“No, dear, it’s not that.” He chuckled. “Though Gloria McCrae might wish it so. We have to post it so if anyone has a debt to claim against the estate they have the opportunity to collect from the holdings before the money is dispersed.”
“Oh, okay.” I fought the urge to ask how many debts were coming out of the money.
“But seeing as how Miss Adela was so good with her accounts, there were no outstanding debts save the electricity bill which I’ve already taken care of. It’s just a formality, really.”
He looked at me as if he expected a reply, but I couldn’t think of what the proper one was, so I said
nothing.
“Well, let’s ride out there and give it a look, shall we?”
“Give what a look?”
“Why, the house, of course. I figured you’d want to see it. Don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” I got up and scooped up my purse, feeling rather stupid. I was too worried about the cash.
As we stepped out into the warm sunshine, Buford motioned to a practical-looking Chevy town car. “Do you want to ride with me or just follow? It’s right up the road.”
“I’ll follow.”
“Okay, then.”
We rode through the rest of town, which as far as I could see consisted of a hardware store, a car wash and a tiny barber shop, and then down a winding, treelined road. The air conditioner barely had time to start fighting the stifling heat before Buford took a left onto an unmarked gravel road.
As we rounded the treeline, my jaw fell open so wide it nearly hit my lap. The house was like nothing I’d ever seen.
Some days, the inky despair tries to overtake me. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my mind, behind a door as thick as lead and as cold as steel, lies a cavern where the beast sleeps. Whenever I fool myself into thinking he is in hibernation, he sinks his fangs into my soul and reminds me what a useless, unwanted failure I am.
This was one of those days.
If an inheritance and the possibility of a shiny new life couldn’t keep the dragon at bay, then nothing would. I stood alone in the center of the grand entryway and felt grossly out of place. The cool metal of a borrowed key disappeared into the heat of my palm. After a brief tour, Buford had rushed out, thrust the key in my hand, and asked me to lock up when I finished. Guess he figured I had no reason to steal anything.
I should have been happy. Yet, the monster called to me. I didn’t deserve any of this. I’d never even known this lady. I hadn’t gone to her funeral, and I didn’t belong in this town. I shook my head and tried to force the voices out. Deserved it or not, it was about to be mine. I surveyed my ancestral homestead, feeling slightly unnerved by the silence. Everything was clean and tidy, as if the owner had just stepped out for afternoon errands, and I was intruding in her home.
The wide front door opened to a large entry and hall-type thing. Flanking both sides, two massive oak and glass bookcases reached nearly to the top of the sixteen-foot ceiling. Inside were various knickknacks and some books that looked to be at least a hundred years old. Not that I’m an expert on such things. To the left, an open doorframe led into the dining room, and to my right stood the parlor. A grand staircase rose to an overlook before twisting around into the upper levels.
I looked up, marveling at the massive chandelier sparkling with the afternoon light streaming through the window over the front door. From where I stood, I could see down the main hall, through the floor-length windows on either side of the back door, and onto the back porch. The roof of what I assumed to be the old kitchen was just barely visible. Though Buford hadn’t shown me, he’d told me about the separate original plantation kitchen out back with the keeper quarters above, the potato and smoke house, the barn, and the old slave cabins out back. So much to explore.
Ancient wooden floorboards squeaked underneath my sneakers as I made my way into the dining room. Bigger than my entire living space at home, the room invited in light with its floor-to-ceiling windows that were draped with lace curtains and topped with ornate copper valances. A carved wooden table, flanked by a dozen dark wood and plush green velvet chairs, took up the center of the space. I resisted the urge to touch the delicate beauty of stacks of china in the display case as I passed into what was now the kitchen. Buford said they’d put the kitchen inside the main house sometime in the fifties. What could it possibly have been before that? An eating space for servants? Storage? In any event, the “new” kitchen certainly needed updating.
Back across the main hall, I entered Adela’s bedroom, which was still filled with her things. Delicate ivory brushes sat on top of a massive dressing table. Wine-colored comforters draped over a canopy bed. I’d never imagined such luxury existed hidden away in the woods. And, Adela didn’t even have an alarm system.
I opened what I thought was a closet door. How weird. My skin prickled as I peered up into the dim recess. Buford hadn’t shown me this. I tried the first step on a very steep, very narrow stairway. Had I just discovered a secret passageway?
I climbed carefully with no handrails to counter my clumsiness. At the top, I found myself in one of the four upper bedrooms. That wasn’t at all what I’d expected.
Passing through the bedroom and into another abnormally wide hallway on the second level, I eyed the staircase to the third floor. It led straight to a closed door. Buford had said the space was once a ballroom, then later a play area for children, but now it was just storage filled with old junk. I eyed the door. What might be hidden away up there?
I am strangely drawn to old junk. Maybe it’s because I have a fantasy about being one of those people who finds a priceless item some poor soul unknowingly sells for a dollar at a yard sale. Or, maybe because I’ve always wanted to go on a treasure hunt.
Curious, I scaled the staircase. The brassy knob turned easily in my hand, and I opened the door to a long, narrow room. Buford wasn’t kidding. I searched for a light and finally found one behind a strange metal fan on a tall rod. The room flooded with light.
So much for treasure. There was nothing but stacks of boxes, old books, and broken-down lawn furniture heaped together in no semblance of order – surprising, really, given the immaculate and expensive nature of the lower floors.
I rummaged through a few things, finding plastic cups, magazines, and other random yard sale fare. It might still hold a hidden score, but nothing jumped out at me. I sighed. Well, if it was going to be mine, I’d have to go through it eventually. Maybe I’d have one of those estate sales and get rid of everything inside, then auction off the house. That could be quicker than listing it.
Amidst the cardboard, a wooden box drew my eye. It looked like an old crate. I moved a sagging box from the top of the crate and set it down behind me, causing a puff of dust to billow and hang in the air. I waved it from my face but was unable to contain a sneeze.
The wooden box was about two feet square and nailed shut. I’d have to get a hammer to pry it open, and it wasn’t exactly mine yet. I hesitated for only a moment before pulling it away from the wall. Maybe I could find an easier way in on a different side. I strained against its weight, and a sheen of sweat soon developed on my forehead. When I finally pulled the box into a somewhat clear space, I let go and wiped the moisture from my face with the hem of my shirt.
Nope. It was sealed all the way around. I’d need that hammer, or a crowbar, which, technically, I did have in my car.
While I stood there arguing with myself on the ethics of returning to pry open a crate that was not yet mine and officially none of my business, I noticed a small door with a very delicate hook-and-eye latch directly behind where the crate had sat. It was barely big enough to crawl through and blended in with the paneling. If I hadn’t been staring at that stupid box I might not have even noticed it.
I glanced around the room. Built into what appeared to be the roof, the old ballroom was large but narrow, taking advantage of the tallest pitch. This door was probably just some access panel to check the insulation or something. I should put the crate back and get out of here. It wasn’t my place to be going through all this stuff.
I chewed my lip. One look couldn’t hurt. Could it?
I stepped closer and ran my finger across the door. The hook flipped up easily, and with only a small groan of rusty hinges, the door swung open. The space behind was dark, and I couldn’t see much. Too bad I didn’t have a flashlight.
It looked empty, anyway. Oh! Hadn’t I bought a pin light key chain? I dug my keys from the pocket of my now-dusty jeans. I squeezed the black rubber, and the tiny bulb on the end fired to life with surprising brightness. I smiled. Focusing the lig
ht into the hole, I directed the bluish glow back and forth across the space.
Nothing but plywood flooring and a bunch of cobwebs and…wait. Just beyond the reach of my light, something big and dark crouched in the corner. I looked behind me. No monsters waited to grab me. A strange sensation crawled up the back of my neck. I stared at the form for a long time, waiting for it to move or breathe. It remained perfectly still.
Stop acting stupid. Nothing’s going to get you in there.
I wriggled through the opening. The ceiling was too low for standing, even for my barely five-foot-four frame. I hunched over and took a few steps deeper into the musty space. Whatever hunkered back there looked solid. And big. I eased closer, the shape of a rectangle with a rounded top becoming clearer. Suddenly, the dim image made sense. Of course. Nothing more than an old trunk.
Excitement bubbled in my stomach. I hurried to it, the light in my hand bobbing in front of my feet. The trunk appeared ancient. Tarnished silver pieces wrapped around the corners, and a rotting leather handle protruded from torn, ratty fabric covering the sides.
A silver clasp with a keyhole clung to the front. I pushed the button, expecting it to hold firm. It sprang open, the heavy metal piece banging against the front of the trunk with a loud thud. I jumped, then felt silly for it. At least the thing wasn’t locked. With some effort, I lifted the lid, but I wasn’t able to get it more than a few inches open before it caught against the low ceiling. I’d have to pull it further away from the wall – not something I could do one-handed, and pulling with both meant dropping my light and doing it in total darkness.
Maybe I could do this later. I turned around and started back to the comforting light emanating from the miniature door several feet away.
Something stopped me. Call it curiosity, adventure, or an odd sense of destiny, but it wouldn’t let me leave. I had to see what was in this old trunk, hidden away in the recesses of the attic.
Letting go of my light, I tugged on the leather handle of the trunk with both hands. Nothing happened. I planted my heels and let my full hundred and twenty-five pounds work with me. It inched out farther, making a horrible scuffing noise. I hoped Buford wouldn’t return and find me up here like some criminal. I heaved again. A few more inches. I found the handle on the other side, bent over, and leaned back, struggling against the heavy weight. It moved a few inches before the handle snapped in two and I landed in the dust.
Heir of Hope: Return to Ironwood Plantation (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 2) Page 3
